Chapter 1

The river shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, a long ribbon of light winding through the forest like liquid glass. It moved slowly around the bend, quiet and wide, undisturbed. The air hung heavy with summer—thick with the scent of pine sap, sun-warmed bark, and something faintly mineral carried in from the water. No cell service. No traffic noise. Just birdsong, breeze, and the hush of untouched wildness.

This wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled on. It was the kind you earned.

Lily stepped out of the SUV and stretched, arms reaching above her head in a languid arch. Her white tank top clung to her ribs, damp with sweat from the drive, pulled slightly by the shape of her breasts. Her shorts had ridden up high on her thighs, revealing a hint of muscle, soft golden skin, and the curve where leg met ass. She adjusted her sunglasses and took in the landscape—woods pressing in close, a narrow trail snaking down to the water.

“This is incredible,” she murmured, not to anyone in particular.

Jake was already halfway into the gear, efficient and upbeat. “If we set up before sunset, we’ll be golden,” he called, flashing his boyish, reliable grin. She smiled back—genuine, but muted. She loved him. She did. But at that moment, his checklist energy and obsession with ultralight cookware didn’t do much to stir anything below her collarbone.

And then the air shifted.

No sound, no movement—just that strange, unmistakable sense that someone was watching.

Marcus.

He stepped out of the second vehicle with a slow, deliberate ease, like his body never did anything it didn’t mean to. He rolled his shoulders once, stretching the fabric of his black shirt across a chest that could’ve been carved from stone. Cargo shorts hung low on his hips, the curve of his V dipping beneath the hem. His thighs—God—moved with a kind of weightless power, thick and solid beneath skin that caught the light like polished bronze.

Lily turned, not hurried. Just curious.

And then—there he was. Fully. In motion.

Jesus.

He was even larger than the photos Jake had shown her. Not just big—imposing. His skin was a rich, deep brown, smooth and sun-warmed, catching the light like polished onyx. He had that quiet, physical gravity certain men carried, like their bodies knew how to fill a space before they even spoke. The kind of presence you didn’t need to see twice to remember.

His face was still, unreadable, expression calm but far from vacant. And when his eyes passed over her—just once, just briefly—she felt it.

Not a leer.

Not an accident.

Just... notice.

Lily blinked. Her stomach tightened—not fear, not nerves, but something lower. A quickening. A soft throb that fluttered at the base of her spine.

Something in her shifted.

She exhaled slowly, and turned back toward the trees.

“Hey,” he said simply, dropping the pack to the ground with one hand. His voice was low—smooth, but measured. Like he rarely needed to raise it to be heard.

Lily turned. “Hi,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a touch more care than usual. “We finally meet.”

Marcus nodded once, a slow incline of his head. “Been meaning to for a while,” he said. “Jake talks about you.”

She tilted her head. “Good things, I hope?”

He smiled—just at the corner of his mouth. Not a full grin. Not enough to show teeth. Just enough to make it feel like the rest was waiting, just under the surface.
“Only good things.”

There was something about the way he said it—neutral on the surface, but warm underneath. Like maybe he knew more than he was letting on.

Before the silence could stretch, Jake appeared at Marcus’s side and clapped him on the back. “C’mon, man. Let’s get the kayaks to the water.”

Riley bounded out of the other SUV, vibrant as ever, her hair twisted into two messy buns, sunglasses perched crookedly on her nose. “You boys do the heavy lifting,” she declared, already grabbing a water bottle. “Lily and I are gonna go claim the good spot for the tents.”

“Deal,” Lily said quickly, already moving. Grateful—for the excuse. For the break in whatever invisible current had just passed between her and Marcus.

But her body hummed with it. That low, charged hum just beneath her skin.

It wasn’t just the way he looked at her—it was the way it landed. Like he could see more than she meant to show. Like he didn’t miss a thing.

She tried to ignore it.

Failed.

As they moved toward the riverside, weaving through trees and gear and light conversation, Lily found her gaze drifting—backward. Just a glance.

Marcus bent to lift one of the kayaks.

And there it was again.

