“Can You Make Me Come Tonight — The Mail Order Bride Asked… The Virgin Mountain Man Whispered, ‘I…’”

Chapter 4

Margaret blinked.

“You don’t know what I like?” she asked carefully.

“No.” He squeezed his eyes shut, a flush of deep, humiliated red creeping up from his collar to the tips of his ears. “I don’t know how to do any of it. Margaret, I’ve never…”

He swallowed convulsively. The words seemed to be tearing themselves out of his chest.

“I’ve never been with a woman.”

The world tilted.

Margaret sat perfectly still, the cynical armor she had worn for years cracking straight down the middle. A thirty-two-year-old mountain man who hunted bear with a rifle and butchered elk with a knife. A man who had survived the harshest environment on Earth for two decades. A man who looked like he could wrestle a grizzly and win.

And he was a virgin.

She stared at him, searching for the lie, the cruel joke. But there was nothing in his posture but pure, excruciating shame. He was a giant of a man, built for survival in the most unforgiving wilderness on the continent, currently shrinking into himself as if he were trying to disappear into the floorboards.

“Never?” she whispered, the harsh edge gone from her voice.

He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes firmly squeezed shut. “Lived up here with my pa since I was twelve. He died five years back. Only time I go to town is to trade pelts for flour and powder. Never had the money for the women in town. Never had the words for the decent ones.”

He let out a ragged breath.

“I’m sorry. You asked for a man, and you got a damn fool.”

Margaret felt something crack open in her chest. It wasn’t pity. Pity would have been condescending, would have placed her above him. It was something rawer, something that ached.

She had spent her entire adult life being taken by men. She had learned to read the signs of their mounting frustration, to swallow her own revulsion, to lie still and wait for it to be over. She knew how to survive a predator.

She had no idea what to do with a man who was terrified of hurting her.

“Elias,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

He shook his head. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Elias Thorne. Open your eyes and look at me.”

The command was soft, but it carried the weight of authority. Slowly, agonizingly, he opened his eyes. They were bright, glistening in the firelight. He looked terrified.

Margaret shifted on the bed, patting the mattress beside her. “Sit down.”

He hesitated, glancing at the small space beside her as if it were a bear trap. But he obeyed. He moved stiffly, lowering his massive frame onto the edge of the mattress. The bedsprings groaned under his weight. He kept a solid foot of distance between them, sitting rigidly upright, his hands clamped on his knees.

“You thought I’d be angry?” she asked quietly.

“I figured you’d think less of me. A man my age?”

Margaret let out a small, tired laugh. It wasn’t mocking. It was a sound of immense relief.

“The men I’ve known who had the most experience,” she said, “were the ones who left the deepest bruises. Experience just meant they knew exactly how to take what they wanted without caring what it cost the woman.”

He turned his head slightly, looking at her profile.

“You wrote to me,” she continued, gazing down at her hands. “You asked for a wife. You paid my debts back east. You bought my train ticket. Why?”

“I was lonely,” he said. The honesty was brutal and plain. “Winter gets dark. The silence gets too loud in your head. I wanted a voice in the cabin. I wanted someone to share the fire with.”

He paused.

“And I wanted a wife. The way a man wants a wife. But I don’t know how to start. I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Margaret turned to face him. The proximity was startling. She could smell wood smoke, pine needles, and the clean, sharp scent of cold air on his skin. He was trembling. This massive, lethal man was shaking beside her.

“Do you want me, Elias?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

He swallowed. “More than I ever wanted anything in my life.”

The utter lack of artifice disarmed her completely. There were no games here. No power plays. Just two damaged, lonely people at the edge of the world.

She realized then that the script she had prepared for tonight was entirely useless. She couldn’t just check out. She couldn’t just endure. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t prey.

She was a partner.

“Then I’ll show you,” Margaret said.

She reached out. Elias flinched slightly as her small, pale hand hovered near him, but he forced himself to stay still. She gently laid her fingers over his massive knuckles, resting on his knee. His skin was rough, scarred with old nicks and calluses, but it was incredibly warm.

“It’s not a fight, Elias,” she whispered. “It’s not a hunt. You don’t have to conquer anything.”

She slid her hand up his arm, feeling the thick, corded muscle beneath his flannel shirt. She moved to the buttons at his collar. His breathing hitched — shallow and fast, like a panicked animal.

“Breathe,” she instructed softly.

He exhaled a shaky breath.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Margaret. I’m too big. I’m clumsy.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

She pulled the shirt open, revealing a chest covered in dark hair and a smattering of faded scars. She placed her palm flat against his bare skin, right over his heart. It was hammering frantically against her palm.

“Feel that?” she said. “We’re both scared. It’s okay.”

Elias looked down at her hand on his chest, then up into her eyes. The raw gratitude in his expression made Margaret’s throat tighten.

“Put your hand on my waist,” she guided him.

He raised a trembling hand, hesitating in the air before slowly, agonizingly slowly, bringing it down to rest on the curve of her hip through the thin cotton. His hand was so large it spanned her entire side. His touch was incredibly light, as if he were handling spun glass.

“A little firmer,” she encouraged, covering his hand with hers and pressing it gently against her body. “I’m not going to break.”

Elias let out a low groan — a sound born of years of suppressed longing and sudden, overwhelming sensation. He closed his eyes, his thumb nervously stroking the fabric over her hipbone.

Margaret shifted closer, bridging the gap between them. She reached up, weaving her fingers into his thick, soft beard, and guided his face down toward hers. She didn’t rush. She let him feel the warmth of her breath. Let him adjust to the proximity.

When their lips finally met, it wasn’t a collision of passion. It was a question.

Elias remained utterly still for a second, absorbing the shock of contact. Then, very slowly, his mouth softened against hers. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand. He simply yielded to the sensation, letting Margaret set the pace.

It was clumsy. It was hesitant. And it was entirely beautiful.

When she pulled back slightly, Elias’s eyes were dark, dilated in the dim light.

“You’re doing just fine,” she whispered.

And for the first time in years, a genuine smile touched Margaret’s lips.