Wrong Cabin, Right Daddy by Isla Wilde - MF Contemporary Romance book cover

Wrong Cabin, Right Daddy — Bonus Chapter

First Morning — Lily’s First Day of School
by Isla Wilde

An exclusive bonus chapter from Wrong Cabin, Right Daddy — set after the epilogue. A scene too hot for Amazon.

First Morning

The cabin had never been this quiet.

Emma stood at the kitchen window with her coffee and listened to the silence — not the old silence, the before-silence, the one that had meant alone. This was a new silence. The specific, temporary, almost giddy silence of a house that had been full of noise and laughter and a four-year-old’s running commentary for four months and was, for the first time, empty of everyone except the two people who’d built it.

Lily was at school.

Her first day. Bear had driven her in the blue truck — Lily in the passenger seat with her new backpack, the carved bear in her coat pocket because he needs to come, Daddy, he’s never been to school before — and Emma had stood on the porch in her bare feet and waved and watched the truck disappear down the mountain road and felt a complicated knot of things: pride, anxiety, the sharp pang of a child’s first big independence. And underneath all of it, spreading through her body like warmth from the coffee in her hands, a slow, electric awareness of what empty cabin meant.

Six hours. She had six hours before Bear picked Lily up at two-thirty.

Six hours with no interruptions. No Mama, I need water. No small footsteps in the hallway. No reason to be quiet.

She heard the truck come back before she saw it. Gravel under tires, the rumble of the engine cutting, the door. Then his boots on the porch steps — heavy, deliberate, the cadence she’d know anywhere, the gait of the man she’d driven six hours to get back to and hadn’t regretted for a single second.

The front door opened. Closed. Rex didn’t move from his bed by the fireplace — he’d been moping since Lily left, chin on his paws, tail at half-mast, the canine equivalent of a soldier standing vigil.

Bear appeared in the kitchen doorway.

He was wearing the green flannel. Rolled to the elbows. The one she’d been unbuttoning in the dark for four months. The one that smelled like cedar and sawdust and him. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and looked at her the way he always looked at her — with the focused, patient, devastating attention of a man who’d spent three years alone on a mountain and now couldn’t look away from the woman who’d made it feel like home.

“She go in okay?” Emma asked.

“Walked straight in. Didn’t look back. Told the teacher her dog’s name was Rex and her daddy builds things.”

Emma’s chest expanded. Her daddy builds things. Four months since the driveway. Four months since she’d knocked on his door and said I’m not asking you to give up your life either. And the word daddy had arrived on its own, in its own time, and every time Lily said it, something in Bear’s face opened that made Emma want to push him against the nearest flat surface.

“She’ll be fine,” Bear said.

“I know she’ll be fine.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The face where you’re fine but your jaw is doing a thing and your hand is white on that mug.”

She set the mug down. Looked at him. He was watching her with that expression — the one that started as I see you and could shift, in half a heartbeat, to I want you.

“The cabin’s empty,” she said.

“I noticed.”

“For six hours.”

“I can count.”

“Six hours where nobody is going to need water, or a snack, or a story, or to show us a rock she found, or to ask if Rex can sleep in her bed even though Rex is already in her bed.”

His arms uncrossed. Slowly. His eyes darkened — the shift she’d learned to read like weather, the moment when the brown went black and his focus narrowed and his body changed frequency from I see you to I want you to I’m going to have you.

“Six hours,” he repeated. His voice was lower now. The gravel version. The one that lived in her spine and radiated downward.

“No one’s going to call for water.”

“No.”

“No hand over anyone’s mouth.”

“No.”

“No seven-minute time limit.”

He pushed off the doorframe. Crossed the kitchen in two strides — two, because his legs were ridiculous and the kitchen was only so wide — and his hands found her waist. The familiar grip. The spanning fingers, callused and warm, covering the distance from her ribs to her hips like they’d been built for exactly this purpose.

He lifted her onto the counter.

She gasped — not from surprise but from the rush, the heat, the full-body ignition of a woman who’d spent four months having very good, very stolen sex in the dark and was suddenly confronted with morning sunlight and the total, luxurious absence of a clock.

“I have been thinking about this,” he said, his mouth against her jaw, his hands sliding up her thighs, his thumbs tracing the inner seam of her leggings, “since the day we enrolled her.”

“That was three weeks ago.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for three weeks.”

“What exactly have you been thinking?”

He pulled back. Looked at her. His eyes were black, focused, the expression he wore in the workshop when he was about to start a project he’d been planning in his head for a long time and was finally putting hands to wood.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his thumb tracing the inside of her thigh, higher, closer, the pressure deliberate and maddening, “about what you sound like when you don’t have to be quiet.”