His back shifted beneath the fabric of his shirt—broad, carved. His arms pulled with a fluid strength that looked effortless, but made the veins in his forearms stand out in sharp relief. The fabric stretched tight across his shoulders, then looser across his waist, and when he lifted, his shorts shifted just enough for her eyes to catch on the curve beneath.

He was big.

Not just tall. Not just strong.

Big.

Lily swallowed. Hard.
Heat touched her cheeks, and she turned away fast—too fast.

She said something to Riley. She wasn’t sure what.

It didn’t matter.

Her pulse was already dancing at her throat.
And somewhere deep in her belly, that flutter from earlier unfurled into something hotter.

It was going to be a long, complicated weekend.

The fire crackled low, its light flickering across the trees in restless amber waves. It kissed Lily’s bare thighs, danced up the long lines of her legs, and flickered over her skin like it wanted to memorise every inch. She sat cross-legged in a low camp chair, a tin cup of wine dangling from one hand, the other draped carelessly over her knee. The remnants of the hike clung to her—sweat, warmth, the scent of pine still tangled in her skin.

She wasn’t obvious.

Not flashy. Not styled.

But the eye couldn’t help returning to her.

Her beauty had patience—the kind that waited for you to notice. And once you did, it refused to let go.

She was slim, built for motion—not sculpted, but shaped by movement. Yoga. Hikes. Stillness. Breath. A quiet grace lived in her posture, the way her limbs extended and folded like she belonged in the wild, barefoot and sun-warmed.

Her tank top clung to her ribs, worn thin from use, damp where the sweat hadn’t yet dried. It moulded to the soft curve of her chest—small breasts, high and firm, perfect beneath the cotton. No bra. No need. Her nipples were drawn tight from the cooling air, pressing subtly against the fabric, more suggestion than display.

Marcus noticed.

Her stomach was flat, with that singular, alluring line cutting down the centre—a mark of care, of discipline, of strength without hardness. Her hips narrowed, thighs long and smooth where the hem of her shorts barely held. Her ass curved like a secret, small and tight, more peach than hourglass—but perfectly held together, a little lift that whispered through the firelight.

And she moved constantly.

Not to seduce—but to exist.

Adjusting, shifting, tucking one leg, brushing her hair away—each motion casual, unaware, but magnetic.

Marcus noticed.

He noticed the curve of her ankle when it swung lazily. The way her collarbone caught the light. The dip at the base of her throat, where sweat still glistened like dew. The way her lips parted when she sipped her wine, just enough to make a man wonder what else might part like that.

She didn’t know what she was doing to him.

Or maybe she did.

Either way—Marcus watched. Silently. Carefully.
And every inch of her was beginning to feel like a test he already knew he’d fail.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Too busy laughing at something Riley said—something about river safety and tequila, her voice animated, hands gesturing in the air. But Marcus didn’t hear any of it.

He watched the firelight instead—watched it paint warm gold across the tops of Lily’s collarbones, along the graceful column of her neck. The soft flicker of shadow caught the edge of her jaw, her lashes, the pale skin at her inner wrist where the wine cup rested. Her ankle swung idly in the air, bare and elegant, like the rest of her had forgotten to be still.

Jake leaned over then, brushed something—an invisible thread, a leaf maybe—from her thigh. His fingers lingered a moment too long.

Marcus’s jaw didn’t move. But his eyes narrowed. Just enough to register.

Lily smiled at Jake—absentmindedly. Polite. Familiar. But something in it was missing.

Because her gaze drifted.

Just a flicker, just for a moment. But it moved.

And it landed.

Across the fire. On him.

Their eyes locked. One breath. Maybe two.

And something in her chest stumbled.

It wasn’t a stare. It wasn’t a come-on. It was something heavier. Thicker. That strange, dense silence between two people who shouldn’t be thinking what they’re thinking.

But are.

That pull she hadn’t invited.
That current she couldn’t shake.

The morning mist hung low over the forest like a secret waiting to be told.

