Stranded in the Alps Part 2
Things are getting intimate in the cabin.
Part 2 of 2 NSFW
Fic Masterlist
The cabin grows quieter as the evening deepens.
The fire has burned down low again, glowing amber and gold beneath the crackling logs you nearly killed yourselves retrieving earlier. Richard’s stretched out on the blanket near the hearth, one arm bent behind his head, boots abandoned somewhere near the door. You’re curled against the bedframe with Persuasion in your lap, reading by firelight while snow gleams pale beyond the window. It should feel ridiculous. Reading Jane Austen aloud to Richard Hammond in a mountain cabin while stranded in Switzerland.
And yet somehow it doesn’t.
He listens more closely than you expected, too. Not pretending to listen while waiting to interrupt, actually listening. Occasionally asking questions. Occasionally making ridiculous commentary in dramatic voices until you threaten to hit him with the book. You turn another page.
Then pause.
“Oh,” you murmur. “This part’s lovely.”
He glances up lazily. “That’s dangerous. You said that before the emotional yearning chapter.”
You ignore him and keep reading aloud.
“All the privilege I claim for my own sex... is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”
The words settle into the room softly. The fire cracks. Richard’s expression changes, not dramatically, just slightly. Something quieter. More thoughtful. You lower the book a little.
“What?” you ask.
He’s staring into the fire. “Do women really do that?”
“What?”
“Love longest.” He glances over at you. “Even when it’s hopeless.”
You shrug lightly. “Some do.”
“That sounds miserable.”
“It probably is.”
He studies you for a second. “Have you?”
You blink. “Have I what?”
“Loved someone like that.”
The question catches you off guard. Normally you’d deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject. But something about this cabin, about him tonight, quiet and open in the firelight, makes honesty feel strangely easy.
You look down at the page. “No,” you admit softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love.”
His brows lift slightly.
“Really?”
You nod once. “I’ve cared about people. Thought I loved them maybe. But…” You hesitate. “Not like that. Not in the devastating Austen sense.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
He tilts his head. “You strike me as someone who’d feel things very intensely.”
You snort softly. “That’s horrifying. Thanks.”
“I mean it as a compliment.”
You glance at him. He’s serious. That annoying warmth spreads in your chest again.
You clear your throat. “What about you?”
“Oh, definitely,” he says immediately.
You blink. “Definitely what?”
“Loved disastrously. Multiple times. I’m very talented at it.”
You laugh quietly. “You’re impossible to picture heartbroken.”
“That’s because I’m charming.” He grins faintly, then looks back toward the fire. “Doesn’t mean I’m immune.”
The room settles again.
Then he says, carefully, “Worst relationship?”
You groan immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on,” he says. “We’re snowbound. There are no consequences here.”
“There are always consequences.”
“That sounds ominous.”
You hesitate, then sigh.
“My last boyfriend,” you say slowly, “we dated for nine months.”
“Mmhm.”
“And I genuinely think the man was allergic to affection.”
Richard frowns. “What, emotionally?”
“No, physically.” You stare into the fire. “He wouldn’t touch me. Ever. Unless we were having sex.”
The joking expression slips off Richard’s face. You continue before you can stop yourself.
“No kissing unless he wanted something. No hand-holding. No cuddling. No random touching.” You shrug, trying to sound unaffected. “Sex was basically just… functional. Like he was ticking something off a list.”
Richard stares at you like you’ve confessed to a war crime.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
“Not even foreplay?”
You bark out a laugh. “God no.”
“That’s criminal.”
You glance over, surprised by the genuine outrage in his voice.
“I’m serious,” he says. “That’s not sex, that’s a hostage negotiation.”
You laugh despite yourself, but there’s something painfully earnest in his expression now.
“Did you tell him it bothered you?”
“Eventually.” You pick at the edge of the blanket. “He said I was ‘too emotional’ about intimacy.”
Richard looks genuinely offended on your behalf. “Right. I’d like to fight him in a Tesco car park.”
That makes you laugh harder.
“Unfortunately,” you say, “he’s not even the worst one.”
His eyes widen. “There’s worse?”
“Oh, much worse.” You shake your head. “There was another guy before him. Lived a few towns over. Funny, charming, attentive…”
Richard winces immediately. “That’s already suspicious.”
“We dated for almost a year before I found out he had a wife and two children.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“Yep.”
“How did you find out?”
“He texted me on Christmas Eve, told me everything, he said that his wife had gotten him a 70 inch tv as a gift and he realized that I wasn’t worth the risk of losing all that stuff. He didn’t consider for a second that had I known he was married I would have never spoken to him again anyway.”
Richard drops his head back dramatically. “Men are unbelievable.”
“You are men.”
“Fair point.” He rubs a hand over his face. “God, that’s awful.”
You shrug again, softer this time. “After a while you start wondering if maybe you’re just… bad at picking people.”
He’s quiet for a second.
Then he says gently, “Or maybe people have been bad at deserving you.”
The words hit harder than they should. You look away quickly. The fire suddenly feels too warm.
After a moment, you ask quietly, “What about you?”
Richard huffs a laugh and stretches out further on the blanket. “Oh, I’ve got a spectacular track record.”
“I’m listening.”
“There was one woman who only dated me because she thought I could introduce her to film stars.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“Oh, absolutely. Every date somehow became about who I knew.” He slips into a posh voice: “‘Do you think Tom Cruise would come to dinner?’”
You laugh.
“I should’ve realized sooner,” he admits. “But she was very fit and I’m occasionally an idiot.”
“Only occasionally?”
“On weekdays.”
You smile faintly. Then his expression changes again. Softer this time.
“And then there’s…” He trails off.
You glance over. “There’s what?”
He stares into the fire for a long moment before answering.
“There’s someone now.”
Your stomach tightens unexpectedly.
“Oh.”
