Page 6 of Possessive Mountain Man

I shake my head, ignoring the way my cock is pressing against my jeans. “I like the quiet.”

She nods slowly, her gaze steady on me. “What do you do out here?”

“Plenty of stuff.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Hell. There’s no way I’m going to be able to ignore her. The cabin only has two rooms and a bathroom. As long as she’s here, I’m going to be forced to be around her. Forced to talk to her.

I might as well make myself comfortable. Or, as comfortable I can be with a throbbing dick.

With a sigh, I settle into the chair across from her, stretching my legs out. “I guide tourists in the summer. Hunting, fishing, hiking. In the winter, I work on the cabin. Take care of the land.”

“That sounds… peaceful.”

“It is.” That was the point of settling here after I completed my service.

Her head tilts slightly, and I can see the wheels turning. John always said Elise was sharp as a tack.

“And you like the peace?” she asks

“I do.”

She smiles, slow and genuine. Sweet. It hits me square in the chest.

“Tell me more,” she says.

“What do you want to know.”

“Everything.” She rubs her lips together, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and stroke my thumb over that full bottom lip of hers. “I’ve always been fascinated. I want to know everything.”

I frown. “About what?”

“You. What you’ve been up to all these years. How you spend your time in the peace of your wilderness.” That eyebrow of hers shoots up again. “How you keep yourself… satisfied.”

I should shut down this conversation. Innocent as it seems, we’re walking a fine line.

But the way she’s looking at me—like what I have to say matters—makes it impossible to deny her.

Hell, I’d probably confess all my sins to her right here and now if she asked me.

I tell her about the tours I guide. I tell her the way the wilderness changes with the seasons. I tell her about building the cabin with my own two hands, hauling logs and supplies myself.

I tell her about the solitude and the freedom that comes from being content with your own company.

And she listens. Really listens.

I ask questions too.

She tells me about her doctorate in English literature. Her plans to teach in the fall. Her dreams of traveling and seeing the world.

As she talks about all the places she wants to go, a fire burns bright in her eyes. Drawing me in like a moth to flame.

“I always thought my dad exaggerated about Alaska,” she says with a laugh. “But he was right. It’s breathtaking. Terrifying too, apparently.”

Hearing her mention John sends a jolt through me. It’s a stark reminder of who she is and who she can never be.

She’s his daughter.

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