Page 34 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

She reaches up and pulls the string above her head. A single swinging bulb flickers to life. Yellow light spills over the small room. Shadows dance against the timber walls. The space is hers. Rows of empty supers stack high along the far wall. A hand-cranked extractor gleams dull silver in the corner. The cast-iron uncapping tank squats on the floorboards. In the center of the room sits a wooden workbench stained with years of wax drippings and gouged by hive tools.

The air in here is dense. It breathes warm beeswax. It tastes like raw clover honey. It smells like her complete surrender.

She turns to face me in the dim, yellow light. Her chin tilts up. Her shoulders are set. There’s no armor left on her. The fierce, stubborn independence she wore like a shield for two years lies shattered on the floor. She lets me carry the weight. She lets me be the wall between her and the violence coming up the ridge.

I step past her. I don’t touch her yet. I walk straight to the single square window cut into the back wall of the shed. The glass is grimed with dust and old wax. I unlatch the rusted lock. I shove the window open wide.

The cold, high-altitude mountain wind pours into the enclosed room. The temperature inside plummets instantly. The icy draft hits my face, carrying the scent of pine needles and snowmelt from the peaks. The swinging bulb sways violently above our heads, casting erratic, swinging shadows over the walls.

I want the cold. I want the mountain in here with us. I want the freezing air to bite her skin so she feels the sharp, burning contrast of my heat. I want this room, this sanctuary, to witness what I’m going to do to her. I want the ridge to hear her scream my name.

I turn back to her.

She stands near the scarred bench. The cold pulls at her hair, whipping the loose strands across her cheeks. She shivers. Her nipples peak hard against the thin cotton of her shirt.

"Mine," I tell her.

My voice is a low, gravel rasp. It cuts through the howling wind. It leaves no room for debate. It leaves no room for retreat.

She nods once. A sharp, jerking motion.

I close the distance between us in three long strides. I don’t ask permission. I don’t hesitate. My hands rip into the hem of my shirt. I pull the cotton over my head and throw it into the dark corner of the shed. The freezing wind crashes into my bare chest. My scars pull tight in the cold. My muscles lock. The rage inside my veins boils down into agonizing lust.

I step into her space. My chest presses her against the edge of the bench. Her hip bumps the metal of the cast-iron uncapping tank beside it. She gasps at the sudden cold against her side.

I reach for the hem of her shirt. I fist the fabric in my hands. I drag it up her torso. She lifts her arms, submitting to my rough handling. I strip the shirt over her head and cast it aside. She wears no bra. Her bare breasts are exposed to the mountain air. They’re full, perfect. The cold wind tightens her dark areolas into tight, begging peaks.

My hands drop to the button of her jeans. I pop the metal stud with my thumb. I drag the zipper down. The harsh screech of metal teeth echoes under the wooden roof. I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and her cotton panties. I shove them down her hips in one violent, continuous motion.

She steps out of her boots. She kicks the tangled clothes away.

She stands naked in the center of the honey shed. The single bulb swings wildly above her, washing her bare skin in erratic flashes of yellow light. The cold wind whips over her body. The smell of warm beeswax and raw honey thickens around us, mixing with the rising, musky scent of her arousal.

I grab her by the hips. My hands dig into her soft flesh. The grip is bruising. Territorial. Final. I lift her off the floorboards. She gasps, grabbing my shoulders to steady herself.

I set her down onto the bench.

The wood creaks beneath her. Her bare thighs slap against the cold, gouged timber. Her right hip presses against the side of the cast-iron uncapping tank. The contrast of the rough wood, the icy metal, and the cold rushing through the open window makes her gasp sharply. Her spine arches.

I step between her spread legs. I crowd into her space. My bare chest brushes against her cold nipples. The heat radiating off my skin acts like a furnace against her shivering body.

"Open for me," I command.

She spreads her thighs wider. She offers herself. The vulnerability in her posture shatters the last remaining shards of my control. She fought the world alone. She carried the debt, the farm, the grief, the Syndicate threat. She built walls so high no one could climb them.

Now, her legs are spread wide on the wooden bench, giving me access to the most vital, hidden parts of her.

My gaze drops to her pussy.

She is drenched. The dripping slick coats her swollen pink folds. The musky, intoxicating scent of her arousal hits my senses, overriding the smell of raw honey in the room. She is slick with need. She is leaking for me. The sight of her wetness destroys my mind. It reduces my brain down to a single, primal directive.

Consume. Claim. Breed.

I drop to my knees on the wooden floorboards. The rough timber scrapes my bare skin, but I don’t care. I’m a feral animal finding my ultimate kill. I position my face between her spread thighs. The heat radiating from between her thighs hits my cheeks.

I grab the backs of her thighs with my large hands. I pull her closer to the edge of the bench. The wood groans.

I bury my face in her wetness.