“She’s brilliant,” he says quietly. “Completely terrifying, but brilliant.”
You try very hard to sound casual. “That sounds healthy.”
“She thinks I’m a jackass.”
“Well…” you say carefully, “that does narrow it down.”
He laughs softly.
“She’s smart, prepared for everything, calls me on my bullshit constantly.”
Something in your chest starts beating harder.
“She also,” he continues, “has this habit of pretending she doesn’t care about things when she actually cares very deeply.”
You stare at him. Oblivious, he keeps going.
“And she looks at people like she’s trying to figure them out before they can disappoint her.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“She sounds complicated,” you manage.
“She is.” He smiles faintly at the flames. “I think I probably love her.”
Your heart stumbles painfully.
“But,” he adds, almost lightly, “she seems to hate my guts.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Because obviously he can’t mean you. You clear your throat and force your eyes back to the book in your lap.
“Sounds like you’re doomed, then.”
Richard smiles a little sadly.
“Probably.”
The silence after that last sentence stretches long and slow. Not awkward.
Dangerous.
The fire settles into a low, steady crackle between you. You’re still holding Persuasion open in your lap, though neither of you has paid attention to it for several minutes now. Richard’s lying on his side on the blanket near the hearth, one arm tucked beneath his head, looking at you with an intensity that’s oddly disarming in the soft firelight. And your own stupid heart is twisting itself into knots.
Because somewhere out there, back in the real world where roads exist and people aren’t stranded in mountain cabins, there’s apparently a woman he admires deeply enough to call brilliant.
A woman he maybe loves. And for some irrational reason, the thought bothers you far more than it should. Which is ridiculous. You barely tolerate each other half the time.
You clear your throat and force yourself back into practicality. “Well, if you actually care about her, maybe stop trying to charm your way through everything.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, am I?”
“Yes.”
He grins faintly. “Brutal.”
“I’m serious.” You shift against the bedframe. “You hide behind jokes constantly. It’s exhausting.”
“That’s because feelings are horrifying.”
“They’re also necessary.”
He watches you quietly.
You continue, warming to the subject despite yourself. “If you really like her, stop performing all the time. Just be honest.”
“Honest how?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Tell her things. Ask her things. Listen when she answers instead of waiting for your turn to say something clever.”
He winces theatrically. “You make me sound unbearable.”
“You are unbearable.”
“Fair.”
“But…” You hesitate. “You’re also obviously a good man.”
Something flickers across his face at that. You press on quickly before you can overthink it.
“You do thoughtful things naturally when you’re not trying so hard to be entertaining. Lean into that.”
“Thoughtful things,” he repeats slowly. “Such as?”
“You remember details,” you say. “Use them.”
He tilts his head. “Explain.”
“Well…” You tuck your legs beneath the blanket. “Most men default to flowers and chocolate.”
“Nothing wrong with flowers and chocolate.”
“No, there isn’t. But they’re lazy unless there’s thought behind them.”
His expression sharpens with interest now, completely focused on you.
“What counts as thought?”
You glance at the fire. “Like… buying someone their favourite flowers. Or noticing what kind of chocolate they actually like instead of grabbing a random box at a petrol station.”
“Right.”
“Or seeing a book somewhere and thinking of them.” Your fingers brush the cover of Persuasion. “That sort of thing.”
He’s looking at you very steadily now.
“And honestly?” you continue softly, “sometimes the biggest thing is just showing up.”
“Showing up.”
“Yes.” You laugh quietly, but there’s bitterness in it. “You’d be amazed how many people say they care and then disappear the second it requires effort.”
Something about the way you say it makes his expression soften.
“So,” he says carefully, “consistency.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
You shrug one shoulder. “Helping plan things instead of winging everything at the last second.”
He looks personally attacked.
You point at him. “Don’t make that face.”
“I feel targeted.”
“You should.”
He laughs softly.
You continue, quieter now. “Casual affection matters too.”
His eyes flick up to yours. You suddenly become very aware of what you’re saying. But you keep going anyway.
“Not performative stuff. Just…” You gesture vaguely. “Touching someone when you walk past them. Holding their hand. Sitting close because you want to, not because you’re trying to get something out of it.”
Richard’s gone very still.
“And openly showing interest,” you add. “Not making someone feel like they’re asking for too much by wanting reassurance.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer.
He studies you for a long moment, then says softly, “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
You huff a laugh. “That’s what happens when your romantic history resembles a landfill fire.”
“No,” he says quietly. “I think it’s what happens when you know exactly how you deserve to be loved.”
Your breath catches slightly. You look away first.
The fire pops loudly between you.
Then, after a moment, you ask, “What about you?”
“Hm?”
“What matters to you?”
He leans back slightly, considering it.
“A woman who actually cares about the things I love,” he says after a moment.
You smile faintly. “Cars?”
“Not just cars.” He grins. “Though preferably cars, yes.”
“What else?”
“I like enthusiasm.” He gestures loosely. “When someone lights up talking about something. Doesn’t even matter what it is.”
You glance down at your book.
“I like affection,” he continues more quietly. “Real affection. Not just sex.”
Something in his tone makes your chest tighten.
“I like conversation.” He smiles slightly. “Which is unfortunate considering most of my conversations with certain people involve insults.”
You snort softly.
“But I like passion,” he says. “Loyalty. Someone who’ll actually tell me when I’m being an idiot instead of pretending I’m wonderful all the time.”
“That narrows the field.”
“Massively.”
You grin despite yourself.
He looks at you then, not joking now, not teasing. Just looking.
“And I like women who challenge me,” he says quietly. “Keeps life interesting.”
Your pulse stutters. For one dangerous second, the room feels suspended in amber firelight and silence. Then you break eye contact, suddenly unable to hold it.
“Well,” you murmur, trying for lightness and failing slightly, “hopefully your mystery woman appreciates all this emotional growth.”
