Page 50 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"Did you miss the part where I said I was ganged up on? How the hell is that my fault?" Reed snaps, then catches sight of me and visibly reins himself in. "It's not your fault, either, in case you're thinking about it. It's theirs, plain and simple. Anyway, I'm fine now."

"Are you sure?" I ask softly.

He gives me a crooked smile, trying his best to look nonchalant. "Yeah."

Later that morning, before daybreak, I head to Dean's office. I'd barely slept, but I can't lie around doing nothing—not with this guilt gnawing at me.

He's standing by the window when I arrive, staring out with a pensive look on his face. I step closer, and he glances at me once, his eyes sharp, intense.

He speaks before I can. "It's fine. He'll get over it."

"What?"

"You're probably blaming yourself," Dean says. "Don't. He's an adult. He fought because he wanted to—because he can't stop himself from doing stupid shit sometimes."

My feelings of guilt only sharpen. "I… I shouldn't have let him believe I was in love with you."

"That has nothing to do with this," he says, firm. "He doesn't get to decide who you have feelings for."

"Yes, but I shouldn't have used you like that," I say quietly. "It could mess with your friendship—your business—and that's the last thing I want."

"Hailey." He turns suddenly, cutting off my panic with one word and a gaze sharp enough to silence thought. "Stop."

It's the first time he's said my name, and the effect is immediate—a gasp escapes my lips, and a ripple of heat flashes through me. He said it in that deep, commanding voice, and it sends lust pouring through my veins like wildfire.

He notices.

I see it in the way his eyes darken, flicking to my lips. For a second, we both hesitate—suspended in something electric—and then he leans in, capturing my mouth with a groan that sounds more like surrender than desire.

The kiss is wild and unrestrained, stealing every breath from my lungs and leaving me dizzy. It's desperate—like we're both trying to devour something we've been starving for. He swears into my mouth, words slurred between kisses.

"Fuck, we shouldn't be doing this," he groans. "Fuck. Fuck." But he doesn't stop—not kissing me, not touching me. And I can't stop either. I know it's wrong, but I need this. I need it so badly. His tongue tangles with mine, his taste already imprinting itself on me. One hand cradles the back of my neck, his grip full of command and hunger, while the other anchors me to him. I kiss him back with everything I have, curling my fists into his shirt to stay grounded.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for—just needing him… or needing something. Heat. Passion. A release from the ache that's burning through my body.

He answers by sweeping an arm around my waist and lifting me off the ground. A crash follows—the sound of his desk being cleared—and then I'm on it, perched and breathless.

He leans in again, his voice low and rough with hunger. "I want to taste you."

The way he says it—quiet, reverent, like a confession—sends a tremor straight through me. My breath hitches, my legs parting on instinct as his fingers slide along my thighs.

He unfastens my jeans slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. I don't. I lift my hips to help, desperate to feel his hands on me. He peels them down, tugging the denim over my knees, then hooks a finger into my panties and draws them away too—soft, sure, and unhurried.

"Jesus," he murmurs, the word caught between reverence and disbelief. "You're so damn beautiful."

He lowers himself into the chair, positioning himself between my legs like a man who's already decided he's not leaving until he's done his best to make me forget my own name. His hands slide under my thighs, anchoring me in place, and then he leans in—his breath hot, his mouth hungry.

The first flick of his tongue has me gasping. The second has my head falling back, fingers scrabbling for the edge of the desk. His mouth is sure, focused, like he's memorizing every reaction I give him. The pressure is perfect. The rhythm relentless. My body feels molten, every nerve firing at once.

By the time he adds his fingers—slow, deliberate—I'm already teetering on the edge. One more stroke, and I shatter, breathless and wrecked, his name tumbling from my lips like a prayer.

When I finally open my eyes, he's watching me, his lips slick, his gaze dark and unreadable. And I know—even before either of us speaks—that what has happened can't be undone.

CHAPTER 18

Lennon

The last thing I want to see, as I head to my daughter's room to wake her up, is Hailey coming out of Dean's office with her jeans half-buttoned. Her face is flushed, her eyes blinking—clear evidence of lust in her emotional and physical disarray.

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