Her breath caught. His thumb kept moving. Higher. Slow. Pressing against the seam of her leggings until the fabric was the only thing between his hand and the heat of her, and she was already wet — had been since the truck pulled away and her body had done the math on six hours alone faster than her brain.

“I’ve been thinking about taking you apart in every room of this cabin,” he continued, his voice a low vibration against her throat, his lips brushing her pulse point. “Starting here. Then the workshop. Then our bed. No rushing. No pillow over your face. No clock.”

She grabbed the front of his flannel with both fists. “Stop talking about it and do it.”

He kissed her. Deep, unhurried, the kiss of a man with nowhere to be and nothing on his schedule except her. His tongue slid against hers and she tasted coffee and him and she pulled at his flannel until the buttons gave and she could spread her hands across his bare chest — the terrain she’d memorized in the dark, now warm and solid under her palms in the morning light.

His hands peeled her shirt over her head. No bra — she’d stopped wearing one at home months ago because the look on his face when he realized she was bare under her shirt was a drug she had no interest in quitting. His eyes dropped to her breasts and his jaw tightened and his hands came up and cupped them, his thumbs rolling over her nipples, and the contact — rough calluses on soft skin, the specific friction that only his hands produced — made her arch into him and moan.

Loud. She moaned loud. Not the bitten-back, muffled, careful sound she’d been making for four months. A full, open-throated moan that rang off the kitchen walls and filled the cabin and she heard it and laughed because she could.

“More of that,” he said against her collarbone. “Every sound you’ve been swallowing for four months. I want all of them.”

He pulled her leggings off. Underwear with them. The counter was cold under her bare ass and thighs and she shivered — cold and want in equal measure — and he stepped back and looked at her.

Naked on his kitchen counter. In the morning sunlight. Everything visible — the stretch marks, the softness, the body he’d worshipped in the dark now laid bare in the daylight. She watched his eyes move over her and felt no impulse to cover herself. That reflex was gone. He’d killed it the first night, on his knees, kissing the silver lines on her belly, and it had never come back.

He dropped to his knees.

On the kitchen floor. This enormous man, on his knees between her thighs, his hands gripping the edge of the counter on either side of her hips, his face level with the place where her body was aching for him. The sunlight fell across his shoulders and the dark hair of his head and the scene was so obscene and so beautiful she wanted to photograph it and frame it and hang it in the workshop next to Lily’s drawings.

He pressed her thighs apart. Wide. Wider than they needed to be — wide enough that she felt completely, devastatingly exposed, the cool kitchen air against her wet heat, his breath following a second later, hot and close.

“I can see how wet you are,” he said, and his voice was wrecked already, rough with want, and the words alone — just the words — made her clit throb. “Did you get this wet thinking about me while I was driving Lily to school?”

“Yes.” No point in lying. Not to him. Not in the daylight.

“What were you thinking about?”

“This. Exactly this. Your mouth on me with nobody here to—”

He licked her. One long, flat, devastating stroke from her entrance to her clit, and the sentence died in her throat, replaced by a sound that started as a gasp and became a cry that bounced off the kitchen ceiling and probably reached the treeline.

He groaned against her. The vibration traveled through her clit and into her spine and she grabbed his hair with both hands and held on because her body was trying to launch itself off the counter.

He ate her like he had six hours and intended to spend the first one right here. His tongue traced patterns she’d felt a hundred times in the dark but had never watched — and watching was different. Watching was his dark head between her thighs, the flex of his jaw, the way his eyes closed when he tasted her like she was something he’d been craving. She watched his tongue circle her clit in slow, precise passes, watched him slide two thick fingers inside her and curl them upward, watched her own body respond — the arch of her back, the tightening of her abs, the way her thighs trembled around his head.

She was loud. She was gloriously, unapologetically, roof-rattlingly loud. Every sound she’d bitten back, every moan she’d muffled into pillows and palms and his shoulder, every gasp she’d swallowed because Lily was ten feet away — all of it came pouring out. His name. Profanity. His name again. Demands — right there, don’t stop, harder, please, Bear, please — delivered at a volume that made Rex lift his head from the fireplace bed and then pointedly leave the room.

She came on the kitchen counter with both hands fisted in his hair and his name ricocheting off every wall in the cabin and his fingers deep inside her and his mouth sealed over her clit, sucking, and the orgasm hit her so hard her vision went white and her back arched off the counter and she screamed — actually screamed, the full, unrestricted, never-been-allowed sound of a woman coming apart without a hand over her mouth — and he held her through it, his fingers still moving, his tongue gentling but not stopping, drawing the orgasm out until she was shaking and gasping and pushing at his head because it was too much and not enough and she couldn’t tell the difference.