Richard’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“Oh,” he says softly. “I think she’s getting there.”
The fire crackles softly, shadows shifting across the cabin walls, and you become painfully aware of every inch between you and Richard Hammond. Which isn’t much anymore. You’re still clutching Persuasion in your lap, though your thumb hasn’t turned a page in ages. He’s watching you with that same intent, unreadable focus, and it’s making your pulse stumble all over itself. Because somewhere in the middle of this conversation, something inside you finally gave up pretending.
You have feelings for this man.
God help you. Not just attraction, though there’s plenty of that now, warm and heavy in your stomach whenever he looks at you too long. No, it’s worse than that.
You care. And the realization is terrifying. Because Richard Hammond feels like chaos. Charming, impulsive chaos wrapped in blue Henleys and smart remarks. The kind of man who laughs in the face of plans and wings half his life on instinct.And with your track record?
You need certainty. Consistency. Someone steady. Not someone who feels like standing too close to a lit match.
You clear your throat softly. “You know why you irritate me so much?”
His mouth curves slightly. “Oh, this should be good.”
“I’m serious.”
That wipes the grin from his face immediately.
You look down at the book in your lap. “You don’t seem to take anything seriously.”
He leans back slightly, listening.
“You joke constantly. You flirt with everyone. You throw yourself into things without thinking.” You exhale slowly. “And I think… after the relationships I’ve had, that most women have had, we can’t do uncertain.”
The confession sits naked between you.
“We don’t want half-hearted,” you admit quietly. “We don’t want someone who disappears the second things get difficult or complicated.”
Richard’s expression softens. You continue before you lose your nerve.
“We want someone who’s all in.”
The fire pops sharply. For once, he doesn’t immediately joke.
Instead he asks, very quietly, “What does that look like for you?”
You blink. “What?”
“Your ideal future.” His gaze stays fixed on you. “What do you actually want?”
You look down at your hands for a long moment. No one’s ever really asked you that before. Not properly, expecting an actual answer. And somehow, here in this tiny cabin in the Alps with snow piled against the windows and firelight painting gold across the floorboards, honesty feels easier than it should.
“A quiet love,” you say softly.
Richard doesn’t interrupt.
“Not boring,” you clarify quickly. “Just… safe. Sweet. Passionate.” Your mouth curves faintly. “Long-lasting.”
His eyes don’t leave your face.
“I want someone I can actually share things with,” you continue. “Dreams. Plans. Stupid thoughts at two in the morning. Someone who encourages the things I love instead of tolerating them.”
You glance toward the book in your lap.
“I want partnership,” you murmur. “Mutual support. Mutual excitement. Someone who wants to build a life with me, not just fit me around theirs.”
The room feels impossibly still.
“And physically?” he asks softly.
You laugh quietly, embarrassed. “Affection. A lot of it.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“I want a little house in the countryside,” you continue quickly, trying not to notice. “With a big garden. Somewhere quiet.”
“What kind of garden?”
You smile despite yourself. “Wildflowers. Herbs. Climbing roses.”
“Hm.”
“And somewhere to swim,” you add dreamily. “A pond or a lake nearby. A library absolutely overflowing with books.” Your smile widens now, more genuine. “And enough freedom to travel. I want to see everything.”
Richard’s watching you like you’re telling him something holy.
You laugh softly. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“No,” he says immediately. “It sounds lovely.”
Your chest tightens.
“What about you?” you ask quietly.
He leans back on one hand, thoughtful.
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
His mouth twitches.
“I want most of the same things.”
You blink.
“I already have the countryside part,” he says lightly. “And technically the cottage sized house.”
“You live in a castle.”
“It’s a small castle.”
You snort.
“And I’ve already got the barn full of restoration projects.”
“How many cars are we talking?”
He pretends to think. “Enough that any sane woman would probably leave immediately.”
You laugh softly.
“But…” His expression grows quieter. “I want someone to share it with.”
Your smile fades slightly.
“I want conversation,” he says. “Affection. Loyalty. Passion.” His eyes flick toward you. “Someone who’s excited by life. Someone who challenges me instead of just laughing at the jokes.”
“You do like being challenged,” you murmur.
“Very much.”
The air between you feels thick now. Heavy.
“And I want someone who actually wants me there,” he admits softly. “Not just the entertaining version of me.”
Something in your chest twists painfully.
Before you can stop yourself, you say quietly, “That actually sounds quite lovely.”
You mean it as a joke. Mostly.
“Despite being you.”
But Richard suddenly goes very still. The teasing vanishes completely from his face. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself to his feet and crosses the small distance between you. The mattress dips as he sits beside you on the bed. Your breath catches immediately.
“Do you really mean that?” he asks softly.
You swallow. “Mean what?”
“That it sounds lovely.”
His voice has changed. Gone low and earnest in a way you’ve almost never heard from him. You stare at him, suddenly unable to think clearly.
“Yes,” you admit quietly.
Richard studies your face for a long moment. Then he asks, just as softly:
“What are your favourite flowers?”
Your pulse skips.
“What?”
“Your favourite flowers.”
You blink at him stupidly. “Pink peonies.”
A tiny smile touches his mouth.
“And chocolate?”
Your throat feels dry suddenly.
“…White chocolate.”
The smile deepens slightly.
And then—
Oh.
Oh.
The realization hits all at once. The questions. The conversation. The way he’s been looking at you all evening. The woman who’s prepared for everything. Who challenges him. Who thinks he’s a jackass. Who pretends not to care when she cares deeply. Your heart lurches hard enough to hurt. Richard inches closer slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You can feel the heat coming off him now. See the gold firelight caught in his eyes.
“You really don’t know, do you?” he murmurs.
Your breath leaves you shakily.
“Richard…”
But you don’t finish the sentence. Because he’s looking at you like you’re something precious.And suddenly, terrifyingly….You think maybe he always has been.
