Page 11 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

There's something incredibly attractive about his quiet competence, about knowing exactly what needs to be done and doing it without fanfare or need for praise. I've never seen anyone work like this—with such self-sufficient capability, taking pleasure in the simple act of fixing what's broken.

When he climbs back down, he's closer to me than strictly necessary, the ladder between us but not really a barrier.

"Should hold now," he says, but doesn't step back.

"Thank you." My voice comes out breathier than intended. "You didn't have to do that."

"Wanted to." His eyes search mine, and whatever he sees there makes his expression shift subtly.

Time seems to slow, the morning air electric between us. I'm taking in everything about him—the stubble on his jaw that's a day heavier than when we met, the slight chapping of his lips from the mountain air, the scar near his right eyebrow I hadn't noticed before.

"Slate," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for but knowing I need something only he can provide.

Slate lifts a hand, hesitating just before touching my face, as if giving me time to pull away. I don't. His palm cups my cheek, rough and warm against my skin. His thumb traces my cheekbone in a gesture so gentle it makes my heart ache.

"This is a bad idea," he murmurs, even as he leans closer.

"Probably," I agree, tilting my face up to his.

The first brush of his lips against mine is tentative, questioning. A test that we both know will change everything. His mouth is warmer than I expected, softer despite the slight roughness of his stubble against my skin.

I respond immediately, pressing closer, one hand coming up to grip his forearm. It's all the encouragement he needs. The hesitation vanishes as he deepens the kiss, his hand sliding from my cheek to cup the back of my neck, fingers weaving through my hair.

What begins as gentle exploration quickly transforms into something hungrier. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him until I can feel the solid wall of his chest, the beating of his heart that matches my own acceleratedrhythm. I feel his hard cock rest against my tummy, begging to be inside of me.

I've been kissed before—by boys in college, by Bradley countless times—but never like this. Never with this raw honesty, this unfiltered desire. Slate kisses like a man who has no agenda beyond the moment itself, no calculation, no performance. Just pure, undiluted need.

My arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer still. I guide us away from the ladder, until my back meets the cabin wall.

Slate makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half growl—as he braces one hand against the wall beside my head. The position surrounds me with his presence, his strength, but there's nothing frightening about it. Despite his size, despite the intensity of his desire that I can feel in every point where our bodies touch, I know instinctively that I'm safe with him.

The kiss turns exploring, his tongue teasing mine, learning what makes my breath hitch, what draws the small, needy sounds from my throat that seem to drive him wild. My hands can't stay still, moving from his neck to his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath his shirt.

When we finally break apart to breathe, his forehead rests against mine, our panting breaths mingling in the cool morning air. His blue eyes have darkened, pupils dilated with desire, and I'm sure mine look the same.

"Jordyn," he grunts. His thumb traces my lower lip, slightly swollen from his kisses. The tender gesture contrasts with the barely restrained power I can feel in his body, still pressed against mine.

"We barely know each other," I whisper, though it doesn't feel true. In some ways, I feel like I know Slate better after one day than I knew Bradley after two years.

"I know," he says, his voice rough. "This is crazy."

"Completely crazy," I agree, even as I lift my face for another kiss.

A distant mechanical sound breaks through our haze—the unmistakable rumble of a vehicle approaching on the gravel road.

Slate pulls back, tension replacing desire in his posture. "That's probably Mitchell."

The spell breaks, reality intruding with unwelcome timing. I step away from the wall, suddenly aware of my tangled hair, my flushed cheeks, the fact that I'm still in my pajamas.

"You should get your truck fixed," I say, trying to sound normal despite the fact that my entire body is still humming with awareness of him.

He nods, though his eyes linger on my lips. "I should."

The moment stretches between us, loaded with unspoken questions.

The vehicle sounds are getting closer. Slate steps back, running a hand through his hair.

"I'll go meet them," he says, though he doesn't move immediately. Instead, he looks at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch again. "Jordyn—"

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