He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His chin was wet. His eyes were black. His cock was straining against his jeans, a thick ridge she could see from the counter, and the sight of it — the visible evidence of what going down on her did to him — sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs.

“Workshop,” he said.

“Workshop,” she agreed.

He carried her. Through the kitchen, out the back door, across the yard in the September sun. She was wearing his flannel and nothing else — she’d grabbed it off the floor because being carried naked through a mountain morning required at least a token gesture toward clothing — and her legs were wrapped around his waist and she was laughing into his neck because the absurdity of it was the funniest, hottest, most alive thing she’d ever experienced.

The workshop smelled like cedar and sawdust and varnish. Lily’s drawings covered the wall above the lathe — Rex as an astronaut, Rex driving a car, the original family portrait with its four figures and orange sun. The space was him distilled. And she was about to be fucked in it.

He set her on the workbench. Swept it clear with one arm — wood shavings, a chisel, a square scattering to the floor — and stood between her legs. The flannel she was wearing fell open. He looked at her — naked under his shirt, sitting on his workbench, in the space where he built things — and the expression on his face was the one she’d been addicted to since the first night. Hunger and reverence. Want and wonder. The face of a man looking at the most beautiful thing in his workshop and knowing it wasn’t made of wood.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, unbuckling his belt. “You. Here. On this bench. Since the day you stood at that window and watched me sand and thought I didn’t notice.”

“You knew I was watching?”

“Emma.” He pushed his jeans down. His cock sprang free — hard, thick, flushed, the cock she’d felt inside her hundreds of times and still caught her breath at the sight of. “I always know.”

She wrapped her hand around him. Stroked. Felt the silk-over-steel heat of him in her palm, felt him pulse against her fingers, felt the groan that vibrated through his chest when she tightened her grip and twisted on the upstroke the way she’d learned made his knees unreliable.

“I used to watch you from that window,” she said, stroking him slow, “and think about your hands. About what they’d feel like. About whether you were as precise with a woman as you were with wood.”

“Am I?”

“More.” She guided him to her entrance. Spread her legs wider. “Now show me what you’ve been thinking about for three weeks.”

He pushed inside her.

No barrier. No condom. Skin to skin, the raw, blinding heat of him filling her, and the sound she made echoed off the workshop walls and filled the space like music. Deep, guttural, a moan that came from the place in her body that he’d claimed months ago and kept claiming every time he was inside her.

The workbench was the perfect height. He gripped the edge on either side of her hips, braced, and drove into her with long, slow, devastating strokes that used the entire length of him. She felt every inch — the stretch, the drag, the spot deep inside her that his cock found on every thrust because he’d memorized the architecture of her body the way he memorized wood grain.

“Louder,” he said.

She was already loud. But she gave him more — moans that became cries, cries that became his name, his real name, Hank, Hank, God, Hank, and the sound of it in the workshop, amplified by the wooden walls, surrounding them, was different from the bedroom. Rawer. More exposed. Like being fucked in the open air.

He thrust harder. Faster. The wet slap of their bodies meeting, the creak of the bench, the scatter of sawdust from the vibration. She braced her hands behind her on the bench surface and watched — watched his abs contract with each thrust, watched the muscles of his arms flex where he gripped the bench, watched the place where their bodies joined, his cock disappearing into her and re-emerging wet and glistening. The visual of it — seeing what she usually only felt — pushed her toward the edge with a speed that surprised her.

“I’m going to — Bear, I’m — ”

His thumb found her clit. Pressed. Circled. And she came with her head thrown back and a sound that was half scream, half sob, her body clenching around him in tight, rhythmic pulses that she felt in her toes. He groaned — the deep, guttural sound of a man losing his grip — and buried himself to the hilt and came inside her, his cock pulsing, his hands white on the bench, his forehead dropping to her collarbone while his body shuddered through it.

They stayed there. Breathing. The workshop settling around them, sawdust suspended in shafts of sunlight.

“That’s two rooms,” she said, when she could speak.

“Two rooms.”

“You said every room.”

“I did.”

“It’s nine-fifteen. We have five hours and fifteen minutes.”

He lifted his head. Looked at her. The smile — the real one, the full one, the devastating, face-transforming grin she’d been chasing since Day One and now saw every morning — spread across his face.

“I can work with that.”

He carried her inside. To their bedroom. Their bed — the one that smelled like cedar and both of them, the quilt his grandmother had made, the sheets they’d bought together in town because Emma had opinions about thread count and Bear had opinions about nothing except whatever Emma had opinions about.

