Page 125 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

And then sometime in the middle of the night—I wake up.

The cabin is dark except for a faint silver wash of moonlight through the window.

The mountain is silent in that way that feels almost sacred.

No cars. No sirens.

No hum of a city that never sleeps.

Just wind in the trees.

And his heartbeat.

I’m curled against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, one of his big hands splayed low on my back like he fell asleep making sure I was still there.

For a moment, I just listen.

To the steady thud beneath my ear.

To the slow pull of his breath.

To the quiet proof that I am not alone.

I don’t know what possesses me—loneliness, maybe.

Or courage.

Or the terrifying realization that this feels like something I could lose.

But I lift my head and look at him.

Even in sleep, Greyson looks intense. Brow faintly furrowed. Mouth slightly parted.

Like he’s still bracing for something, even in dreams.

His body—God his body—it’s strong and hard, rough with hair on his chest, the soft curls taper down below his belly button, dusting his abs and that Adonis’ belt that leads to his long, thick cock.

He’s so fucking beautiful.

Masculine? Absolutely.

But beautiful just the same.

I brush my fingers through his beard lightly.

And he wakes instantly.

Not startled.

Just aware.

“Clara?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

His hand tightens reflexively at my back, pulling me closer.

And something inside me cracks wide open.