April 12, 2026

Pin Me Down: Chapter Three - The Recovery

As the sun rises over the snow-covered peaks, the line between rivalry and reality has completely blurred. Cecelia came to the mountain looking for a photo op, but she’s leaving with something much more permanent. The storm has passed, but the heat in the cabin is just getting started.

Chapter Three

Cecelia

The Recovery

The fire in the stove has settled into a low, pulsing amber glow, casting long, flickering shadows against the log walls. The cabin is silent now, save for the rhythmic whistle of the wind through the eaves and the heavy, steady thud of Finley’s heart against my ear.

I’m draped across him, my skin still humming from the way he just dismantled every defense I ever had. He’s a mountain of a man, all rough heat and solid muscle, and as I lie here in the aftermath, I realize my Wilderness Aesthetic series was a joke. I’d spent months hunting for the perfect flannel, the perfect backdrop, the perfect "rugged" lighting.

But there is no filter for this. There is no preset for the way Finley Warren looks when he’s completely undone, his head thrown back and his hands gripping my hips like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.

"You’re thinking too loud, Sherman," he rumbles. His voice is a low, gravelly vibration that travels straight through my chest.

"I’m not thinking," I lie, tracing the line of a faded scar on his shoulder. "I’m recovering. You’re… a lot, Finley."

He huffs, a sound that’s half-scoff and half-chuckle, and shifts beneath me. He hooks a finger under my chin, tilting my face up until I’m forced to meet those flinty gray eyes. In the dim light, they aren’t hard anymore. They’re molten.

"I told you," he says, his thumb brushing over my swollen lower lip. "I don't do things halfway. If you’re going to send me a pin, you’d better be ready for me to find you. All of you."

"I was ready," I whisper, and for the first time in my life, I’m not saying it for the engagement. "I’ve been ready since the general store."

He doesn't answer with words. He reaches out, his large hand cupping the back of my neck as he pulls me in for a kiss that is slow, deep, and devastatingly possessive. It’s a promise. A claim. A "stay with me" that he’s too stubborn to say out loud.

We stay like that for hours, drifting in and out of a light, heated sleep on the narrow wooden bench, tangled in thermal blankets. But as the first gray light of dawn begins to bleed through the frost-covered window, the reality of the mountain starts to settle back in.

The storm has passed, leaving a world of heavy mist and dripping emerald pines outside the door.

Finley is the first one up. He moves with that same efficient, hunter-like grace, his bare back a map of strength as he stirs the embers and adds more wood. I watch him from the bench, wrapped in his oversized gray sweats, feeling a strange, sharp pang of loss already.

Back to the real world. Back to the grid.

I reach for my phone, which has been sitting dead on the table. It feels heavy. Useless.

"I have a portable power bank in my pack," Finley says, not even turning around. "If you’re so desperate to tell the world you’re alive."

"I’m not," I say, and I mean it. "I was just... I was thinking about the walk back."

He turns then, leaning against the rough-hewn counter. He’s shirtless, his pants low on his hips, and the sight of him in the morning light is enough to make my breath hitch all over again.

"The walk back is going to be slow with that ankle," he says, his gaze dropping to my foot, which he’s already expertly wrapped in a fresh bandage. "But we have a few hours before the rest of the team reaches the trailhead to see just how much of the trail washed out."

He walks over to me, stopping between my knees. He reaches out, his hands sliding under the hem of the sweatshirt he let me borrow, his palms flat against my ribs.

"You got what you wanted, didn't you, Cece?" he asks softly. "The mountain man. The cabin. The story."

I look up at him, my heart aching. "I didn't want a story, Finley. I wanted you. I think I’ve wanted you since you told me my boots were decorative paperweights."

A slow, genuine smirk spreads across his face—the first one I’ve seen. It transforms him, softening the hard edges of his jaw.

"They still are," he whispers.

He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive spot behind my ear, sending a fresh wave of electricity through my body. His hands move lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the sweats and dragging them down just enough to expose the skin he spent all night marking.