The cabin feels impossibly small now. Too warm. Too quiet. Richard sits beside you on the narrow bed, close enough that your knees brush, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him through the thin layers between you. Firelight flickers across his face, softening the sharp edges of his expression into something achingly earnest.
And he’s still looking at you like that. Like you matter. Your pulse is so loud you’re half convinced he can hear it.
“Richard…” you whisper again, but this time it comes out unsteady.
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
And very slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, pull away, laugh this off if you wanted, he lifts one hand to your face. His fingertips brush your cheek, warm, careful. You stop breathing.
“You can tell me no,” he says softly.
The gentleness of it nearly undoes you. Because this is not the Richard Hammond you thought you knew. Not the loud, cocky, endlessly teasing man who grins through disasters and turns everything into a joke. This version is quiet, patient, and, looking at you like he’s afraid of startling you. Your heart clenches painfully and when he leans in the rest of the way, you don’t stop him.
The first kiss is almost impossibly soft. Just the bare brush of his lips against yours, tentative, testing. You freeze in shock for half a heartbeat, your mind going completely blank. Then he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still slow. No pressure, no demand, just warm lips brushing yours with clear, unmistakable intent.
A shiver runs through you so hard you feel it in your fingertips, and before you can think yourself out of it, you sigh softly against his mouth and kiss him back. The sound he makes is tiny. Relieved. His thumb strokes lightly across your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss only slightly, following your lead completely. Giving you room to retreat even now. But you don’t want to retreat.
Because the second you kiss him back properly, something inside you settles. A warmth. A terrifying, wonderful sense of rightness.
His lips are softer than you imagined. Warm and careful and infinitely more restrained than the chemistry crackling between you should allow. He kisses like he’s listening, attentive to every tiny reaction, every breath you take.
You slide your fingers shakily into the front of his Henley. He exhales softly against your mouth. When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face nearly wrecks you. Wonder. Hope. Want. You stare back at him, breathing unevenly, your lips tingling. And beneath the dizzy warmth, fear crashes back in hard. Because this is Richard Hammond.
Funny. Charming. Reckless.
Everything you promised yourself you’d never fall for again. Your hesitation must show on your face, because his expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You swallow hard.
“I know what you think of me.”
“That’s not….”
“It is.” His hand slips gently from your cheek into your hair. “You think I’m all performance. All jokes and chaos.”
You don’t deny it. He smiles faintly, sadly.
“The cameras get the loud version of me,” he says softly. “That’s part of the job. But that’s not all I am.”
Your eyes search his face.
“When I care about something, I’m serious about it.” His voice lowers. “I’m good with money. I’m loyal to a fault. I show up when it matters.”
The words hit straight to the center of you.
“And I know I can be immature sometimes,” he admits with a tiny huff of laughter. “But I’m not careless with people.”
Your chest aches. Especially because he sounds so sincere.
“Would you…” He hesitates then, and somehow that uncertainty affects you more than any confidence ever could. “Would you give me a chance?”
Your head and heart immediately go to war. Your head screams that this is dangerous. That men like him are exciting until they leave wreckage behind. That attraction is not stability, and chemistry is not safety. But your heart, your heart remembers the way he carried you to the fire when you were freezing.
The way he listened to you talk about books and dreams like they mattered. The outrage in his voice when he heard how badly you’d been treated. The way he’s looking at you now. Like he means every word. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Oh, this is such a terrible idea,” you whisper.
Richard’s mouth twitches. “Probably.”
You let out a shaky laugh.
Then finally, quietly:
“Yes.”
The word barely leaves your mouth before he kisses you again.
This time deeper.
Not rushed, not frantic, but no longer tentative.
Wanted.
His hand slides into your hair properly now, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves against yours with slow, devastating confidence. You melt into him almost immediately, every nerve ending waking up under the heat of his attention. He kisses like he’s savoring you. Like he’s been thinking about this for longer than he should have. Your fingers clutch tighter at his shirt as he tilts his head and gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth. The tiny sting makes you gasp softly. Richard groans under his breath at the sound. Then his tongue brushes slowly against yours, warm and teasing, before tracing lightly along the roof of your mouth in a way that sends a full-body shiver through you.
“Oh my god,” you breathe against his lips.
“Yeah,” he murmurs hoarsely, kissing you again immediately.
The world narrows to warmth and firelight and him. To the scrape of his stubble against your skin. To his hands, still careful, still grounding, one at your waist and the other tangled gently in your hair. He kisses you until your thoughts dissolve completely, until your lips feel swollen and sensitive and your entire body is trembling with want. When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. Richard rests his forehead against yours for one dizzy second before shifting suddenly, strong hands gripping your hips. You let out a startled sound as he pulls you fully onto his lap. The movement presses you flush against him. And the look in his eyes when you settle there….
Warm.
Hungry.
Absolutely wrecked for you.
“Christ,” he mutters softly, like he can’t quite believe this is real either.
Richard kisses you again like he’s been holding himself back for days.
Maybe he has.
The second his mouth finds yours, all the careful restraint from earlier begins to unravel into something deeper, hungrier, though no less reverent. His hands tighten instinctively at your waist as you settle fully against him on the narrow bed, your knees bracketing his hips on the blanket. And this close, there’s no ignoring it anymore. No pretending. You can feel exactly how much he wants you. The realization sends heat rushing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Instinctively you rock against him, warm, languid desire pooling in the pit of your belly.
Your breath catches against his lips.
Richard groans softly at the sound and kisses you harder, still slow but full of aching intent, like he’s savoring every second of this because he genuinely wasn’t sure he’d ever get to have it. Your fingers slide into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. He shivers.
Actually shivers.
“Jesus,” he whispers against your mouth, voice roughened almost beyond recognition.