The river had changed overnight—its once-glassy surface now dark and restless, stirred by the memory of rain. It moved faster than it had the day before, curling around rocks and roots like it had someplace to be. And it wasn’t waiting for them.

They launched just after sunrise—two kayaks splitting the surface like blades. Gear packed tight. Spirits high. Jake and Riley in one. Marcus and Lily in the other.

It made sense. Riley was still groggy from tequila and poor sleep. Marcus was the experienced one. The strong one. The one you’d want at your back if something went wrong.

Lily had felt fine with the pairing—grateful, even. But now, as she settled into the kayak’s moulded seat, legs stretched out in front of her, paddle resting across her lap, a quiet knot pulled tight at the base of her ribs.

The current looked ... different.
Faster.
Meaner.

She adjusted her sunglasses and stared downriver, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Then Marcus spoke—softly, just behind her.

“You nervous?”

His voice rolled low, smooth and quiet, like warm water slipping over stone.

“A little,” she admitted, forcing a small breathy laugh. “It looks fast. And loud.”

He didn’t answer right away. She heard him checking a strap behind her, adjusting gear, patient and unhurried.

Then:
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Lily blinked.

There was no bravado in his voice. No flirtation. Just certainty.

She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder.

His eyes met hers—steady, unreadable—but present. Fully there. And she believed him.

She believed him more than she wanted to.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Then they pushed off.

The kayak skimmed into the current, gliding through smooth bends and glassy narrows. Lily found a rhythm quickly—paddle, pause, glide. The air was crisp but pleasant. Her tank top was already damp with mist and effort, clinging to the line of her back and ribs. She could feel him behind her—not just the pull of his strokes, but the presence of him.

Solid. Unmoving.
The kind of man you don’t just sit near—you anchor to.

They moved deeper into the wild, the forest pressing tighter around the river. Birds scattered overhead. Shadows cooled the water’s surface. They spoke little, the silence comfortable—charged, but still.

Then came the bend.

The water began to shift—less gentle now, more coiled muscle than open stream. Marcus muttered behind her, voice suddenly alert:
“Tight turn. Stay low.”

She nodded. Adjusted.

Too late.

A jagged rock jutted from the shallows, hidden until the last second.

The kayak jolted sideways, then flipped—violently.

“Shit!” Lily gasped, and then the world turned to water.

It hit her like a slap from all sides. The cold was brutal—not brisk, not refreshing, but shocking, sharp as broken glass. Her lungs seized on instinct, locking her chest tight. For a terrifying second, her body forgot how to breathe. The river wasn’t just wet—it was ice, dragging, biting, punching the air from her like she’d fallen into another world.

Her paddle vanished.

Her sense of direction with it.

She twisted under the surface, arms flailing, heart hammering somewhere behind her ribs.

Then—light. Air.

She broke the surface, gasping, coughing violently, eyes wild. She tried to scream but only choked. Her limbs were numb and clumsy, as if her body didn’t belong to her anymore.

And then—arms.

Strong. Solid.

Marcus.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate. He was already kicking hard toward the riverbank, one hand gripping her like she was the only thing that mattered.

The drag of the current fought them, but he won.

When they finally hit mud and rocks, he heaved her up and out with raw strength. She collapsed on all fours, dripping, heart pounding like it wanted out of her chest.

Every part of her was soaked.

Her tank top clung to her like skin. Her shorts had moulded tighter, water pulling fabric against her thighs and ass like a second layer. She was shaking, lungs gulping air, arms trembling.

“You okay?” came his voice—low, calm, close.

She looked up, chest heaving.

He was bare-chested now—his shirt lost to the river. Water poured down his skin like oil over stone, glistening across every defined inch of muscle. His chest rose with heavy breath. His arms flexed with restraint.

And he was watching her.

Not panicked.

Assessing.

Like he was still protecting her—still holding her in place even now.

“I—I think so,” she managed, voice thin and raw.

But even through the shock and cold...
Something deep inside her stirred.

Because she hadn’t just felt the river’s power.

She’d felt his.

Marcus scanned the river, eyes sharp beneath wet lashes. No sign of Jake. No sign of Riley.

