Page 25 of A Very Grumpy Mountain Man

Life is messy and loud and chaotic around here. There’s always paint on the floor, fingerprints on the windows, and at least one glitter-covered pet.

But it’s also full of love. Of laughter. Of late-night kisses and morning cuddles. We’ve built something real—in the studio and our lives.

I never had a crush before Kye.

Now?

Now I have a forever.

And every day, even five years in, I still can’t believe I get to be his.

Later that night, the house is finally quiet.

Wren is asleep in bed, her unicorn nightlight casting a soft pink glow over her room. Finn passed out in the blanket fortwe built in the living room, surrounded by stuffed animals and cookie crumbs. And Kye… Kye’s already in our bedroom, the door cracked, warm lamplight spilling into the hall like an invitation.

I close the dishwasher with a soft click and pad barefoot across the hardwood floors, the hem of my sleep shirt brushing my thighs.

It’s one of Kye’s shirts, faded and worn soft from years of use. The logo on the front is nearly unreadable, but I don’t wear it for the design—I wear it because it still smells faintly like sawdust, cedarwood, and him.

When I step into our bedroom, I pause.

Kye is sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips, hands braced on his knees like he’s been waiting for me. His gaze sweeps over me slowly—possessive, reverent, hungry. It still makes me shiver.

“You always this quiet when you’re up to something?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

I lean against the doorframe. “Maybe Iamup to something.”

That earns me a slow grin—the one that starts in one corner of his mouth and spreads like a spark catching fire. He stands and crosses to me in three long strides, stopping inches away.

“You’re wearingmyshirt,” he says like he’s just realized. His hand brushes the hem, fingertips trailing lightly along my bare thigh. “You know what that does to me?”

“I was counting on it,” I whisper.

He groans softly, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me in for a kiss—slow, deep,claiming. I melt into it, my hands sliding up his chest and over hard planes and warm skin. Every muscle in his body tenses under my touch like he’s holding himself back.

“God, Sienna,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. “Five years, and I still lose my mind every time you walk in the room.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I still get butterflies every time you look at me like that.”

He lifts me suddenly, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, breath catching as he carries me to the bed like I weigh nothing. He lays me down gently, bracing his weight on his forearms as he settles over me.

I arch into him, tugging the shirt over my head and tossing it aside.

His breath catches. “You’re not wearing anything underneath.”

I smile up at him, shameless. “Told you I was up to something.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, kissing down my neck and across my collarbones. His hands are everywhere—familiar and thrilling, tracing every curve, relearning every inch of me like it’s the first time.

The heat between us builds slow and steady, like always—no rush, no need. We’ve got time. We’ve got each other.

When he finally sinks into me, it’s with a reverence that makes me ache. He moves slowly at first, like he’s savoring it. I cling to him, lost in the way he fills me completely—in every sense of the word.

“I love you,” he murmurs against my throat.

“I love you,” I whisper back, breathless. “Always.”

We move together in a rhythm we’ve built over the years—sweet and sensual but still laced with a hunger that never fades. He grips my hips tighter. My nails dig into his back. He kisses me again—messy, deep,desperate—and I gasp into his mouth as pleasure curls low in my belly, building fast.

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