Page 8 of The Mountain Man's Prize

And I loved it.

That's the part that shocks me most. Not that I slept with him—that seems almost inevitable now, looking back. But how completely I surrendered to him. How I reveled in his size, his strength, the way he held me down and took what he wanted while somehow giving me everything I needed. The roughness of his hands, the gentleness in his eyes, the growl in his voice when he called me his.

His.The word should terrify me. Instead, it sends a tremor of pleasure through my core.

Behind me, Beau stirs. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. I feel him harden against the curve of my backside, a reflexive morning response, but it makes my breath catch nonetheless.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, voice sleep-rough and impossibly deep. "I can practically hear the wheels turning."

I smile despite myself. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

He nuzzles my neck, his beard scratching deliciously against my tender skin. "Mmmm. Best way to wake up."

His hand slides up from my waist to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple in a casual caress that's somehow more intimate than anything we did last night. His touch is possessive but gentle, like I'm something precious he's allowed to handle.

I turn in his arms to face him, needing to see his expression. In the gray morning light, his eyes are more slate than blue, heavy-lidded and soft with sleep. His hair is a mess, sticking up where I ran my fingers through it. There's a mark on his neck—a bruise I left with my mouth at some point in the night. The sight of it sends a thrill through me that's almost primitive.

"Hi," I whisper, suddenly shy despite everything we've done.

His mouth quirks up at one corner. "Hi yourself, little dove."

He leans in, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. His hand slides into my hair, cradling my skull as his tongue strokes against mine. I melt into him, my body responding instantly, as if it's already learned that his touch means pleasure.

When we part, I'm breathless. "The storm's still going."

"Good." His thumb traces my lower lip, eyes following the movement. It means I can’t leave yet.

But eventually, the storm will break, and I'll have to decide whether to go back to my life or...what? Stay here with a man I've known for days? Abandon everything for someone who lives completely off the grid?

It seems insane when I frame it that way. And yet, the thought of leaving fills me with a hollow ache I can't explain.

"What are you thinking about now?" he asks, studying my face with those too-perceptive eyes.

I consider lying, but something about him makes me want to be honest. "About leaving. When the storm breaks."

His expression darkens, a shadow passing over his features. His hand tightens in my hair, not painfully, but enough to show his displeasure at the thought.

"Don't," he says, voice low and rough. "Don't think about leaving. Just be here, with me, now."

Before I can respond, he's kissing me again, harder this time, his body rolling over mine to pin me to the mattress. The weight of him should be suffocating, but it's not. It's grounding. Real in a way few things in my life have ever been.

His knee pushes between my thighs, spreading them to make room for his hips. Despite my soreness, I open for him eagerly, a whimper escaping me as he presses against my center. He's fully hard now, the ridge of his erection rubbing against me through the thin barrier of the sheet.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," he murmurs against my throat, where he's trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses. "You'll be tender after last night."

The concern in his voice touches something in me, makes my chest tight. "I'm okay," I whisper, arching up against him. "Don't stop."

He groans, the sound vibrating against my skin. Then he's moving down my body, pushing the sheet aside, settling between my thighs. I know what he's about to do, but I'm still unprepared for the first touch of his tongue against my most sensitive flesh.

"Beau!" I gasp, hips jerking.

He chuckles, the vibration sending sparks through me. His large hands grip my thighs, holding me open and in place as he devours me with single-minded focus. It's overwhelming—the heat of his mouth, the rasp of his beard against my inner thighs, the intensity in his eyes as he watches my reactions.

I come apart embarrassingly quickly, my release crashing over me in waves that leave me trembling and breathless. He works me through it, gentling his touch as I become too sensitive, placing soft kisses on my thighs as I recover.

When he moves back up my body, his expression is one of pure male satisfaction. "Beautiful," he murmurs, brushing hair from my face. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you come."

Heat floods my cheeks, but I don't look away. Instead, I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around his length. His breath hisses through his teeth, eyes darkening. I stroke him tentatively, learning the feel of him, the way the skin slides over rigid hardness.

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