Foly. Huck.
Yes, thank you, I’m already wrecked for words.
I feel like I’m in heat as he flicks over my throat, my collarbone, my chest, my breasts, my soul.
His rough tongue-tip lashes my nipples.
Experienced lips suck me to heaven, kneading hands stroking over my breasts, my waist, my hips.
His caresses swirl over my navel, down, down, his beard raking my tender flesh with just the right roughness.
Then, napalm fire everywhere.
His tongue delves inside me with a growl chasing it.
True to his name, Alaska is a hunter, a savage frontiersman finding my weaknesses.
Anywhere and everywhere that makes me arch and buck and fight him just to make him do it more.
My fingers dig at his thick hair as he takes me high and crashes me down, turning me inside out with slow, deliberate, tormenting strokes followed by quick flicks, wet-velvet friction. He plunges so deep only to circle and flit and swirl and then—
Oh, God.
Here we go.
Ignition.
Vision flashing white, knees clamping against his muscular shoulders, pleasure spearing me so relentlessly it’s like getting fucked by my own orgasm.
Coming is an understatement.
This is rapture, intense and unholy and convulsing through me with seismic power.
I can’t breathe.
And he doesn’t give me a split second to try.
Not when his tongue fades, replaced by his fingers, thick and crude and rough, sliding into me when I’m still clenching inside, touching every raw place.
He watches me with all-consuming heat, devouring my reaction as I toss my head back and forth, keening and whimpering and nearly chattering teeth with my wanting.
“You need me, Fliss?” he growls. Gone is the soft-spoken sweetheart, replaced by a feral animal. “You fucking want me?”
He plunges his fingers in deeper, then, and I can’t even answer as I scream.
It’s too much but I still want more.
I want him inside me.
I want to think about nothing but his body, his cock, and his pleasure.
Clawing at his shoulders, writhing on his fingers, sucking in desperate breaths, I find my voice.
Somehow, I give him a broken, gasping, “...yes. Want you.”
The only words I can manage, my mind spinning.
But they’re the only words he needs.
He moves over me, fingers withdrawing to leave me empty, his body spreading me open until I can barely fit his bulk between my thighs.
His zipper slashing open sounds almost threatening—but when his fullness spills free, burning hot and pressing against me, I shudder with a full-body thirst to feel it.
I’ve second-guessed so much my entire life.
But there’s no doubt I want this.
I want him.
And as he takes my mouth again, as he rocks his hips forward, as he pushes his forehead to mine and sets me on fire for the dozenth time tonight with those mad Denali mountains for eyes...
I hold on.
I hold him as tight as I can, wrapping my limbs around him, asking him to wreck me like a human wave.
I don’t know how sex can be so wild and so tender simultaneously.
He’s a force of nature, so powerful he can’t possibly be gentle, but it feels so flipping good I don’t care.
Hot flesh moves inside me, spreads me from within, touches me in ways so intimate it’s unbearable. His thrusts deepen, coming faster and harder, his pubic bone grinding at my clit, dragging the pleasure out of me until I’m a whimpering mess.
Whimpering and shameless.
Yes, I beg for more, moving with him, rising to meet his every thrust.
Yes, my heart breaks every time I’m empty, and yes, my body sings each time he fills me, deeper and deeper.
Yes, I think I scream my way through the whole O that hits, gifted by his pummeling hips—I scream so loud I’m sure it wakes up Ms. Wilma across the inn’s grounds.
And very yes, his next kiss claims me for life.
His body overwhelms me.
His voice falls ragged, wondrous, worshipful as he whispers my name, filled with his own plea.
“Felicity...Fliss...I can’t fucking hold,” he snarls between bruising my lips with his. “Come with me.”
One command and I’m no longer on the same planet.
I’m lost, so lost, and I never, ever want to be found.
I never want this to end, even as I open myself to Alaska, taking him deeper, aching to feel him explode with guttural cries.
Our rhythm becomes a fever, slashing hips and sinful breaths, and just when I’m about to lose it again—I feel him swell.
I feel the full Alaskan wild about to break and spill and flood me.
His last brute thrust stops at the edge of my womb, his cock swelling, suddenly hotter and bigger and meaner than ever before.
The last thing I see is how beautiful he looks a split second before the deluge begins. His release must brand his soul with that expression, a mask of the most exquisite torture, this trance that says I’ve given him so much more than trouble.
Gone.
Before I can even make out the white-hot fire of his seed pouring into me, riding every spasm he gives, I’m in full surrender.
Giving myself to this glorious man with absolute trust, with something like love, letting him take control and guide me into shattering, breaking, falling apart, and then dissolving into him.
I don’t know what this is, and I don’t just mean the psyche-splitting sex.
I’ve never had anything like this.
Is it so very wrong to want to keep it for more than one unforgettable night?
Is it selfish to ask Alaska Charter to stay, to be with me—if by some miracle there’s a life after dealing with Paye?
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Actually, I don’t remember anything after the most explosive, sheet-ripping passion of my life.
Alaska wore me out and wrung me dry, and I have only the vaguest recollection of his arms around me, shielding me as I passed out so hard I slept straight through the entire night.
Now the morning light beats down on my face, practically lancing my eyes, and I wince.
“Doesn’t that thing come with an off button?” I mutter.
Alaska rumbles against my back—and when he rumbles it’s something you feel reverberating all the way through you. Especially with his body wrapped snug around mine, one heavy arm and an even heavier leg draped over me.
I smile. The thick fur of his chest scratches against my back and his beard mingles with my hair, filtering his breaths against the back of my neck.
I get chills.
Little chills of pleasure.
Especially with the possessive way his arm tightens around me.
“Perhaps,” he growls, lips moving against my skin, “a window that high facing east was a minor design flaw.”
“Pretty sure that was on purpose knowing Charming Inn. Apparently, some people like waking up with the sun. Ugh.”
“Not a morning person?” He chuckles sleepily.
“Why do you think I had to get so good at making coffee?” I groan.
But that brings home another harsh reality.
The real reason I worked so hard to learn how to make good coffee—at first, before it became a thing just for me, a thing all its own—still stings.
Memories come back and claw me in the face.
The way my father would smile at me when I’d whip up a brew just the way he liked, keeping him awake on those long flights.