Pin Me Down: Chapter Two - Ground Zero

 Finley Warren is a professional, but when he sees Cecelia’s location pop up on his phone, the "search and rescue" mission becomes personal. Trapped in a tiny ranger outpost while the storm rages outside, the friction between them finally catches fire. He’s spent months wanting to put her in her place—now he’s finally got her right where he wants her.

Chapter Two

Finley

Ground Zero

The sound of wet fabric peeling off skin is going to be the death of me.

I keep my back turned to the room, staring into the flickering orange heart of the cast-iron stove, but my ears are betraying me. I can hear every hitch in Cecelia’s breath, every soft hiss of pain as she navigates her swollen ankle, and the unmistakable rustle of her dropping those soaked leggings to the floorboards.

Focus, Warren. Sleet. Hypothermia. Paperwork.

It doesn't work. All I can think about is the way she looked when I found her—shivering, broken, and yet still looking like a goddamn dream in the middle of a nightmare. For six months, I’ve watched her through a screen, mocking her "mountain girl" captions while my chest tightened every time she posted a photo in those skin-tight hiking sets. I told myself it was professional disdain. I told the guys at the station she was a tourist hazard.

I was lying. I’ve wanted to pin her against a tree since the second she walked into the general store and asked where the "artisanal" trail mix was.

"Finley?" her voice is small, hovering right behind my shoulder. "I... I can’t get the sweater over my head. My arms aren't working."

I close my eyes for a beat, praying for strength, before I turn around.

She’s standing there in my oversized gray sweatpants, the drawstring pulled so tight it bunches at her waist. But she’s still wearing that damp, heavy wool sweater, and her hands are shaking too hard to find the hem. Her hair is a damp, golden mess, and her lips are still a pale, wintry blue.

"Sit," I growl. It’s the only way to hide the way my voice wants to break.

I don't wait for her to comply. I step into her space, the heat from the stove at my back and the scent of her—rain-water and something sweet, like vanilla—filling my head. I reach out, my hands dwarfing her shoulders, and I feel her jump.

"Easy," I mutter. "I’m just helping."

I grab the bottom of the sweater. My knuckles brush the bare skin of her stomach, and the contact is like an electric shock. She’s freezing, but where I touch her, she’s silk. I pull the garment up and over her head in one smooth motion.

She isn't wearing a bra.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. She’s standing there in the firelight, her chest rising and falling with jagged breaths, her nipples peaked from the cold—and the way she’s looking at me isn't professional. It isn't even "rivalry." It’s pure, unadulterated Need.

God help me.

"Finley," she whispers, her hands coming up to rest on my forearms. Her skin is pale against my black flannel, her fingers digging into my muscles. "I'm s-s-so c-c-old."

"I know," I rasp. My blood is roaring in my ears, louder than the storm outside. I should reach for the thermal blanket. I should get her a cup of tea. Instead, I slide my hands up her arms, my thumbs grazing the sensitive skin of her armpits. "I've got you."

I don't think. I just react. I hook my hands under her thighs and hoist her up onto the heavy wooden table behind her. She gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against her. The friction of the sweatpants is the only thing between us, and I’m already hard enough to ache.

"You’re a liability, Cecelia," I growl, my face inches from hers. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest. "You’re a distraction. You’re everything I hate about the people who come up this mountain."

"Then w-why are your hands sh-shaking?" she counters, her voice a challenge even through the shiver. She leans in, her breath hot against my lips. "Why did you c-come for me, Finley? You c-could have s-sent any of the other guys."

"Because I don't share," I snap.

I crash my mouth against hers. It isn't a gentle kiss. It’s a collision. It’s six months of repressed frustration and accidental Instagram scrolling poured into one desperate, starving movement. She tastes like the storm—cold and sharp—but the back of her throat is pure heat.

She moans into my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer until there isn't a molecule of air between us. I break the kiss to run my mouth down her throat, my beard scratching her collarbone.

"Finley, pl-pease," she sobs, her head falling back.

I don't need to be told twice. I reach for the buttons of my flannel, ripping them open with a violence that sends one flying across the room. I want her to feel me. All of me. I shuck the shirt and press back into her, my bare chest meeting her soft, aching breasts.

The contrast is enough to make me lose my mind. I’m all rough edges and corded muscle; she’s curves and surrender.

I slide my hand down, my palm flat against her stomach before I dive into the waistband of those sweats. She’s already slick, a hidden heat that tells me she’s been wanting this just as long as I have. When I find her, she arches off the table, a loud, echoing cry breaking through the cabin.

"Look at me," I command, my voice a low, predatory rumble.

She opens her eyes, her pupils blown wide and dark. I move my fingers, a slow, torturous rhythm that has her gripping my shoulders so hard her nails draw blood.

"Is this going to make it into your vlog, Cece?" I whisper, leaning down to bite at the sensitive skin of her earlobe. "Are you going to tell your followers how the grumpy rescue lead pinned you to a table in the middle of a storm?"

"Shut up," she gasps, her hips jerking against my hand. "Just... Finley, shut up and take me."

I give her exactly what she wants. I shuck my pants in one fluid motion, the cold air hitting my skin for only a second before I’m back between her legs. I don't use a condom—I don’t have the patience to go digging through my pack, and right now, I don't care about anything but being inside her.

I guide myself to her entrance, pausing for a heartbeat to watch her face. She looks undone. Beautiful.

"You're mine tonight, Sherman," I growl. "The mountain doesn't get you. Only me."

I push forward, burying myself inside her in one deep, staggering thrust.

The scream she lets out is muffled by my mouth as I kiss her again, my tongue mirroring the frantic, heavy movement of my hips. It’s primal. It’s all friction and heavy breathing and the faint, sharp sting of the air still clinging to our skin. I’m not a professional SAR at the moment. I’m just a man claiming the one thing he was supposed to save.

The table creaks under the weight of us, the rhythm steady and punishing. Every time I hit her g-spot, she calls my name, her voice getting higher, tighter, until the world outside the cabin completely ceases to exist.

There is no storm. There is no rescue.

There is only the weight of her in my arms—and the way I’m finally, finally holding her in place.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Notes: I warned you it was going to get hot in that ranger cabin! Writing Finley’s POV was a challenge because he’s so repressed, but once that seal broke, there was no stopping him. This chapter is all about that raw, primal friction that happens when two rivals finally stop talking and start touching.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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