Chapter 7 Claire #2
The light is low inside the bedroom. The blankets are neatly folded the way I left them, but everything feels new.
His breath moves slowly behind me, close enough that I feel the warmth of it on my neck.
I ache for him to claim me again, but he waits, giving me the choice.
Letting me move first. The space between us feels electric, stretched thin with everything we haven’t yet said.
He watches me as if one wrong move might shatter the moment. My breath comes faster. I don’t want to go slow anymore. I want him to burn for me, to lose control. Still, he waits.
I peel my clothes off slowly, letting the fabric drag over my skin. His gaze locks onto me like a brand, dark and hungry, tracking every inch as I reveal myself. I see the way his throat tightens, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab me. But he waits. He watches.
“Fuck, Claire,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “You’re killing me.”
I unhook my bra, let it slip from my shoulders. My breasts spill free, heavy and aching with need, and his breath hitches as if I’ve struck him. His eyes drop, his chest rising with restraint. “Look at you,” he says, voice thick. “These perfect tits. All for me.”
Before I can react, his hands are on me, big and rough, cupping my breasts like he’s testing their weight.
His thumbs brush over my nipples, and the sharp spark of pleasure makes me gasp.
“So fucking sensitive,” he rumbles, pinching just enough to make me arch into his touch.
“You like that, don’t you? Like when I play with these pretty nipples. ”
I do. God, I do. My fingers tangle in his flannel, pulling him closer, my body pressing into his like an answer.
He groans, low and guttural, his mouth crashing down on mine.
His hands never leave my breasts, kneading, squeezing, his thumbs rolling my nipples until they’re hard peaks and I’m whimpering into his kiss.
He backs me toward the bed, his touch never breaking, his mouth trailing down my neck, my collarbone, until he’s sucking one nipple between his lips.
The wet heat of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth send a jolt straight to my core.
I cry out, my fingers threading into his hair, holding him there.
“That’s it, babe,” he says, switching to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. “Let me hear you. Love these sounds you make.”
He nudges me onto the bed as I slip my panties off. His hands slide down to spread my thighs wide. The cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze, the way he looks at me like I’m his last prayer and his greatest sin.
“Stay open for me,” he orders, his voice a dark command. He kneels between my legs, his big hands bracing my thighs apart. His breath ghosts over my pussy, hot and promising. “Gonna taste every fucking inch of you.”
His mouth finds my belly first, kissing a slow, worshipful path downward. His tongue swirls around my navel, then lower, tracing the sensitive crease where my thigh meets my hip. He bites there, just enough to make me gasp, and then his lips are on my pussy, his breath searing.
“Jesus, you’re dripping,” he groans. His thumb brushes my pussy, spreading me open, and the first slow lick of his tongue makes my back arch off the bed. “You taste so fucking good.”
He doesn’t tease. He feasts. His mouth seals over my clit, tongue flicking in quick, relentless strokes that have me writhing beneath him. I cry out, my fingers clawing at the sheets, but he pins my hips down, holding me still as he devours me.
“That’s it, babe,” he says against my skin, his voice vibrating through me. “Take what I give you. Let me hear how good it feels.”
His tongue slides inside me, fucking me slow and deep, his nose brushing my clit with every thrust. My thighs tremble, my breath coming in broken gasps. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his lips glistening, his beard wet with me.
“You’re mine, Claire,” he says. “This pretty pussy? Mine. These perfect tits? Mine. Every inch of you belongs to me.”
He buries his face between my legs again, his tongue working me over until I’m nothing but need and heat.
The orgasm crashes into me, sharp and blinding.
I come with a cry, my thighs clamping around his head, my body pulsing under his mouth.
He doesn’t stop. He licks me through it, drawing out every last shudder until I’m limp and gasping.
When he finally crawls up my body, I can feel how hard he is, his cock thick and heavy against my thigh. He kisses me, letting me taste myself on his lips, and I moan into his mouth, my hands already fumbling at his belt.
“I need you inside me,” I pant. “Now, Jax. Please.”
