Page 12 of Possessive Mountain Man

“Sleep, sweetheart” he says into my hair.

Pressed so close to him, I’m painfully aware of every inch of him pressed against me. Especially the prominent, unmistakable bulge digging into my ass.

I bite my lip, trying to stifle the rush of heat that floods me. I shift slightly, testing?—

He groans, low and dark, tightening his grip to still my movement.

Good. He wants me every bit as badly as I want him.

I fall asleep with a grin.

FOUR

HAYES

The storm picked up again overnight.

We’re good and stuck, without even the promise of walking through the woods or tackling the wood pile for physical activity.

There is one form of physical activity that would no doubt satisfy us both. But I meant what I said.

If I’m going to be an asshole who betrays my friend, I at least need to do it the right way.

I busy myself making us coffee. Anything to keep my hands occupied and my thoughts from wandering to the way Elise had felt pressed up against me last night. Soft, warm, and inviting.

But it’s no use. I’m painfully aware of her with every breath I take. Her scent is still clinging to my shirt.

When I glance over my shoulder, she’s sitting at the small table, wrapped in that blanket. Her hair is messy from sleep, but her eyes clear and watchful. She looks cozy, and sexy as hell. All rumbled and cuddly.

“Are you always this broody in the morning?” she asks.

I grunt, setting a steaming mug in front of her.

“I’ll take that as mountain man for ‘yes, yes I am.’” She grins and takes a sip. “Thanks.”

I can’t help but grin at her joke. No matter how hard I try to be strong and stoic around her, I just can’t.

Not when her presence is a constant reminder of how badly I want her.

After breakfast, she sits by the window with the blanket draped around her shoulders. She’s reading one of the old books I keep on the bookshelf. It’s a battered novel about the Alaskan frontier.

I built the shelf with her dad a few summers ago. I frown at the thought. I should feel guilty about the lusty thoughts I’m having about his daughter.

But it’s getting harder to care about what’s wrong with this situation when everything else about her feels so right.

We have lunch—canned soup, the best the pantry has to offer—and even that feels oddly intimate as we sit at the small table, knees bumping under the surface, stealing quiet glances at each other.

Afterward, as I’m cleaning up, I rummage through a chest near the fireplace and pull out one of my old flannel shirts—soft from years of wear, the fabric thin at the elbows.

“Here.” I toss it to her. “If you’re going to be a mountain woman for the day, you might as well look the part.”

She catches it and holds it up with an amused smile.

“Thanks.” She briefly disappears into the bedroom. .

When she reemerges, she’s wearing nothing but black leggings and my shirt, and I almost swallow my tongue.

The hem falls mid-thigh, the sleeves are too long, swallowing her hands. She looks so damn tempting it hurts.

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