Then—far downstream, flickering through the mist—he saw it.

Their second kayak.

Upright. Moving.

“Hold on,” he muttered.

It bobbed into view for only a second, a flash of colour against the dark churn of the water—then disappeared again around a bend, swallowed by the trees.

“They’re alive,” Marcus said, breath tight but steady. “That was them.”

Lily nodded, but the rush of relief collided with the leftover panic in her chest. Her body was still reeling—shivering uncontrollably now, lips beginning to tremble, fingers struggling to obey her.

“Can they stop? Can they get back up here?” she asked, voice thin, breath hitching.

Marcus shook his head, already kneeling to retrieve the waterproof bag that had miraculously snagged on a root.

“No chance. They’ll be miles away before they can even think about getting to shore.”

She wiped soaked hair from her eyes. The wind lashed through the clearing, dragging the wet fabric of her clothes tighter against her body. Her tank top clung like a second skin, translucent in places. Her shorts offered no insulation. Her body was starting to go rigid with the cold—every breath harder to draw.

“What do we do?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself, voice barely holding together.

“There’s a ranger hut close by,” Marcus said, glancing toward the tree-line. “Just a few minutes up into the woods. If it’s still there, we get inside. Dry off. Warm up. Then tomorrow we work on a route to hike downriver.”

She stayed kneeling in the mud, water pooling around her knees, legs barely responding. Her body had gone pale beneath the flush of cold. Every movement felt like wading through syrup. The forest loomed around them, the wind needling her through wet fabric like the trees themselves were watching.

Then his voice—lower, closer, anchoring her.

“You trust me?”

She looked up.

He stood over her, shirtless and soaked, but still solid—like the storm hadn’t touched him. His eyes held steady on hers. Not soft, not hard—certain.

Lily nodded once, shivering.

“I do.”

By the time they reached it, Lily couldn’t feel her fingers. Her lips had gone pale and numb. Even her breath came in hollow stutters, like her body had started to forget how warmth worked.

The ranger hut was tucked into a small dip in the trees, nearly swallowed by moss and time. Half-forgotten, half-feral. Its roof sagged slightly but held. The walls were weathered but upright. One crooked door leaned inward, creaking on rusted hinges like it hadn’t moved in years.

But it was shelter.

Marcus pushed it open with one shoulder, then reached back for her. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped inside and felt the silence swallow her whole.

The air inside was cold—but still. No wind, no spray. Just emptiness and space. A cast-iron stove sat crouched in the corner, flanked by a small supply bin. A narrow wooden bed frame rested against the far wall, stripped bare but intact, a thin, stained mattress laid across it like someone had once tried to make it liveable. The floor was covered in dust, leaves, and the occasional clawed-out mouse hole.

But to Lily, it looked like a palace.

Her legs buckled slightly beneath her. Marcus caught her arm before she could drop to her knees again.

“We have to get these clothes off,” he said.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It held that quiet, commanding certainty that made it clear: this wasn’t a suggestion.

She nodded before her mind even formed the thought.

Her whole body shook now—deep tremors, not surface shivers. Her tank top clung to her skin like a layer of ice. Her shorts were soaked straight through, heavy and cold, suctioned to her thighs and hips like they’d fused there.

There was no room for modesty. No space for shame.

Just survival.

Marcus peeled off his shirt without ceremony—it came away in a wet slap. He dropped it onto the floor and knelt near the stove, opening the survival bag they’d managed to save. His chest rose and fell with calm breath, his torso glistening with water and sweat and muscle—hard-earned, unshaken, male in the purest form. She tried not to look. She failed.

He pulled out a small emergency radio—its screen blinked weakly, but alive.

“Still works,” he said, checking the dial. “That’s something.”

He set it down and moved with purpose—clearing out debris, gathering bark and dried twigs from a battered bin tucked beneath the stove. Every motion was precise. Focused. Like his body only made movements that mattered.

Lily’s fingers fumbled at the hem of her shirt. They were so stiff she barely felt the fabric in her hands.

