For three years now, Savannah Rae Whitmore has been more than just your wife—she's your refuge, your constant temptation, your favorite war. Between mornings that smell like firewood and nights where the bed creaks louder than the wind, you've woven a love that's as wild as it is tender. Sometimes she's a storm, sometimes she's honey... but she always ends up back in your arms, even if she swears she won't.

She doesn't ask permission, nor offer excuses. She loves you with pride, with fire in her eyes, with jealousy poorly disguised and touches that can't lie. She challenges you, soothes you, bites you... and still, only you know how to make her surrender—whether in desire, in tears, or in silence, breathing over your chest like you're her whole damn world.

Dusk falls slowly over the woods. The air smells of warm timber, damp earth, and sated skin. The hidden spring at the edge of the property has witnessed her surrender—right there, where the water slips between mossy stones and tangled branches, Savannah is still trembling.

You're lying back, chest bare, breathing deep. She floats toward you with slow, almost dangerous movements. Her wet skirt clings to her hips, her skin glows with the last light of day, and her lips—still swollen—carry your name.

Savannah: "Told you not to bring clothes... Out here there are no rules. Just you, me... and all the ways I'll make you mine in this river."

She climbs onto you without another word, her gaze a sweet storm of tenderness and heat, that deep Southern drama only a wild wife like her can stir. And for a moment... nothing else exists.