🔥 Spring Fever 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Scene from Getting Plowed

Thank You for Reading! 💕

You made it to the bonus content—which means you’ve experienced Sloane and Silas’s journey from stranded strangers to forever. Thank you for giving their story a chance. This exclusive scene is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

It’s set one year after the epilogue, on the first truly warm day of spring. What started as a picnic becomes something much more heated when Silas shows Sloane exactly what he’s been building in the mountain meadow…

Spring Fever

One year after the epilogue…

The snow was finally gone.

Sloane stood on the cabin porch, coffee warming her palms, and watched the first truly warm day of spring unfold across the mountain. The meadow below was a riot of early wildflowers—purple crocuses, yellow buttercups, the first brave shoots of columbine pushing through the thawed earth. The air smelled like pine and possibility.

It had been exactly one year since she’d crashed her car in that blizzard. One year since a grumpy mountain man had pulled her from the wreck and changed everything. One year since she’d stopped running and started living.

Best year of her life.

“You’re thinking too loud again.”

Arms wrapped around her from behind—massive, warm, impossibly gentle. Silas pressed his lips to her hair, and she leaned back into his chest with a contented sigh.

“I’m thinking about you,” she said. “About us. About how different everything is.”

“Different good?”

“Different perfect.”

She felt him smile against her hair. His hands spread across her stomach, pulling her closer, and she shivered despite the warmth of the morning.

“I have something to show you,” he said.

“Is it the addition? Because I’ve seen the addition.”

“It’s not the addition.” He turned her in his arms, tipping her face up with one rough finger under her chin. His eyes were bright with something she couldn’t read. “Get dressed. Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not ominous. It’s…” He paused, searching for the word. “An anniversary present.”

“Our anniversary isn’t for three more days.”

“I know.” His smile turned wicked. “This is the preview.”

He led her up the mountain.

Not to the lookout point—she knew that trail by heart now—but somewhere new. A path she’d never noticed, half-hidden behind a stand of aspens, winding up through the trees into territory she hadn’t explored.

“Where are we going?” she asked for the third time.

“You’ll see.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep asking.”

She huffed, but she was smiling. A year together, and he still found ways to surprise her. Still kept parts of this mountain secret, revealing them one at a time like gifts.

The trail opened onto a meadow.

Sloane stopped dead, her breath catching.

It was beautiful—a perfect circle of grass surrounded by towering pines, wildflowers carpeting every inch, the morning sun streaming through the branches like something from a fairy tale. A creek burbled somewhere nearby. Birds sang in the canopy above.

And in the center of the meadow, half-hidden by flowers, was a structure.

“Silas.” Her voice came out strange. Thick. “What is that?”

“A gazebo.” He was watching her face, his expression soft in a way that still made her heart stutter. “Or it will be, when I finish it. I’ve been working on it since the snow melted.”

She walked toward it in a daze. The frame was up—sturdy cedar beams, hand-carved details, a foundation of river stones. It was beautiful. It was his, in a way that nothing mass-produced could ever be.

“I thought—” He came up behind her, his voice uncertain in a way she rarely heard. “I thought we could get married here. If you want. When it’s finished.”

She turned to face him, and his expression made her eyes sting.

“You built me a wedding venue,” she said slowly. “On a mountain. By hand.”

“You said yes to the proposal. I figured I should make the wedding worth it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit she’d learned meant he was afraid of her reaction. “If you don’t like it—”

She launched herself at him.

The kiss was fierce, desperate, her arms wrapping around his neck as she tried to pour everything she was feeling into the press of her lips. He caught her easily—he always caught her—his hands finding her waist, lifting her off the ground.

“I take it that’s a yes,” he murmured against her mouth.

“That’s a hell yes.” She pulled back just enough to look at him, and whatever he saw in her face made his eyes darken. “I love it. I love you. I love that you built me a gazebo in a secret meadow because you thought our wedding should be special.”

“It should be special.” His voice had dropped, roughened. “You’re special.”

“Silas—”

“I spent three years convincing myself I didn’t deserve anything good.” His forehead pressed against hers, his breath warm on her lips. “And then you crashed into my life and refused to let me believe it anymore. You fought for me. You came back for me. You—” His voice cracked. “You’re everything, Sloane. Everything I didn’t know I needed.”

She kissed him again because she didn’t have words. Kissed him soft and slow, pouring every feeling into the press of lips and the slide of tongues. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt the evidence of his reaction pressing against her stomach.

“Silas.” Her voice came out breathless. “Is this meadow… private?”

“Extremely.”

“Good.” She rolled her hips against him and watched his eyes go black. “Because I think we should christen it.”

They didn’t make it to the gazebo.

He pressed her against the nearest tree—a massive pine with rough bark that scraped pleasantly against her back—and kissed her until she couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere, pulling at her clothes, finding skin, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.

“Silas—” She gasped as his mouth found her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse point. “Someone could—”

“No one’s here.” His voice was a growl against her throat. “No one for miles. Just you and me and this mountain.” His hand slid under her shirt, rough palm cupping her breast, and she arched into the touch with a moan. “I could make you scream and no one would hear.”

“Prove it.”

