Page 15 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

That wasn't what I expected. "Poetry?"

"Don't look so shocked," he says with a slight smile. "Even truckers can have hidden depths."

"I'm not shocked. I'm impressed." I move closer. "What kind of poetry?"

"The bad kind," he says with a chuckle. "Observations, mostly. Things I see on the road that most people miss."

"I'd love to read it sometime."

He studies me, as if checking if I'm sincere. Whatever he sees must convince him, because his expression softens.

"Your turn," he says. "Something real."

I take a deep breath. "I hate my job. Everyone thinks I'm so lucky to have this perfect position handed to me, but I feel suffocated by it." It feels both scary and freeing to say it. "I've never told anyone that before."

His hand finds mine, warm and reassuring. "What would you do instead? If you could do anything?"

"Photography," I answer immediately. "I've always loved capturing moments, finding beauty in unexpected places." I laugh softly. "Another useless rich girl hobby, right?"

"No," he says firmly. "Not if it's what makes you come alive."

His simple validation tightens my throat. Bradley never understood my photography—just tolerated it as a quirk at best, a distraction at worst.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Slate's thumb traces circles on my hand, sending sparks up my arm. I watch, fascinated by his hands—large, calloused from work, capable of fixing engines and writing poetry. His hands are so different from the manicured ones I'm used to.

"Jordyn," he says.

I look up, and the heat in his eyes steals my breath. We've been circling this moment since that kiss this morning, both of us knowing where this is heading but hesitant to cross the final line. Neither of us has touched the wine.

"I want you," I say simply, tired of dancing around the truth. "I have since I first saw you scowling at your coffee."

A sound escapes him, half laugh, half groan. "I was trying to be a gentleman."

"I don't need a gentleman right now."

That's all it takes. His hand releases mine only to cup the back of my neck, drawing me to him with a certainty that makes me shiver. This kiss is nothing like the one we shared this morning—that was exploration, testing; this is claiming, knowing.

His mouth is demanding against mine, tongue seeking entrance which I gladly grant. I melt against him, hands finding the solid wall of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm. He's all hard muscle and heat, so different from what I'm used to.

"You've been driving me crazy all day," he murmurs against my lips, his stubble a delicious friction against my skin. "Walking around in those tight jeans, looking at me like you're doing now."

"How am I looking at you?" I ask breathlessly as his mouth trails down my neck.

"Like you want to be devoured."

"Maybe I do."

His eyes darken at my words, and suddenly I'm being lifted into his lap, straddling his thighs. The show of strength sends a thrill through me—he handles my weight like it's nothing, arranging me exactly where he wants me.

What follows is a blur of sensation—his calloused hands exploring my body with reverent hunger, his mouth hot against my skin, my clothing somehow disappearing between frantic kisses. His body is a revelation, all hard planes and powerful muscle, built not from vanity but from years of honest work.

"My God," I breathe, running my hands over his broad chest. "You're incredible."

A faint flush colors his cheekbones at the praise, but his hands never stop their skilled exploration, drawing sounds from me I didn't know I could make. He's both tender and commanding, finding every sensitive spot with unerring precision.

When his fingers find my folds, where I'm already slick and ready for him.

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