Page 18 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

“Fuck me, Violet.” Panting against her lips, I don’t help slow this down by grinding against her. “You’re going to make me struggle to keep up with you, aren’t you?”

Her giggle fuels me. How am I supposed to be responsible for this whole thing when she’s making it impossible?

I pull away just far enough to reach for the bedside lamp, and she whines—a breathy, frustrated sound as her fingers clutch at my shoulders, trying to drag me back down.

Then light floods the room, and Violet is sprawled across my sheets like a dream I’d hate to wake from. Her lilac hair fans out in wild, silken waves, tangled from all of her squirming against my sheets. Cheeks flushed pink, lips parted, those whiskey-brown eyes glazed with a hunger that mirrors my own.

Fuck. She’s gorgeous like this—undone and wanting, every sharp-witted retort melted into soft, panting breaths.

I hover over her, drinking in the sight. The rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her nipples pebble under my gaze, it all drives me mad. Of course, she’s not wearing a bra. She’s always known precisely how to wreck me.

“Tell me what you want,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles up along the curve of her stomach, savoring the way she shivers, “and I’ll make it happen.”

“Touch me.” The words come out so breathless, so needy.

I don’t give her time to second-guess.

My hands drag up the hem of her shirt, fingers skimming the warm, bare skin of her stomach as I peel the fabric higher. She shivers under my touch, but she doesn’t stop me—just watches, lips parted, as I bend to press my mouth to the delicate dip of her navel.

God, she’s soft.

I kiss my way up, slow and deliberate, tracing the faint tremors of her muscles as I go. Her breath hitches when I reach the swell of her breasts, finally free of the fabric. For a second, I just look, taking in the flush of her skin, the way her nipples stiffen under my gaze.

Then I lean in and take one into my mouth.

Her back arches off the mattress, a choked gasp escaping her as I swirl my tongue, teasing the peak before sucking gently. My hand finds her other breast, thumb rolling over the taut bud, and she whimpers, fingers twisting in my hair.

“Why are you so worked up?” My voice is rough, my breath hot against her damp skin as I pull back just enough to glance up at her.

“Because I’m tired of holding myself back,” she admits, the words coming out trembling. Her hips shift restlessly beneath me, her thighs pressing together. I don’t know what moment pushed her over her limit, but I’m in no rush to change things up.

I don’t make her wait. My mouth trails lower, teeth grazing the curve of her hip as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her cotton shorts. “I told you already, I’d take care of you. That means in every way possible.”

I drag her cotton shorts down her thighs with agonizing slowness, my lips following the path of exposed skin. The scent of her arousal hits me first, warm and intoxicating, and I groan against the inside of her knee. Fuck. She’s already soaked, her panties clinging to her, and I haven’t even touched her yet.

“Look at you,” I murmur, dragging a single finger along the damp lace. Her hips jerk, a whimper tearing from her throat. “All this for me?”

I don’t wait for an answer.

With a sharp tug, I shove her panties aside, and her pussy glistens in the low light—swollen, flushed, begging for my mouth. I blow a slow stream of air over her, watching her clit twitch. “You gonna come on my tongue, Violet?”

She rises onto her elbows, watching me through hooded eyes—dark, glazed, needy. The slow nod she gives isn’t permission; it’s a plea.

I answer with my tongue.

A long, deliberate lick from her soaked entrance to her throbbing clit, slow enough to make her whimper. The taste of her, sweet like summer fruit, salt-sharp with want, floods my senses. Her back bows off the bed, thighs tensing like she’s torn between clamping around my head and shaking apart.

I don’t let her think. Don’t let her breathe.

Dropping lower again, I circle her clit with the flat of my tongue, teasing just until her hips jerk—then seal my lips around it and suck.

Her cry is ragged, fingers fisting the sheets. “Oh,fuck.”

I groan against her, drunk on her inability to stay in control. Before, I’d only had her on my fingers—quick stolen tastes when she rode my hand. Now? Now she’s pouring into my mouth, and I’m fucking ravenous.

Do I worship her here, where she’s slick and swollen? Or lower, where she’s clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled?

I do both.

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