Page 6 of The Mountain Man's Prize

The question slices through my defenses. No one has spoken my name in so long. No one has looked at me and seen a person, not just a threat or a tool. No one has asked me about promises.

Something inside me fractures.

I'm across the room before I realize I've moved, standing so close to her I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, count the freckles scattered across her nose. She inhales sharply but doesn't back away. The book dangles forgotten from her fingers.

"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answers to, little dove," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains. "What if I do want the answers?"

That's it. The last thread of my restraint snaps.

I take the book from her fingers, toss it aside. One hand cups the back of her head, the other her waist, and I pull her against me as my mouth crashes down on hers.

The kiss is hard, desperate, years of isolation and want pouring out of me at once. I expect her to push me away, to stiffen in shock. Instead, she makes a small, surprised sound against my lips before melting into me, her hands sliding up my chest to curl around my shoulders.

Christ, she's soft. Everywhere my hands touch—her waist, her hair, the fragile curve of her neck—I find nothing but yielding warmth. Her mouth opens beneath mine, inexperienced but eager, and I groan at the first brush of her tongue against mine.

I back her against the bookshelf, pinning her with my body. One of my legs slides between hers, and I swallow her gasp as my thigh presses against her core. Even through my jeans, I can feel her heat. My hand slides from her waist to her hip, then lower, finding the hem of my shirt and slipping underneath to touch bare skin.

She trembles at the contact, a full-body shiver I feel everywhere we're connected. Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt. I should slow down. I should give her a chance to breathe, to think, to stop this if she wants to.

But then she whispers my name against my lips, and rational thought dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.

I lift her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs, and she instinctively wraps her legs around my waist. The position presses her center directly against the hard ridge of my erection, and we both groan at the contact. I carry her to the bed, never breaking the kiss, laying her down with more care than I thought possible in my current state.

Hovering over her, I finally pull back enough to look at her face. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. She looks like every fantasy I've denied myself for years. But there's something else in her expression—nervousness, uncertainty.

"We can stop," I force myself to say, though it might kill me. "If you don't want this?—"

"I do," she cuts me off, reaching up to touch my face. Her fingers trace the scar at the corner of my mouth with a tenderness that makes my chest constrict. "I do want this. I just... I've never..."

The implication hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath. "You're a virgin?"

She nods, that blush deepening. "Is that...is that a problem?"

A problem? Christ. It's the opposite of a problem. It's a gift I don't deserve, a responsibility I should run from, and a primal satisfaction I can't deny.

"No," I say, voice dropping to a growl. "But you need to be sure, Lila. Because if we start this, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

Her eyes widen at my honesty, but instead of fear, I see a matching hunger ignite. "I don't want you to stop."

Something dangerous and possessive uncoils in my chest. I lower my head, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, "Let me be your first. Your only."

She shivers beneath me, a small sound escaping her that might be "yes" or might just be a sigh of surrender. Either way, I take it as permission and claim her mouth again, this time with more control, more purpose.

I worship her with my hands and mouth, learning her body inch by inch. The silk of her throat. The delicate wings of her collarbones. The perfect weight of her breasts in my palms, the way her nipples tighten at the brush of my thumbs. She's responsive to every touch, arching into my hands, gasping and whimpering as I discover what she likes.

When I unbutton the flannel she wears—my flannel, marked now with her scent—and spread it open to reveal her body, I have to take a moment just to look at her. She's all soft curves and smooth skin, a stark contrast to my own hard angles and battle scars. The firelight bathes her in gold, turning her into something otherworldly. A nymph. A dream.

"Beautiful," I murmur, and she tries to cover herself, suddenly shy. I catch her wrists, pin them gently above her head. "No. Let me see you. All of you."

Her breathing quickens, but she nods, surrendering to me. I release her wrists and continue my exploration, trailing kisses down her sternum, across the gentle swell of her belly, to the juncture of her thighs. When I settle between her legs, she tenses.

"Beau—"

"Trust me," I say, looking up the length of her body, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

She bites her lip, then nods again. I waste no time, burying my face between her thighs, tasting her for the first time. The flavor of her explodes across my tongue—sweet and tangy and perfect. Her hips buck at the first touch of my tongue, a sharp cry escaping her. I hold her hips down with one forearm, using my other hand to spread her open for my mouth.

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