Page 15 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

I cross to him slowly, mindful of my still-aching ribs. "I am ready."

"Jade..." There's warning in his voice, but underneath it, need.

I reach up, brushing my fingers along his jawline, feeling the scratch of his beard against my skin. "Ninety minutes is a long time," I whisper.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. "Not long enough."

"Then let's not waste it."

His restraint—the control he's been clinging to since we met—fractures visibly. His hands come up to frame my face, and then his mouth is on mine, hungry and desperate. This isn't the cautious kiss from earlier. This is a man who's been starving for years finally allowed to feast.

I wind my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his as much as my injuries allow. He tastes like coffee and possibility, and I want more—more of his hands, more of his mouth, more of him.

"Your shoulder," he murmurs against my lips, even as his fingers slide into my hair.

"I'll manage," I breathe, nipping at his lower lip.

He pulls back slightly, eyes darkened with desire but still cautious. "We should stop."

"Why?" I challenge, my fingers tracing the strong column of his neck.

"Because once I start, I don't think I'll be able to."

Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the intensity in his gaze. "Then don't stop."

Something breaks loose in him. With a growl that vibrates through my body, he lifts me—mindful of my injuries but with undeniable strength—and carries me toward the bedroom. Aspen whines once, then settles on her bed near the fire as Rhett kicks the door closed behind us.

The bedroom is sparse but warm, dominated by a large bed covered with a handmade quilt. He sets me down beside it, his hands steady on my waist.

"Are you sure?" he asks, searching my face.

In answer, I grab the hem of my borrowed shirt—his shirt—and pull it over my head in one fluid motion, leaving me in just my underwear. His sharp intake of breath is gratifying.

"Very sure," I say, watching his eyes darken as they travel over me.

"God, you're beautiful." His voice is rough, reverent. His hand, when it reaches out to trace the curve of my collarbone, trembles slightly.

"Your turn," I whisper.

In one fluid motion, he pulls his shirt over his head, and I nearly gasp aloud. This man is magnificent—all muscle and sinew crafted by years in the mountains, not a gym. His broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, his chest dusted with dark hair that runs in a tantalizing trail down his stomach. Scars mark his skin—a roadmap of survival etched across his torso—making him even more breathtaking.

I step closer, placing my palms against the solid wall of his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath my hands. "I want to see all of you," I say, my eyes meeting his.

Uncertainty flashes across his face. I know what he's thinking about—his prosthetic.

"All of you," I repeat firmly, my fingers trailing down the ridges of his abdomen.

A growl rumbles through his chest as he captures my hands, bringing them to his lips. "You first," he counters, and the primal hunger in his eyes makes me shiver.

His hands are gentle as they explore me, tracing the curves of my waist, skimming over the bruises with feather-light touches. When his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, I gasp. He guides me back until my legs hit the edge of the bed, then eases me down onto the quilt.

"I know it’s wrong but…I've thought about this since I pulled you from that snow," he admits, trailing kisses along my jawline. "About what you'd feel like beneath me."

"Show me," I urge, arching up against him.

His mouth captures mine again as his hand cups my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it peaks against his palm. I moan into his kiss, my body already on fire from his touch.

"Rhett," I plead, threading my fingers through his hair. "I need more."

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