She peeled it away in slow, clumsy motions. It slapped to the floor in a wet heap. Her sports bra was worse—tighter, colder. She struggled with it, and without looking over, Marcus said simply:

“Let me.”

She froze.

He walked over, wordless. His hands were warm by comparison, rough and sure. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t leer. He slipped a thumb beneath the band and peeled it up and over her head in one practiced move.

She stood bare-chested before him, arms at her sides, breath catching in her throat.

Her nipples were tight from the cold, almost aching. Her skin was flushed in patches—goosebumps everywhere. But it wasn’t just the chill making her heart hammer.

It was him.

She looked up—met his eyes.

And he didn’t look away.

No smile. No apology. Just recognition.

Then he stepped back. Gave her space.

“Finish,” he said gently. “Then come stand by the fire. It’ll be up in no time.”

She reached for her shorts. They peeled down inch by inch, wet and unforgiving. Her underwear clung like a second skin, peeled slowly from between her thighs, and when she stepped out of them, she felt raw. Exposed.

Not just naked.

Unwrapped.

Instinctively, she placed one hand over herself—shyly, protectively—fingers covering the soft, neatly trimmed patch of hair above her sex. It did little to hide her, but it gave her the illusion of control. The tiniest shield in a moment that had already taken so much.

She stood there a moment, her skin prickling, breath shaky.

Then, slowly, she walked toward the stove, bare feet silent on the dusty floor, and waited for the heat—and for him.

He noticed as he worked, silent and steady, gathering tinder, striking a flint with smooth, practiced movements. He didn’t gawk. Didn’t comment. But his gaze lingered just long enough on the curve of her ass, the soft line of her stomach, the delicate sway of her breasts—small, proud, cold-peaked.

Then the fire sparked to life.

A flicker.
A breath.
Then heat.

It caught slowly, then spread—soft orange glow pulsing in the belly of the stove, warming the walls of the hut like a secret come to life.

Lily crouched in front of it, arms crossed tightly over her chest, knees drawn to her body. Her bare skin drank the heat greedily, thawing inch by inch. The burn wasn’t gentle—it stabbed into her like pins and needles as sensation returned. Still, her body trembled.

“You’re not warm enough yet,” came Marcus’s voice, low and calm.

She turned her head toward the sound.

And froze.

He was naked now.

Fully.

She didn’t breathe.

His skin, dark as polished obsidian, gleamed in the firelight—drops of river water still slipping down the ridges of his chest, over his abdomen, catching in the carved hollows of his hips. His body was a study in controlled power—shoulders rolled back, spine straight, every muscle defined but unforced. He looked like he’d been poured, not built—shaped by something older than time.

And then her eyes dropped.

And her thoughts unraveled.

It hung low between his thighs, impossibly long, thick as her wrist at least—no, more, she realised. A slow, swaying presence that refused to be ignored. Nine inches soft. Veins wrapped it like rivers in relief, visible even in rest. It moved with a kind of weight that didn’t seem fair. Like it carried its own gravity.

She blinked.

Swallowed.

Felt heat bloom across her chest that had nothing to do with the fire.

Soft, she thought, dazed. That’s ... soft?

She didn’t want to compare.
She didn’t mean to.

But the image came uninvited.

Jake—hard, eager, trying—was barely half that.
And when it came to thickness ... not even in the same solar system.
Marcus wasn’t just longer. He was... built to ruin.

Her legs pressed together, slow and tight, like her body was guarding something it secretly wanted to give away.

A rush of shame curled through her—but lower than that, deeper than guilt, something hungrier rose. Something primal. Female.

Her hand, still resting over her neatly trimmed mound, twitched.

The veins, the way they stood out, thick and raised like ropes beneath skin—she could already imagine them inside her. Not just filling her. Pressing. Dragging. Her inner walls stretching around them, not just touching but memorising them.

He shifted slightly, and the whole length gave a lazy sway.

She bit her lip.

Even if she wrapped one hand around it—no, even with both, there would still be inches left, thick and proud and pulsing.

A thought struck her with raw force: What does that even feel like ... cumming?