He laid her down. Climbed over her. And this time, everything slowed.

The kitchen had been urgent. The workshop had been raw. This was neither. This was the thing they’d been building toward — the unhurried version, the one they’d never had. No countdown. No stolen minutes. No awareness of a child’s sleep cycle ticking in the background. Just two people in a bed in the sunlight with the whole morning ahead of them and nothing to do but this.

He kissed her. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that was its own form of sex — his tongue against hers, his hand cradling her jaw, the weight of him settled between her thighs. She could feel him against her — hardening again already, the blunt press of his cock against her sensitive, swollen flesh — and the sensation was almost too much, her body still humming from the workshop, every nerve ending dialed to eleven.

He kissed down her body. Slow. Her throat, her collarbone, the space between her breasts. He took her nipple in his mouth and she arched into him and sighed — not the desperate sounds from before but something softer. A sound that meant we have time.

He moved lower. Her ribs. Her stomach. The stretch marks he’d kissed on the first night and kissed every night since. He pressed his mouth to them now, in the sunlight, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and watched him worship the parts of her body she’d spent three years hating.

He entered her slowly. Face to face. His hand on her cheek, her fingers tracing the scar along his ribs that she now knew the story of — the SAR rescue, the fall, the scar that meant he’d put his body between a stranger and a mountain. He pushed inside her inch by inch and she felt everything — the stretch, the fullness, the specific, devastating completeness of having him inside her with nothing between them — and the sound she made was quiet. Private.

Not because she had to be quiet. Because this one was just for them.

He moved. Slow. Deep. Each stroke a conversation. Each withdrawal a question. Each return an answer. They moved together in a rhythm that had no urgency, no destination, just the slow, aching pleasure of two bodies that knew each other completely and were choosing, in the sunlight, to know each other again.

She came one more time. Quietly. The orgasm rose like a tide rather than a wave — slow, warm, filling every part of her — and she held his face and looked into his eyes while it happened and he looked back and his face was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Open. Unguarded. The face of a man who was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He followed her. Gentle. His hips pressing deep, holding still, the pulse of him inside her synced with the pulse of her around him. They breathed together through it. Eyes open. No hiding.

After. Tangled. The sun warm on the sheets. His hand on her stomach, idle, tracing circles on her skin. The specific, boneless, saturated peace of two people who’d spent a morning doing exactly what they wanted and had hours left to do nothing at all.

“Bear?”

“Hmm.” Half-asleep. The deep rumble of a man who’d come three times in two hours and was running low on consciousness.

She put her hand over his. On her stomach. Pressed down.

He was quiet. His hand stilled. She felt his breathing change — the catch, the hold, the slow, careful exhale of a man who was very good at reading materials and had just read something in the pressure of her hand over his.

He lifted his head. Looked at her. Looked at their hands on her stomach. Looked at her face.

“Emma.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you — ”

“Yeah.”

His face did the thing. The opening. Every wall, every guard, every layer of gruffness dissolving until there was nothing left but the raw, unguarded, devastating face of a man who’d spent three years alone on a mountain and had just been told his family was getting bigger.

His eyes were wet. His jaw worked. His hand pressed against her stomach — gentle, reverent, the way he touched his best work. The way he touched things he’d made.

“A baby,” he said.

“A baby.”

“Our baby.”

She nodded. Her own eyes overflowing. His hand on her stomach and the sun on the bed and the cabin around them and the drawings on every wall and the blue mug on the counter and a four-year-old at school with a carved bear in her pocket who’d told her teacher that her daddy builds things.

He kissed her stomach. Slow, deliberate, the press of his lips against the place where something new was beginning. The way he’d kissed her stretch marks on the first night in this bed, when the cabin was full of snow and secrets and the future was a word they were afraid to say.

“I’m building a crib,” he said against her skin.

She laughed. Through tears. The sound filling the bedroom the way it had filled the kitchen and the workshop — bright, full, uncontained. The sound of a woman who’d driven through a blizzard to find a man who made her loud.

“Of course you are.”

He pulled her against him. She pressed into his chest. Cedar and sawdust and him. The smell of home.

Outside, the mountain stood. The sun climbed. In five hours, they’d drive down the road and pick up their daughter and she’d talk the entire way home about her first day and Rex would lose his mind with joy and the cabin would be full again — full of noise and drawings and bedtime stories and the beautiful, exhausting, ordinary chaos of a family.

But right now, it was just the two of them. In the sun. In the quiet. In the life they’d built from a booking error and a blizzard and a carved bear and the stubborn, terrifying, world-rearranging decision to stay.

Home.

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