The sound alone nearly undoes you. You kiss him back desperately now, all the pent-up tension between you finally breaking loose. Weeks, months, maybe, of irritation and chemistry and hidden glances suddenly make terrible, perfect sense. His hand slides up your back beneath your sweater. The instant his palm touches bare skin under your undershirt, you gasp sharply.
Richard pauses immediately.
Not stopping, just checking.
His forehead presses briefly against yours, his breathing uneven. “Okay?”
You nod quickly, already chasing his mouth again.
“Yes.”
That soft, wrecked expression flashes across his face again before he kisses you deeper, one large hand splayed against the small of your back beneath your clothes now, fingertips brushing your skin in slow, exploratory strokes that make your whole body shiver. But there’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Nothing rushed. Every movement feels deliberate. Meaningful. Like he understands exactly how much trust this requires from you. And somehow that matters almost more than the desire itself.
You shift against him unconsciously and his grip tightens at your waist as he exhales a shaky breath into your mouth.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs huskily, his own hips jerking as he holds you against him.
Heat floods your face instantly.
He kisses along your jaw before you can respond, slower now, his lips brushing your skin with maddening softness.
“You smell so good,” he whispers against your throat. “Like lemons and lavender, I don’t know whether to drink you or eat you.”
Your eyes flutter closed. The scrape of his stubble against your neck sends sparks down your spine as he presses open-mouthed kisses beneath your ear, teasing gently with his teeth before soothing the spot with his tongue. A helpless little sound slips out of you. Richard makes a low noise in response that sounds almost pained.
“God, don’t do that,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Those sounds.” He kisses your throat again, lingering this time. “I’m barely holding on as it is.”
Your fingers drag lightly across his shoulders beneath the Henley, feeling warm muscle shift under your hands. He shivers again. The realization that you can affect him this way sends another pulse of heat through your body. Richard pulls back just enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed now, hair thoroughly ruined beneath your hands, eyes dark and intensely focused on your face.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly.
The sincerity of it catches you completely off guard. You open your mouth automatically to deflect the compliment, but he kisses you before you can.
“I mean it,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve thought about this so many times it’s actually embarrassing.”
Your breath hitches.
“You have?”
He laughs softly under his breath, sounding almost overwhelmed. “Sweetheart, I have wanted you for ages.”
The endearment makes your stomach flip violently.
Richard brushes your hair back from your face with shaking fingers.
“And this,” He kisses you once, slow and deep. “being allowed to kiss you like this…” Another kiss, softer now. “Honestly feels like a privilege.”
Something in your chest melts completely. No one has ever touched you like this before, like your comfort matters, like your body is something to be cherished instead of taken for granted. His hands slide carefully higher beneath your sweater and undershirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist with almost reverent slowness. You shiver hard beneath his touch.
“Soft,” he whispers absently, like he’s talking to himself now. “Christ, your skin’s soft.”
Your forehead drops briefly against his shoulder as another wave of heat rushes through you. Richard’s arms tighten around you immediately, grounding instead of demanding.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs again into your hair. “And you have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”
You kiss him again before you can think too hard about that.
Long.
Deep.
His tongue brushes yours slowly as his hands move carefully along your sides beneath the layers of clothing, never pushing too far, always waiting for the smallest sign of hesitation. When you arch into his touch instead, he exhales sharply against your mouth. Then very slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, Richard hooks his fingers gently into the hem of your sweater.
His eyes search yours.
You nod once.
Carefully, reverently, he lifts the sweater up and over your head along with the thin undershirt beneath it, his fingertips grazing your skin as the fabric disappears. The cold air kisses your newly bare skin.
But the way Richard looks at you makes heat flood through you all over again. Richard stares at you for a moment like he’s forgotten how words work. The firelight dances across your skin, warm gold against lace and flushed cheeks, and his hands, still resting carefully at your waist, tighten ever so slightly. Then he lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“That,” he says hoarsely, “is not what I expected under the terrifying scout uniform.”
Heat rushes to your face immediately. “Excuse you?”
His eyes flick downward again, openly admiring now. “Lace?”
You glance down self-consciously at the skimpy lace bra and then back at him. “A girl deserves to feel nice under her work clothes.”
Richard groans quietly like the answer itself affected him physically.
“That is an unbelievably dangerous thing to say to me right now.”
Despite yourself, you laugh breathlessly. “Why?”
“Because,” he says, fingers brushing lightly along the lace at the edges, “if I’d known this was under those jumpers all this time, I genuinely wouldn’t have been able to behave myself.”
The teasing tone softens the words, but the awe in his expression is completely sincere. Your stomach flips hard.
“You’re impossible,” you murmur.
“And you,” he says quietly, tracing one fingertip over the swell of your breast, coaxing the nipple to peak, “are absolutely unfair and fucking gorgeous.”
The touch sends a shiver through you.
Richard notices immediately. His gaze lifts to your face at once, watching every reaction with intense focus, like he’s fascinated by the way your breathing changes beneath his hands.
“You like that,” he says softly.
You huff a shaky laugh. “Don’t sound so smug about it.”
“Can’t help it.” His thumbs stroke gently over your breasts, cupping the weight of them in his palms as he teases the aching tips. “You’re very responsive.”
The warmth in his voice makes your whole body ache pleasantly. His hands move slowly, never hurried, never grasping, just exploring the curve of your waist, the softness of your skin, the shape of you beneath his palms like he’s trying to memorize it. And the entire time he watches your face. Not your body.
You.
Every hitch of breath. Every shiver. Every tiny sound. Like your reactions matter more to him than anything else. The realization alone nearly melts you. Richard leans down slowly, giving you time to stop him, instead your fingers slide into his hair again. His eyes close briefly at the touch, then his mouth brushes your shoulder.
Soft.
Warm.
You inhale sharply, shuddering. He kisses along your collarbone with slow, lingering affection, lips grazing your skin between murmured words that make your heart squeeze painfully.