She imagined it.

The pressure. The heat. That size—spurting, pumping, painting her insides in waves. Filling her. Flooding her. Marking her so completely that her body might never forget.

Her breath trembled.

And still, he hadn’t said a word.

He didn’t cover himself. Didn’t explain.

He just stood there—still, like the firelight had conjured him from stone. Not offering. Not apologising. Simply existing.

She tore her gaze away, eyes wide, skin flushed.

But the image of him—soft, huge, perfect—was already burned into her.

And deep down, some part of her knew:

That wasn’t the last time she’d stare.
Or reach.
Or beg.

Marcus crouched behind her, the floor creaking softly under his weight. Then—slowly, deliberately—his arms came around her, wrapping her in heat.

It hit her like a furnace.

His chest met her back—bare, solid, warm as the fire. His thighs settled against hers, long and thick, bracketing her body like he meant to shield her from the world. And then—

God.

She felt him.
Between her cheeks.
Not hard. Not even trying.

But undeniably there.

His cock lay heavy and warm against her backside, soft but massive, settling between her like it belonged there. Her eyes widened before she could stop herself. Her breath stuttered—sharp and shallow, like her lungs had forgotten what to do with heat that came from inside. Her nipples stood stiff and high, achingly sensitive, the firelight casting soft glints across their flushed peaks.

His hands slid gently down her arms, the scrape of calloused palms dragging goosebumps in their wake. He didn’t grope. Didn’t rush. Just held her, like she was fragile and precious and his responsibility.

“This okay?” he asked.

His voice—low, rough, felt at her ear more than heard.

She hesitated, just for a heartbeat.

Not because she was unsure.

But because she already knew what this moment meant.

“Yes,” she whispered.

The word came out like breath. Like truth.
Like surrender.

He didn’t speak again.

Didn’t need to.

He held her tighter, pressing her gently into him. One of his hands settled low on her stomach, broad and warm, fingers splayed like he was memorising the shape of her.

The fire crackled beside them, casting shadows that danced across the walls and across their skin. The warmth grew between them—but it wasn’t just from the flame.

Her body began to wake up.
Tingling.
Buzzing.

The burn of life returning to her skin gave way to something more. Something deeper. She became hyper-aware of every point of contact: his chest against her spine, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath, the thick weight of his cock resting against her ass—a thing that didn’t just exist, it announced itself.

She shifted—barely.

A brush of her hips. A reflex.

And he responded.

It thickened.

Not all at once. Not sharply.

Just... swelled.

Like the air had changed. Like her presence alone was enough to awaken something inside him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

And she realised—she wanted to move again. To feel it shift and grow. To see how much of him her body could provoke.

She didn’t dare. Not yet.

But her thighs tensed, her skin flushed, and she leaned back just slightly into him.

And he let her.

No words. No rush.

Just the sound of the fire.
The weight of heat.
And the pulse of something huge and patient pressed against her body—waiting.

He hadn’t meant to throb so dramatically.

Hadn’t shifted.

Hadn’t pushed.

But it was there now—growing, fuller, slower, thicker. Not demanding. Just ... present. A silent, burning promise resting between them.

The heat of it pulsed against her, alive and steady.

And her body responded before her mind could argue—skin flushed, core clenching, breath turning shallow. Her thighs tensed around the ache building inside her, damp and warm, already betraying her.

Then, without speaking, she turned in his arms.

It wasn’t a decision.

It was gravity.

As if some part of her needed to escape the weight of him—while another part already knew she belonged in it.

Her skin peeled softly from his, the cold giving way to the soft glow of rising heat as she moved. She curled inward, naked and trembling, pressing her chest to his torso, her cheek settling against the broad, unyielding slab of his pec. Her arms wrapped around his waist instinctively—like she needed to anchor herself, to hold on to something real.

Her nipples dragged across his abs—firm, defined, hot beneath her. They were swollen, painfully sensitive, hard enough to feel the texture of every line, every groove. The contact made her exhale sharply, almost a sound.

And now—between her thighs—it lay different.

No longer caught between them.