He works his jeans off and positions himself on top of me, thick cock brushing against my pussy. He inhales deeply, slows his movements, and the world seems to slow down with him.
His eyes lock on mine as his cock finds my entrance. His voice becomes soft, almost reverent, as he brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Tell me what you need,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “I want to make you feel so good, so cherished.”
“You,” I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I just need you.”
He enters me slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. The stretch is sweet, the burn melting into warmth as he fills me inch by inch, like he’s memorizing the way my body takes him in. He stays deep, his forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing each other in.
“Look at me,” he whispers, his voice tender but full of need. His hips begin to move, slow and deep, each thrust a promise. “I want to see your eyes. I want you to know it’s me loving you.”
His pace is steady, unhurried, like he’s savoring every second. His hand slips between us, his thumb brushing my clit in gentle, worshipful circles. The pleasure builds slowly, like the tide rolling in, inevitable and overwhelming.
“You’re everything,” he says, his voice breaking with emotion. “So soft, so perfect. I could spend forever just like this, loving you.”
His words, the way he moves, are too much and not enough all at once. “Mine,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “Always.”
The words, the praise, the way he’s fucking me are all too much.
The orgasm washes over me like warm honey, my body clamping down around him, milking him as he groans and buries himself deep.
His cock pulses inside me, warmth flooding me as he comes with a guttural curse, his hips stuttering against mine.
He collapses over me, his breath hot against my neck. “Mine,” he says, kissing the place where my neck meets my shoulder. “Always.”
He stays inside me while our breathing slows.
His weight is heavy and comforting as his lips brush my temple.
His cock twitches inside me, still half hard, still claiming me even as the quiet settles around us.
One big hand drifts down my side, palm rough where it slides over my hip and holds me close, like he can’t stand to let me slip away.
“Mine,” he whispers again, voice low and wrecked. “All fucking mine.”
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the glow of the firelight spilling through the open door. Our skin is slick with sweat, the covers twisted low around our hips. His breath moves steady beneath me, one arm hooked tight around my waist like he has no intention of letting go.
I press a lazy kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt and skin.
The afterglow hums deep through every inch of me.
The world beyond these walls is gone. There’s only the way his hand curves possessively along my hip, the way his thumb traces idle circles on my thigh, the soft, sleepy sound he makes when I shift against him.
My cheek rests against his chest. His hand strokes the curve of my hip.
I close my eyes, sinking into the warmth of his skin, the heavy press of his arm around me, the slow thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek and the knowledge that I’m not leaving.
His voice breaks the silence, quiet and certain. “You didn’t just fit into my life, Claire. You became part of it. You became mine.”
I smile without opening my eyes. “You mean besides knocking over your whole emotional structure like a Christmas snow globe?”
He chuckles low in his throat, and the sound vibrates against my cheek. “Exactly that.”
I shift enough to look at him. His hair is messy, his eyes soft and steady on mine. “You still okay with the mess?”
“I want it,” he says. “Every part of it. Of you. This… us. Here.”
The fire pops, a warm hush under the wind outside.
It doesn’t feel lonely anymore. It feels as if it’s holding us close.
I stretch my legs under the quilt until my toes brush his.
He catches my calf, his fingers grazing my skin before he tucks my foot against his thigh, like he can’t stand even an inch of distance between us.
I breathe in the scent of him. Woodsmoke, pine, something soft that smells like home.
I think of everything I left behind. The clicks, the noise, the temporary dopamine hits that burned out fast and left me empty.
All of that is gone now, traded for this warm, wild quiet where I don’t have to perform to feel seen.
I kiss the side of his neck and whisper, “Merry Christmas, mountain man.”
His hand finds mine under the covers, our fingers lacing together like a promise that doesn’t need any more words. “Best damn Christmas I’ve ever had.”
And for the first time in years, I believe it.
It’s not just believing in him, not just in us, but in the choice I made to stay and trade the noise for this hush.
I traded the city for the mountain and the temporary for something real and rough and ours in the wild, beautiful life we’re about to make together.