“So beautiful,” he whispers.
Another kiss.
“So soft.”
His teeth graze lightly against the sensitive skin near your throat before he soothes the spot with another warm kiss. You shiver hard. Not entirely from desire this time.
Richard notices instantly.
His head lifts. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fi….”
“You’re shivering.”
Before you can protest, his arms tighten around you and suddenly you’re moving.A startled laugh escapes you as he stands, one arm securely around your back while the other slips beneath your thighs. Instinctively your legs wrap around his waist.
“Richard….”
“You’re freezing,” he says firmly, carrying you effortlessly across the cabin.
“But the bed….”
“Too cold.”
The fire crackles warmly beside the blankets spread across the floor. Richard kneels carefully, lowering you onto the thick pile of blankets and pillows near the hearth with surprising gentleness for someone who normally barrels through life like a caffeinated Labrador. You laugh softly as he follows you down immediately, one hand braced beside your head while the other smooths instinctively over your hip.
The firelight flickers over his face. Over the flushed skin of his throat where you’d tugged his Henley collar crooked. Over the expression in his eyes now, warm, dazed, wanting. Like he still can’t quite believe this is happening.
“You have any idea,” he murmurs softly as he settles beside you, fingertips brushing your cheek, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”
Your heart thuds painfully.
“No,” you whisper honestly.
Richard smiles faintly.
“Probably for the best.” Then he leans down and kisses you again, slow and deep beside the fire while snow glows silently beyond the cabin windows.
The fire crackles softly beside you, warmth washing over your skin in waves while snow drifts silently beyond the windows. The entire world feels very far away now. There’s only him. Richard stretched beside you on the blankets, one hand cupping your face while the other rests carefully at your waist, fingers absently stroking your skin beneath the lace edge of your bra.
And the thing that undoes you most is that he’s holding back.
You can feel how much he wants you. The tension in his body every time you shift against him. The roughness in his breathing when you kiss him deeper. The way his hand flexes instinctively against your hip before gentling immediately again. But he never pushes. Never assumes. Every kiss feels like a question he’s willing to let you answer.
It’s that restraint, that care, that finally breaks through the last of your fear. Because for the first time in your life, you feel wanted without feeling pressured. Desired without being reduced to it.
Richard brushes his nose lightly against yours, breathing unevenly. “You’re freezing and I’m trying very hard to behave myself.”
You laugh softly, breathless. “You? Behave?”
“Heroically.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “I’m attempting to be respectful.”
“You are respectful.”
His expression softens instantly at that. You run your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, watching the way his eyes close briefly beneath the touch. Then quietly, before you can lose your nerve, you whisper:
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Richard stills completely.
His eyes search yours carefully. “You sure?”
You nod once.
“Yes.”
The look that crosses his face is almost devastating want and tenderness tangled together so tightly you can’t separate them.
“Come here,” he murmurs softly.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper with intention rather than urgency. His hand slides along your side beneath the blanket while his mouth moves against yours with aching patience, like he’s trying to make absolutely certain you feel every ounce of how much he wants you.
And you do.
God, you do.
The kiss leaves you dizzy.
Your fingers tug lightly at the hem of his Henley, and he breaks away just long enough to pull it over his head, tossing it aside somewhere near the fire. You barely notice where it lands. Your attention is entirely consumed by him. Warm skin lit gold by firelight. Broad shoulders beneath your fingertips. The soft hitch in his breathing when you touch him openly for the first time.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, amused and rough-voiced all at once.
“You’re very distracting.”
His grin flashes briefly before melting into something softer as he kisses down your throat again. The contrast between his rough stubble and gentle mouth makes you shiver beneath him. Richard notices every reaction instantly. His hands move over you with incredible care, exploring slowly, reverently, pausing whenever your breathing catches. He kisses your shoulders, your collarbones, the sensitive skin just above the lace of your bra while murmuring things against your skin that make heat coil low in your stomach.
“So gorgeous,” he whispers.
Another kiss.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
His fingers trail lightly along your back, soothing and warm.
“So tense all the time,” he murmurs gently. “Let me take care of you a little.”
And somehow those words affect you almost more than the kissing does. Because no one ever has before. You feel treasured beneath his hands. Seen. Desired in a way that has nothing to do with obligation or performance. Every kiss lingers. Every touch asks permission. And slowly, steadily, your body stops bracing for disappointment. You melt instead.
Your hands roam more confidently over him now, nails grazing lightly across his shoulders and down his back, and the sounds he makes in response are enough to send another wave of warmth through you.
Richard lifts his head just enough to look at you again. Firelight dances in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You realize then that you’re smiling. Actually smiling.
“Yeah,” you whisper, almost startled by it. “I really am.”
His expression changes at that, something deeply relieved flickering across his face before he kisses you again with slow, aching affection. The blankets tangle around your legs as you pull him closer, wanting more of his warmth, his touch, his mouth. And through it all, he never stops paying attention to you. To your reactions. To your comfort. To the tiny sounds you make when he kisses just beneath your ear or traces his fingers gently along your spine.
It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
And somewhere in the haze of warmth and firelight and Richard murmuring soft praise against your skin, you finally understand why people write songs and novels and poetry about being loved properly.
Because this tenderness, this wanting, this feeling of being held carefully in someone else’s hands….
Feels a little like coming home.
Richard kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like he has all the time in the world. The fire pops softly beside you, throwing shifting yellow and orange across his bare shoulders as he braces himself carefully above you, one hand stroking lazily along your side beneath the blanket. You can feel the restraint in him still. The way he pauses every few seconds to look at your face. To make sure you’re comfortable. To check that you’re still with him. It makes your chest ache. Because no one has ever been this careful with you before.
His fingers slide to the clasp of your bra, hesitating for just a moment as his forehead rests lightly against yours.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, breath catching already.
