Page 23 of A Very Grumpy Mountain Man

I push a thick finger into her tight channel before adding a second. It doesn’t take long until she’s rocking on my fingers. My tongue and teeth help her get there, grazing her clit. She splinters underneath me, screaming my name. I move quickly, kneeling between her thick thighs, gripping my cock, and slamming into her.

She cries out, her pussy spasming around my cock, almost making me come right then and there.

I thrust into her, my pace fast and rough, both of us too keyed up, too turned on for anything less.

My hips slam against hers, her tits bouncing with each thrust. I grit my teeth, needing her to come first. Her silky hair is spread over my pillow, her blue eyes locked onto mine. I can see she’s close.

My fingers find her clit, rubbing the little pearl. She sucks in a sharp breath, her body tense, coiling tight.

Then she falls.

She cries out my name, and I groan hers as I fall her over the edge.

My arms give out, and I roll to my side so I don’t crush her, taking her with me as we collapse on the mattress.

“Okay, it was pretty good in a king-size bed, too,” she says breathlessly.

I laugh. “Better than a twin?”

“I don’t know. The first time was pretty great, too.”

“I’ll prove it’s better here,” I promise. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her tight against me. “So…about you moving in here.”

Sienna laughs. “I will,” she promises. “Later.”

Swinging her leg over my waist, she straddles me. I grip her hips, smirking as our lips collide and she slides down my length again.

TWELVE

Sienna

Five Years Later…

The paintbrushes are sticky,the glitter iseverywhere, and I just discovered dried peanut butter on the back of my shirt, thanks to a mirror and a suspiciously guilty-looking three-year-old.

In other words, it's a typical Tuesday afternoon in the Lightfield household.

“Finn, sweetie, you cannot paint the dog,” I call without turning around. “She doesn’t want to be pink.”

“Iaskedher first,” he grumbles, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the studio with a tub of bubblegum-colored paint and our very patient golden retriever, Marigold, beside him. A small streak of pink adorns her fluffy tail, and the look she gives me is somewhere betweenresignationand“send help.”

Wren is curled in my lap with her favorite paintbrush (yes, the pink one) clutched in one hand and her thumb in her mouth. She’s fighting a nap and losing the battle fast. Her dark curlsare damp with sweat, and her cheeks are flushed. She’s our little firecracker—opinionated and wild—but she’s still my squishy, snuggly baby girl when she slows down.

“Ten more minutes, and then it’s clean up,” I say gently, smoothing her hair back. “We’ve got dinner with Uncle Camden and Aunt Lymric tonight, remember?”

“Do we have to?” Finn groans from the floor. “Uncle Camden always makes me try weird cheese.”

“Last time, it was goat cheese,” I remind him, biting back a smile.

“He said it came from a goat’sbutt,” Finn says dramatically.

“Did not,” a low voice rumbles from the doorway.

I look up to see Kye leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with that soft, smitten smile he reserves for the kids and me.

He’s got a bit of sawdust in his hair and a pencil tucked behind his ear, and he looks unfairly hot for someone who spent the last three hours wrestling a reclaimed farmhouse door into place.

“Hey,” I say, my heart doing that flutter it always does when I see him, even now. “How’d it go?”

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