"One more time," he growls against my skin. "Before I have to be the professional again. Before I have to hand you back to your followers." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Let me remind you who really owns this body."

"Finley," I gasp, my hands finding his hair, pulling him closer.

He hoists me up, pinning me against the log wall of the cabin. The wood is cool against my back, but Finley is pure fire. With one hand he roughly yanks my sweatshirt up over my head, his knuckles scraping against my skin. The cool air hits my breasts, making my nipples pebble instantly. His eyes devour me.

"Fuck, look at you," he growls, his own pants quickly following mine to the floor. His cock springs free, hard and ready. "All this for me."

He enters me with a single, deep thrust that has me crying out his name, the sound echoing in the small space.

“Finley!” I sceam out. “Oh my god.”

"That's it, scream for me," he pants. "Let everyone know who's fucking you senseless."

This time, it isn't frantic. It's deliberate. It's a slow, punishing rhythm that marks every second we have left before the world finds us. Each thrust pushes me harder against the wall, his hips grinding against mine in a rhythm that's both possessive and intoxicating.

He watches me the whole time, his eyes locked onto mine, making sure I'm present for every sensation. "Feel that?" he murmurs against my lips. "Feel how deep I am inside you? How I'm stretching you? Remember this when you're alone tonight, touching yourself."

His words are my undoing. The coil in my belly tightens impossibly, and then snaps. My back arches off the wall, a ragged cry tearing from my throat as waves of pleasure crash through me. "That's one," he grunts, not stopping his relentless pace, fucking me through it until my legs are trembling. "I know you have another one in you. Don't you fucking hold back on me now, Cece."

He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. One of his hands snakes between us, his thumb finding my clit and circling it with a pressure that borders on cruel. The overstimulation is exquisite, a sharp, sweet pain that has me writhing against him. "Come on," he demands, his voice a low, predatory growl. "Give it to me. Let me feel you squeeze my cock again."

It's a command my body can't refuse. The second orgasm is more violent, tearing a scream from my lungs as my inner walls clamp down on him. "Fuck, yes," he snarls, his rhythm finally faltering. He buries his face in my neck, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he follows me over the edge, his own release pulsing hot and deep inside me.

When we finally break, both of us panting and sweat-slicked in the cool morning air, he doesn't let me go. He keeps me pinned there, his forehead resting against mine.

"Don't delete this, Cecelia," he rasps. "Don't you dare pretend this didn't happen. Your followers don't need to know, but you need to remember how I claimed every inch of you."

"I couldn't if I tried," I whisper.

By the time the first crackle of the radio reaches the cabin, we’re dressed and "professional." He’s the SAR lead again, and I’m the rescued hiker. But as he helps me out the door and into the sharp, damp air, he squeezes my hand one last time. "The team is waiting at the creek crossing," he murmurs, his voice low enough only for me. "Ready to walk?"

I look out over the jagged peaks, the sun catching the mist rising off the trees like gold dust. My fingers twitch toward my pocket, the phantom itch to check my notifications prickling at my skin, but I leave my phone where it is. It’s a dead weight in my leggings. No Instagram. No hero shot. Just the silence of the mountain and the heat of Finley’s hand on my waist.

Instead, I open my map. I look at the little blue dot where we are. Then, I look at Finley.

"I think I’m going to stay in the mountains for a while," I say, my voice steady. "I heard the locals are pretty good at finding people who get lost."

Finley looks at me, a flicker of that molten heat returning to his eyes. He adjusts his pack, a rugged, beautiful silhouette against the sky.

"Only if they’re worth the paperwork, Sherman," he says.

He starts down the trail, but he doesn't look back. He knows I’m following. And for the first time, I don't need a "pin" to know exactly where I am.

I’m right where I belong.

The End.

Come back next week for another story.

Authors Notes:

And that’s a wrap on Cece and Finley! I love a "happily ever after" that feels earned, and these two definitely worked for it. Sometimes you have to get lost in a blizzard to find exactly where you’re supposed to be. Thank you for following along with the Falling for Flannel series!

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix