The kiss is soft at first, more question than demand. His response is immediate. His hand slides to the nape of my neck, pulling me closer, his thumb brushing against my skin with a quiet possession. Time suspends. The cave, the mountains, the world—all fall away. There is only this moment, this connection, this discovery. The kiss deepens, changes from gentle exploration to something urgent. His lips part, and I follow instinctively, our breaths mingling—hot, ragged, real.
When we pull apart, still breathing hard, I see my wonder reflected in his eyes, now dark with a desire that matches my own. This wasn’t part of any script. Any plan. This is something else entirely.
“I knew back at the consignment store,” Finn says, his voice rough with emotion. “When you stood your ground and insisted on knowing why you needed the thermal underwear instead of taking my word for it.” His fingers tighten, drawing me closer. “That's when I realized you weren't going to be what I expected.”
“Really?” I smile, remembering our heated exchange. The memory carries a new kind of warmth now, more ember than spark. “I thought you found me insufferable.”
“Challenging,” he corrects, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “And now I’m grateful you listened. That thermal layer’s keeping you warm in this cave.” His focus shifts to my mouth, holding there a moment too long.
“Well, that and other things.” I tilt my head toward his arm around me.
His smile deepens. “You’re more impressive now, covered in dirt, treating wounds with plants, finding your way in the wild.” His other hand finds my waist, his grip firm, possessive.
“The real me,” I whisper, the admission both terrifying and freeing.
“The real you,” he agrees, pulling me closer again until our bodies are almost touching, the heat radiating between us. Our second kiss carries the certainty the first one questioned. His hands find my shoulders, careful of his injured arm but eager for the solid strength of me. My palms press to his chest, splayed against the thick fabric of his shirt, where his heart hammers beneath. His arm wraps around my waist, eliminating what little space remains between us. Heat builds—not the kind from the fire crackling nearby, but something far more consuming. His lips leave mine to trace along my jaw, down to the sensitive skin of my neck. A soft sound escapes me, something between a sigh and a moan as his teeth graze my skin. He smiles against me, and I know it by the shift of his mouth, the way it changes the rhythm of his breath. Then he recaptures my lips. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, like he might vanish if I let go. The kiss deepens—wet, desperate, a mess of tongues and need.
“We should stop,” he whispers against my mouth, even as his arm tightens around me.
“Should we?” I whisper, letting my hand trail along the base of his neck, where skin meets hair.
His response is a groan that rolls through me. “If we don’t stop now?—”
“Maybe I don’t want to.” The words come out bold, unfiltered, and true.
Finn pulls back enough to search my eyes. Whatever he sees must settle the question, because the next kiss comeshard and certain, stealing the breath from my lungs. His hands leave my waist, fingers tracing heat as they slip lower, gripping my hips. His thumbs press into the small of my back, an anchor, pulling me flush against him until there’s no doubt, no space, no thought left at all. His arousal is a hard, undeniable pressure against me, a stark truth even through the layers of our clothes. A sharp thrill shoots low in my stomach—a feeling so potent, so long denied, it’s almost a shock. This is real. Not a performance. Not a conquest. Just … this. Him. Me. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s impossible to ignore.
Outside, the wind picks up, a cold breeze gathering force—rising, pressing, like something awakening. Inside our shelter, protected from the elements but not from this fierce drawing together, we surrender to a different kind of wilderness—uncharted, unexplored, irresistible.
His hand finds the edge of my thermal shirt, hesitating for a heartbeat that thunders in my ears before slipping beneath.Oh.His fingers, calloused and surprisingly warm, skim over my bare skin—a shock, a brand—and goosebumps prickle my arms, chasing away the last of the chill. My breath catches, a ragged sound in the tiny tent, as his palm presses against my side, the heat of his touch not searing, but claiming.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, voice rough, his lips hovering above mine.
Instead of answering, I glance down, my hand brushing gently over the gauze on his arm. “What about you?” I ask, breathless. “Your injury…”
He leans in, mouth grazing mine with a smile I feel more than see. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug,” he says—my words thrown back at me, low and wicked and so damn tender I could fall apart.
That’s all it takes. I guide his good hand to my breast, my hand covering his, pressing him closer. A soft moan escapesme as his thumb brushes over my nipple, already tight and aching beneath the thin fabric of my bra.
I arch into his touch, instinct taking over—a raw, untamed hunger awakening deep within me. The world shrinks to the touch of his hands on my body, the taste of his mouth on mine, the frantic rhythm of our breathing in the small, fire lit space.
Chapter Nineteen
FINN
The soft,breathless sound she makes as she arches against my hand is the only answer I’ll ever need. It’s a complete surrender, a total giving-over that mirrors the desperate, aching need clawing its way up my throat. In that instant, every one of my carefully constructed walls evaporates. The world, the cave, the mountain itself—all of it falls away until there is only the feel of her beneath my hand and the thunder of blood in my ears.
The need to feel her, all of her, becomes an ache so sharp it’s a physical pain. Our kiss is no longer a question, but a sealing of a pact made without words. I pull back, only an inch, my good arm shaking with the effort of restraint. I breathe her name against her lips, a raw sound of surrender. “Lena.”
She meets my eyes, dark and wide with a trust that steals my breath. Then, with fluid grace, she helps me shrug out of my thermal shirt, her fingers brushing against my heated skin, leaving trails of fire. I toss it aside.
In the flickering light, her focus traces the scars across my chest and shoulders, but there’s no pity in it—only aprofound, heart-stopping acceptance. Then, her hands go to the hem of her shirt, and she pulls it over her head.
Stripped of everything she usually wears—the makeup, the polish, the distance—she’s still beautiful. More than that. She’s real. And I can’t look away.
The firelight throws shadows across her skin, catching on the curves of her chest, the dip of her waist. She’s soft in all the places I’m not. Strong in ways that sneak up on me.
Something pulls tight in my chest. Not nerves. Something heavier.