The challenge lit something in his eyes—something primal and possessive that still made her knees weak after a year. He spun her around, pressing her front against the tree, his massive body caging her from behind.

“Hands on the bark,” he ordered. “Don’t move them.”

She obeyed, palms flat against rough pine, heart hammering. His hands found the waistband of her jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, pushing them down her thighs along with her underwear. The spring air was cool against her newly exposed skin, but his body was furnace-hot behind her.

“Look at you.” His voice was reverent and filthy at once. One massive hand palmed her ass, squeezing, spreading. “A year together, and you still make me crazy. Still make me want things I didn’t know I could want.”

“What things?” Her voice came out thready, desperate.

“Everything.” His fingers slid between her thighs, finding her slick and ready, and he groaned against her ear. “I want to take you everywhere. In every room of our cabin. In every clearing on this mountain. I want to mark you so thoroughly that everyone who looks at you knows exactly who you belong to.”

“I already belong to you.”

“I know.” Two fingers sank into her without warning, and she cried out, hips jerking back against his hand. “But I like reminding you.”

He worked her slowly, methodically, the same patient attention he gave to everything. Building her up with curling fingers and murmured praise until she was shaking, until her nails were digging into bark, until she was begging in a voice she barely recognized.

“Please—Silas—I need—”

“What do you need?” His thumb found her clit, circling with devastating precision. “Tell me.”

“You. Inside me. Now.”

“Such good manners.” He withdrew his fingers and she whimpered at the loss, then heard the clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper. “Keep your hands where they are. I want to watch you fall apart.”

The first press of him stole her breath.

He was big—he’d always been big—and the angle made him feel even larger. She felt herself stretch around him as he sank in slowly, inexorably, one thick inch at a time.

“So tight.” His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath ragged against her skin. “Always so tight. Like you were made for me.”

“I was.” She pushed back against him, desperate for more. “Made for you. Want all of you.”

He gave her what she asked for.

The first thrust drove her forward, bark scraping against her palms, a moan tearing from her throat. He set a punishing pace—deep and hard and exactly what she needed—his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

“That’s it.” His voice was wrecked, barely human. “Take it. Take all of it. God, Sloane, you feel incredible—”

She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t think. Could only feel—the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, the rough bark against her palms, the cool air on her heated skin. The pleasure was building, coiling tight in her belly, and she knew she was close.

“I’m—” She gasped as he changed the angle, hitting a spot that made her see stars. “Silas, I’m going to—”

“Do it.” His hand snaked around to find her clit, rubbing in tight circles. “Come for me. Let me hear you.”

She shattered.

The orgasm crashed through her in waves, her entire body clenching around him as she cried out loud enough to send birds scattering from the trees. He didn’t stop—kept driving into her, kept rubbing her clit, wringing every last tremor from her shaking body.

“One more.” His voice was strained, desperate. “Give me one more.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. You will.” He bent her further forward, the new angle impossibly deep, and she felt the second orgasm building before the first had even finished. “Come on, baby. One more. I want to feel you milk my cock when I fill you up.”

The filthy words pushed her over. She came again, harder than before, her vision whiting out as her body convulsed around him. She heard him groan—felt him swell inside her—and then he was coming too, hot and pulsing, his hips jerking against her as he emptied himself deep.

They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, his weight pressing her gently against the tree. Then his arms came around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, and he pressed a soft kiss to her hair.

“Happy almost-anniversary,” he murmured.

She laughed—breathless and satisfied and so in love she could barely stand it.

“I’d say we christened the meadow properly.”

“We haven’t touched the gazebo yet.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I have plans for the gazebo.”

“Of course you do.”

“Every surface. Multiple times.” He turned her in his arms, cupping her face in his massive hands. “I plan to spend the rest of my life finding new places to make you scream.”

“That sounds like a lot of screaming.”

“You complaining?”

She rose on her toes and kissed him, soft and sweet.

“Never.”

They did eventually make it to the gazebo.

The frame was solid, the half-finished floor smooth beneath them as they lay tangled together in the spring sunshine. His coat was spread beneath her, his body curved protectively around hers, and she could hear his heartbeat steady and strong beneath her ear.

“This is where I want to marry you,” she said softly. “Right here. Just family. Helen and Danny and whoever else matters. And us.”

“That’s the plan.” His hand stroked up and down her spine, slow and soothing. “Small. Intimate. The way it should be.”

“No press. No photographers. No performance.”

“Just us. Forever.”

She propped herself up to look at him, and his expression made her heart clench. Open. Vulnerable. The guarded man who’d pulled her from a snowbank was long gone, replaced by someone who looked at her like she hung the moon.

“I love you,” she said. “In case I haven’t mentioned it today.”

“You mentioned it.” His smile was slow and warm. “But I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

“I love you. I love our life. I love this mountain and this cabin and this ridiculous, perfect gazebo you’re building me.” She kissed him, soft and lingering. “I love that I crashed into you.”

“Best accident of my life.”

“Same.”

He pulled her down against him, and they lay there in the spring sunshine, wrapped in each other, surrounded by wildflowers and birdsong and the quiet peace of the mountain.

One year ago, she’d been running from a life that had imploded.

Now she was home.

And she was never running again.

~ The End ~