“Yes.”
The bra slips away slowly, and the second you’re exposed to him, Richard goes very still. Not in disappointment. In awe.
His eyes drag slowly over you with such open admiration that heat floods your face instantly.
“You are…” He exhales softly, almost laughing at himself. “Christ.”
You instinctively move to cover yourself and he catches your wrist gently before you can.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
There’s no demand in it. Just sincerity.
“You’re beautiful.”
The words land somewhere painfully deep inside you because he sounds genuinely stunned by you.
His fingertips trace lightly along your skin like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you at all. Warm palms cupping you carefully, reverently, his expression growing softer every time you react to him. Then he bends his head and kisses you again. Your shoulder. Your collarbone. The newly exposed skin of your breasts, his tongue lathing the hard little peak slowly.
The tenderness of it makes your throat tighten.
Your hands roam over him in return, exploring the solid warmth of his chest, the faint dusting of hair there, the muscles beneath softened slightly by age and comfort and real life. But when your palms drift lower, you feel him tense.nJust slightly.
You glance up.
Richard’s suddenly avoiding your eyes a little, mouth twitching with self-conscious humor.
“Bit disappointing after the heroic firelight angles, isn’t it?” he mutters.
Your heart squeezes painfully. Because somehow this man, this infuriatingly attractive man who has occupied entirely too many of your thoughts, is nervous with you. You slide your hands more firmly around his waist instead of away.
“Richard.”
He finally looks at you. And you tell him honestly:
“You’re gorgeous.”
His expression flickers with surprise.
“I mean it,” you whisper, fingertips stroking lightly across his stomach. “Exactly like this.”
He lets out a soft laugh of disbelief.
“You’re biased. You’ve got altitude sickness.”
You smile and tug him back down toward you. “I’ve wanted you even when you were annoying me half to death.”
That finally makes him grin properly.
“Only half?”
“On good days.”
He kisses you again immediately, smiling against your mouth, and the last traces of tension ease out of him beneath your hands. After that, everything slows. Not awkward. Not hesitant.
Intentional.
Clothes are removed piece by piece between lingering kisses and quiet laughter and soft reassurances whispered into warm skin. Every time you tense or try to hide yourself, Richard gently distracts you with another kiss, another touch, another unbearably sincere compliment murmured against your throat until eventually you stop trying to curl inward. Because he looks at you like you’re extraordinary.
And little by little, you start believing him.
He settles between your thighs, firelight flickering over the planes of his back and shoulders while his hands move over you with patient devotion. Nothing rushed. Nothing taken for granted. Every touch feels like a conversation. Every kiss is like a question he genuinely wants answered.
And when his mouth and hands explore you more intimately, the care he takes nearly overwhelms you. He touches you as though you are precious, his fingers dipping between your legs and stroking gently until you relax again. He hums in satisfaction when he encounters dampness, sliding a finger deep inside you with a growl when you whimper desperately. He pays attention to every reaction, every breath, every involuntary movement of your body, adjusting instinctively to what makes you gasp or tremble or clutch at him harder.
“There you go,” he murmurs softly when you shiver beneath him. “That’s it, sweetheart, that feels good, doesn’t it?”
The praise sends heat spiraling through you. You’ve never felt so seen during intimacy before. Never felt like someone was invested in your pleasure instead of merely waiting for their own. Richard seems almost fascinated by every response he draws from you, every breathless sound making him kiss you deeper, touch you more carefully.
“I want to taste you, will you let me?” He murmurs between kisses, even as his finger strokes inside your body.
You nod, self consciousness warring with need as he pushes the blanket back as he licks a path down your body pausing to suck gently on your nipples until your back arches and you tighten around his finger. He slides down further, his tongue sliding over your belly before you feel his hair against your inner thighs.
“Open for me, there’s a good girl.” he croons, nudging your legs apart and gazing intently where his finger disappears inside of you.
He doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t give you a chance to demur, he simply applies himself to the task of pleasing you like he applies himself to driving. With enthusiasm and skill. He moans loudly against you as his tongue licks a slow stripe from his finger to the aching little bud at the apex of your body. You cry out, back arching, legs trembling as he flicks his tongue over you, pushing another finger inside you. Your fingers twist in the blankets as he rapidly works you into a frenzy of pleasure.
And when release finally crashes through you, it leaves you shaking hard enough that he immediately gathers you close, murmuring soft praise against your temple while you cling to him, stunned and breathless.
“There she is,” he whispers warmly. “God, you’re beautiful, that was beautiful.”
You barely have time to recover before he kisses you again, slow and affectionate now, grounding you gently as his hand strokes your back. Then he stills slightly above you. Your eyes meet. And suddenly the air changes again. Not less tender. Just deeper. More intimate somehow.
Richard brushes his knuckles lightly against your cheek. “Still okay?”
You nod immediately, reaching for him without hesitation this time.
“Yes. Please.”
Something vulnerable flickers across his face at the trust in your voice. It's a go ahead, a signal for him to take this all the way. He nods and huffs out a deep breath, kneeling up and gazing down at you spread out in front of him. You watch him, wide eyed and drowsy with desire as he takes himself in hand, positioning himself at the entrance to your body. When he joins himself to you, it’s slow and careful, his forehead pressed against yours while he gives you time to adjust to the stretch, his hands stroking soothingly along your sides.
You gasp softly at the sensation, fullness and warmth and closeness so intense it almost steals your breath. Its different with him, less of an invasion and more of a puzzle piece finally fitting and your body responds in kind, tightening around him, bathing him in liquid heat as he groans. His arms and shoulders shake with the effort of holding himself back until you’re used to the feel of him.
