Page 21 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

And then I’m shattering, my back bowing off the bed as pleasure crashes through me, wave after wave, my cry muffled against his shoulder as he groans, his own release following close behind.

Logan’s grip tightens on my hips, lifting me with effortless strength until there’s no space left between us—until he’s buried so deep I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. His voice is rough, commanding, every word sending a fresh wave of heat through me.

“Take it,” he growls, his thrusts deliberate, unrelenting. “Every fucking drop.”

The stretch is exquisite, the fullness overwhelming as he drives into me, each snap of his hips filling me with his release.

My fingers dig into his shoulders, my breath coming in ragged gasps as pleasure coils tighter, tighter—until I arch helplessly, my nails scoring his skin as he pulses inside me, his rhythm stuttering as he spills deep, and our breaths mingle in the charged air between us.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the two of us, the aftershocks, the raw, unfiltered rightness of it—before he finally stills, his body heavy and satisfied against mine.

“You have no idea how hot that was.” Panting the compliment, my poor pussy flutters around his invasion. Seemingly not ready to pull out, I don’t think I’m ready for it either.

Feels too good for him to pull away. Unfortunately, he only lingers for a couple of minutes before he’s sitting up.

His hands move to my hips, and he gently massages my muscles. “Lost myself a bit there.”

“You have my permission to do that whenever you want to.” Swiping at the sweat on my brow, I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of me. “That goes for tomorrow, or the next day, or the next…”

Logan suddenly goes still, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. “What about the band?”

I exhale slowly, my eyes flicking to the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. “I got kicked once. This time, they were unprepared. Who’s to say they won’t come back with a better plan next time?” My voice wavers, betraying the fear I’ve been trying to bury. “But… I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that with you. Right?”

The slightest hint of doubt, and I’m undone.

Logan’s frown deepens, and he shifts, his cock slipping out of me, leaving behind an aching emptiness. But before I can mourn the loss, he’s pulling me against his chest, his arms banding around me like steel.

“I spent days telling myself I’d let you go, but now? Now that I know how you feel, now that I’ve had you like this?” His grip tightens, possessive and unyielding, his voice rough. “Someone’s gonna have to pry you from my fucking hands if they want you.”

The words send a shiver down my spine, equal parts thrill and relief. Then his mouth crashes down on mine, claiming me all over again, his kiss so deep and consuming that it makes my head spin. When he finally pulls back, his eyes burn into me. “Do you understand?”

I nod, breathless, and drag him back for another kiss, pouring every ounce of my need into it. His body presses me into the mattress, solid and unshakable, and for the first time in too long, I don’t just feel safe—I feelhis.

It’s the most solid footing I’ve had in what feels like ages. The future might still be uncertain, but with Logan beside me, it doesn’t feel so daunting. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. Knowing I won’t have to navigate the fog alone is the surest ground I’ve stood on in years.

It’s something I won’t be giving up anytime soon.

8

Logan

Epilogue

Rusty’s Tavern hums with the kind of energy only open mic night can bring—a mix of off-key enthusiasm, half-drunk courage, and the occasional gem of talent. But I’m not listening to the woman belting out her heartbreak over twangy chords.

My attention’s fixed on the way Violet’s fingers move over the strings of her guitar, sure and steady, like she was born with calluses already formed.

She’s not center stage—never wants to be—but she’s the damn backbone of the whole thing. The regulars know it, too. They lean in when she plays, like her rhythm’s the pulse keeping the room alive.

It’s what gives even the shyest of wallflowers the confidence to ask her to play for them. It’s what keeps people coming to the bar every Thursday night.

The song ends, some sad ballad about lost love and whiskey, and the crowd claps halfheartedly. Violet flashes a small smile, the kind she reserves for moments like this—when she’s part of something but still just out of the spotlight.

She sets the guitar down carefully, stretching her fingers before signaling to Rusty that she’s taking fifteen.

I’m already standing before she’s fully turned, my glass abandoned. She spots me cutting through the crowd, and that smile shifts, softens.

“You’re staring too hard, you know,” she says when I reach her, voice low under the chatter of the bar.

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