Page 8 of Broken Mountain Man

“Of wanting things. Of not being enough. Of—” My voice caught. “Of feeling like I’m missing out on my own life.”

“You’re not missing anything,” he said. “You’re right here.”

And then he kissed me.

Not rough. Not fast. His lips brushed mine like he wasn’t entirely sure I’d let him do it again. Like I was something precious and maybe a little untouchable—and maybe I was.

But the moment his mouth met mine, slow and warm and utterly unhurried, that part of me that had always questioned, hesitated, held back—melted.

And in its place, something bold bloomed.

Something hungry.

His fingers curled around my neck, steady and warm, and he tilted my head with such careful precision that I nearly whimpered at the way he handled me—not like I might break, but like I was already his to shape.

And then he deepened the kiss, his mouth slanting over mine. His tongue traced the seam of my lips until I opened for him, breath hitching as he tasted me, teased me, took his time. There was nothing rushed about the way he kissed. Elias kissed like a man who didn’t have to prove anything—like he’d spent his life saying little and learning exactly how to speak without words.

And oh how he was fluent.

Every slow press, every deliberate stroke of his tongue was layered with purpose. I felt it in my belly. In my knees. Between my thighs. Heat flushed through my system so fast it made me dizzy, and I had to reach for him—anchoring my hands in the cotton fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath it.

I shivered when his lips moved from my mouth to my jaw, grazing just beneath my ear.

His breath was warm against my skin when he spoke again.

“Tell me you don’t feel it.” His other hand came up, framing my face. “This thing between us. Tell me you don’t feel it, and I’ll take you back to your group right now.”

“No. That’s not what I want.”

“Tell me.” This time his voice held a note of command I was helpless not to respond to.

“I want you.”

“Good girl.” He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his hand still cupping my face. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

His words hit me harder than I expected. Not because I thought he was going to push. But because I realized he meant it. That this man, all strength and silence and raw heat, was willing to wait. To listen. To let me figure it out without pressure. I was not a woman who had one-night stands. Even in a cabin with a hunky mountain man. But I wasn’t that woman right now. I was the me I wanted to be. And that meant it was time to take what I wanted.

And I wanted him.

So I tipped my chin up, held his gaze. “What if I don’t want you to hold back?”

That did it.

His hands found my hips, lifting me effortlessly and setting me on the kitchen counter. My legs parted around him on instinct, and he stepped between them, hands settling just above my knees—large, warm, possessive.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes.” And for the first time in my life, I was. Completely, utterly sure.

He kissed me again. And this time, it wasn’t a question.

It was a claim.

He kissed me like he’d already imagined it a thousand times. Not like a man discovering something new—but like one who’d dreamed of this moment, memorized it before he ever touched his lips to mine.

And I kissed him back. With everything inside me. I didn’t want careful. I didn’t want safe.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted without apology—to be touched like I was everything he’d ever wanted. And more.

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