Richard kisses you immediately, grounding you through it.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The words unravel something inside you completely. And as the fire crackles beside you and snow glows pale outside the cabin windows, he makes love to you with the same care he’s shown you all night, slow, attentive, utterly consumed by your reactions. He’s unhurried as he buries himself in you over and over, each thrust eliciting a grunt of satisfaction from him and a little whimper of delight from you.
The pleasure builds gradually, overwhelming not because of intensity alone but because of the tenderness threaded through every moment. His whispered praise. The way he watches your face. The way he keeps checking on you even when he’s breathless himself. He moves a hand between your bodies, gently brushing his thumb over your clit and leaving you gasping.
“That’s it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, kissing your throat as you writhe. “You take me so well, like you were made for us to do this together.”
He scrapes his thumbnail over you and your body tightens around him in pleasure. He moans loudly, thrusting faster, harder.
You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as movement and warmth and emotion blur together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
For the first time in your life, you finally understand why sex is so popular. It's not just the physical pleasure, but the intimacy. The feeling of being cherished completely while someone gives themselves to you in return.
Richard buries his face briefly against your neck near the end, breathing raggedly as he holds you close, his voice rough and wrecked when he whispers your name like it means something precious. His body tenses and you can feel the moment he starts to shiver.
“Do you think you can come for me again? I’d very much like to feel that….you tight around me like a vice. I know you want to, don’t you sweetheart…” He cajoles gently, his thumb between your legs rubbing furiously as your body starts to shake.
“Richard!” He swallows his name with his mouth, his tongue filling your mouth as you come, rippling around him as his body jerks and pulses with his own orgasm. He fills you completely, thrusting through every spasm, rolling his hips as though he can never get deep enough inside you. It's unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, so good that you're almost sobbing with pleasure.
And afterward he stays wrapped around you beside the fire, kissing your damp forehead gently while your heartbeat slowly settles against his chest. The fire burns low by the time the trembling finally fades from your limbs.
Outside, the mountain is silent beneath fresh snow, the world muted and distant. Inside the cabin everything feels warm, achingly warm, from the blankets tangled around you to the solid weight of Richard stretched beside you.
No.
Not beside you. Around you.
Because the second you both catch your breath, he gathers you up against him like he can’t bear even an inch of distance.
“There,” he murmurs softly as he wraps another blanket over your shoulders. “Better.”
You laugh weakly, face tucked against his chest. “You’re very bossy all of a sudden.”
“Mm. Occupational hazard.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “Also you’re distractingly naked and I’m trying to stop you freezing to death.”
“You’ve become weirdly competent.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”
You smile against his skin.
But the teasing only lasts a moment before he’s touching you again, gentle fingertips tracing idle paths over your back, your shoulder, your waist like he physically cannot stop reassuring himself that you’re really here.
Every few seconds he kisses you too. Your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your mouth. Small, absent gestures full of so much tenderness your chest aches with it.
“That,” he says eventually, voice rough with lingering awe, “was honestly one of the best experiences of my life.”
Heat creeps up your neck instantly. “Richard….”
“No, I’m serious.” He tips your chin up gently until you look at him. Firelight flickers gold across his flushed face and ruined hair. “You’re incredible.”
You duck your head automatically, embarrassed by the intensity of it, but he immediately kisses your forehead again.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “No hiding now.”
The warmth in his voice nearly melts you.
“You made me feel…” He exhales shakily, searching for the words. “God, I don’t even know. Happy. Wanted. Slightly delirious.”
You laugh quietly.
“And very eager to do that again,” he adds without hesitation.
That makes you laugh harder, the sound muffled against his chest.
“I mean it,” he says, grinning now. “Immediately, preferably.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You liked it.”
“I did not say that.”
“You absolutely did. Repeatedly.”
You swat his shoulder weakly and he laughs, catching your hand and kissing your knuckles. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that you go still. Richard notices instantly. His expression softens as his thumb strokes gently across your fingers.
“You okay?”
The concern in his voice gets you all over again. No one has ever checked on you this much. No one has ever seemed so genuinely invested in making sure you feel safe, cared for, wanted.
“Yeah,” you whisper honestly. “I’m more than okay.”
He smiles then, small and genuine and devastatingly warm.
“Good.”
Silence settles comfortably around you after that, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional soft brush of his lips against your skin. Your legs remain tangled together beneath the blankets, his hands roaming lazily over your back and hips with quiet affection. You’re drifting toward sleep when he speaks again, voice lower now.
“You know what I keep thinking about?”
“Hm?”
“Taking you home.”
You blink sleepily up at him.
“To the castle?” you tease softly.
He grins against your hair. “Small castle.”
“Of course. Very important distinction.”
“Extremely.”
His fingers comb slowly through your hair as his voice grows quieter, more thoughtful.
“I want to show you everything,” he murmurs. “The gardens. The bedroom. The stupid barn full of half-finished cars.”
You smile faintly.
“I want to make breakfast with you in the mornings.” Another kiss pressed softly to your temple. “Take you swimming in summer.” His hand slides warmly along your side beneath the blankets. “Steal you away to bed whenever possible.”
Your heart squeezes hard enough to hurt.
“Richard…”
“I want to spoil you a bit,” he admits softly, almost shy now. “Treat you like a princess.”
You laugh quietly. “That seems excessive.”
“Nope. I’ve decided.” He kisses your shoulder. “You deserve ridiculous amounts of affection and at least three libraries.”
You bury your face against his chest, smiling helplessly.
“And selfishly,” he continues, voice roughening slightly, “I can’t wait to show you off.”
You glance up. “Show me off?”
“Oh absolutely.” His eyes meet yours in the firelight, warm and earnest and completely serious. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
Your breath catches.
“And,” he adds more softly, brushing his nose gently against yours, “that I’m very much yours.”
The tenderness of it nearly undoes you completely.
“Body and soul, sweetheart,” he whispers.
Then he kisses you slowly once more beneath the fading firelight, holding you close while the mountain sleeps around you.
i am in love
