Page 16 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

I breathe.

Finally.

“You can lean on me until I die, Violet.” His voice is gravelly, low, and raw, thumbs brushing my cheekbones in slow, deliberate sweeps. “If it means stopping you from doing something you don’t want to, then use me.”

But I don’t want to use him.

I want this—his touch, warm and sure, erasing every doubt with every stroke of his fingers. I want the way he’d touched me during that stroll. I want everything, all at once, and the hunger of it steals my breath.

My pulse thrums in my throat. His gaze drops to my lips.

The world narrows to the space between us—too much, and yet not enough.

“That sounds like a pretty big promise, you know?” Forcing the words out, my hold on the shirt tightens as I will my knees not to wobble. “After what you went through, do you really think I deserve it?”

As his thumb shifts to graze my bottom lip, his breath tickles my cheeks. “My past has nothing to do with what I want. Right now, I’m living in the present. Right now, there’s only you.”

We should talk. Should dissect every unspoken feeling, every complication tangled between us like barbed wire. But logic dissolves under the weight of his gaze, the way his fingers tense against my jaw—holding on, not pulling away.

My mind is static, white noise. But my body? My body knows.

I rise onto my toes, closing the last breath of space between us. The kiss isn’t desperate, it isn’t some fiery collision.

It’s a question—soft, testing. Just the brush of my lips against his, then the barest nip at his lower lip. A whisper of teeth, a silent asking for careful footing.

He goes utterly still.

For one heartbeat, two, I think I’ve misread everything.

Then his hand slides into my hair, angling my face up as he exhales—a ragged, surrendering sound—and answers, meeting me halfway.

What we share in the attic is the opposite of the hike. It’s vulnerability. When we separate, it’s not to jump each other’s bones.

It’s the start of something worth exploring.

6

Logan

The air feels lighter with each passing day. We grow more comfortable with each other.

It’s why I squeeze her hip in passing, or she brushes her fingers against my chest in return. It’s like a game of tug and pull, and this woman is starting to come out of her shell.

The woman I found on my doorstep wasn’t Violet. It was someone created by the hardships of surviving her career. Now look at her, wearing the shirt I bought with an old design, happy despite it being big enough to swallow up her frame.

She’s smiling as she coasts through my home, lazing about as she pleases. She lookscomfortable.

Turns out, it’s not just her body I find sexy. It’s her feeling contempt for me that does the job. Watching her stretch out on the couch, all lazy curves and sleep-soft sighs, is enough to make me hard in seconds.

But then I catch it—the cracks.

The way her fingers freeze mid-scroll, thumb hovering over some unread message. The way her smile slips when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s torn, and I get it. Hell, I’d be an idiot not to.

Doesn’t stop the clawing behind my ribs when I imagine her leaving.

I’m greedy. A selfish bastard who’d chain her to this mountain if it meant keeping her here, warm and laughing andmine.But I’d also do whatever it takes to make that smile of hers remain.

If she asked me to drive her to the base right now, to return to her old lifestyle, I would in a heartbeat. All because that’s what she wants. Or, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.

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