Page 42 of Mountain Summons

At first, he’d been too weak. Weaker than he’d cared to admit. By the time she’d driven him home and gotten him up to his third-floor apartment—thank God the building had an elevator—he’d been exhausted. She’d put him straight to bed and told him she was taking the couch. That night, he hadn’t even argued.

He’d argued the next night, and every night after that, but Lena wasn’t about to endanger Tristan’s recovery by sleeping in the same bed with him, knowing she could roll over and elbow him in her sleep. His couch was great, anyway, overstuffed and lined in soft corduroy. Maybe not for a man pushing six-four, but it was certainly fine for her.

Tonight, however, she might be willing to give in. Tristan had been to the doctor that morning, who’d expressed surprise at the speed of Tristan’s recovery. He’d also removed the remaining external stitches from the surgery and told him he could begin some very light exercise. All the way back to his apartment, Lena had wondered if sex counted aslight exercise. Maybe if they took their time and did it so very slowly …

So here she was now, teetering on the edge of frustration, knowing that Tristan was agonizing over the perfect dinner plans when all she wanted was to get naked and climb on top of him.

Lena exhaled sharply and ran a hand through her hair. Enough was enough. They were both adults. They’d beendancing around this for a long time. The chemistry between them could probably burn the whole damn mountain down. She wasdonewaiting.

Decision made, she turned on her heel and stalked toward Tristan’s room. She knocked once. Then again, more firmly, when there was no answer. A moment later, the door swung open.

Tristan stood there in a fitted T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair damp from a recent shower. The bruises on his jaw, neck and chest had faded, and with them all external signs of his recent injury. But Lena knew he was still healing.

The scent of soap and something distinctly him curled around her senses, making her pulse jump.

“Lena?” His brows furrowed. “Everything okay?”

No. Definitely not.

She stepped past him without waiting for an invitation, the brush of her shoulder against his arm making him stiffen.Good. He could suffer a little, like she’d been suffering.

As every time she’d stepped into his bedroom, her gaze was drawn to the large floor-to-ceiling window. The view, looking up at Aiguille du Midi, was insane.

“Uh … you wanna sit?” he asked, pointing at his bed. His huge, king size bed, which took up most of the room.

“No,” she said, pivoting to face him. “I want to talk.”

Tristan’s gaze sharpened. “About what?”

Lena took a slow, measured breath. “About the fact that you’re planning dinner.”

His expression flickered, barely perceptible. “And that’s a problem because …?”

She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “Because I don’t want dinner, Tristan.”

His jaw ticked. “Then what do you want, Lena?”

She tipped her chin up, locking eyes with him. “You. I want you.”

For a moment, he said nothing, just stood there, muscles tight. She waited. She’d learned patience, too. She’d waited this long. She could wait him out.

Then—finally—something snapped in his blue gaze.

His hand wrapped around her waist, the other tangling in her hair as his head came down and his lips crashed into hers.

Tristan

She was everything he’d ever wanted.

Absolutely fucking everything. Lena’s warm, full lips pressed against his. Their tongues met, felt, explored, warred against each other. His hand tightened on her slim hips. He was never fucking letting go. He was never?—

Too soon, she pulled her mouth away, taking a quick step back. Her taste lingered on his tongue, warm, intoxicating. Her hand pressed against his chest, as if to keep him away, or to keep him close.

“Wait,” she said, her voice husky, her hazel eyes darker than he’d ever seen them. “We need to establish some ground rules.”

“Rules?” His free hand tangled in her hair, fingers already working the hair tie free from her hair, letting the copper waves spill over his hand. He was barely holding on to his sanity. He wantedher—undone, unrestrained, exactly the way he’d imagined her a thousand times.

“Rules,” she repeated. “The doctor said light exercise. This … this doesn’t feel like light exercise.”

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