Page 5 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

Over the years, I watched her turn into the woman she is now.

I watched videos of her performances once I could no longer attend, paying close attention to nothing but the motion of her fingers against the guitar strings and the beaming smiles on her face.

Fuck, the reminder does nothing but bring up all the wrongings of my previous marriage. I’ve blamed myself for the falling out of the divorce.

The unraveling began when Jaclyn stopped reaching for me.

First, it was the absence of her touch—no more sleepy morning kisses, no more hands slipping under my shirt just tofeel my skin. Then came the empty bed, the turned back, the slow, suffocating withdrawal of her love.

I was starving and suffering, all while she looked for her next relationship.

That’s how it happened—desperate, thoughtless, a man reduced to base need. Watching one random livestream of Violet performing, something primal overrode every boundary. My zipper hissed open, my hand moved, and the forbidden thrill of it seared through me like a brand.

Maybe I’m twisted. Maybe I was just that fucking lonely.

But the orgasm split me apart—the first real release in years, shame and pleasure fused into one white-hot strike. After that, I tracked Jaclyn’s indifference like a roadmap. Every cold shoulder, every night alone, became permission. Violet’s face, her body, her existence—my only relief.

It cost me my marriage. Jaclyn found someone else to kiss her awake, to want her openly.

And me? I had Violet. A ghost I could never hold. A forbidden existence I had no right wanting.

Now she’s here—flesh and breath and within reach—and I know exactly how dangerous that is. It’s not just her physical appearance I find attractive. It’s the sultry tone behind her words, the quip of a smile on her lips.

I’ve always cared about her. I just don’t know when it turned intothis. A magnetic pull that’s turned into an impossible-to-ignore hunger.

I take her belongings from her hold, electricity shooting up my limbs the moment our fingers make contact.

“Need to set up a room for you. Relax for a few minutes.” Jerking my chin toward the couch, I tell myself to add a few logs to the fire when I’m done.

The mountain isn’t like the town at all. Even during the summer months, it gets cold up here. With what she’s wearing, she’ll need all the help she can get.

I’ve got a guest room with her name written all over it. Hell, it’s the same room she stayed in the last time when she lived here. The only difference is the layer of dust collecting on the blankets.

Not like I get many guests. People don’t go out of their way to see me. That’s what happens when I’m one of the less welcoming ones living on the mountain.

Once I’m pulling out fresh blankets and sheets, wiping down surfaces, and tucking her few pieces of luggage in the corner of the room, I’m pausing long enough to wonder if all of this is enough.

Fuck. If she had just sent me a text, or even called, I would’ve had the time to prepare for this and feel less like I’m teetering on an edge here.

This’ll be fine. It has to be.

Heading back to grab her so she can take in her new surroundings, I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the doorway.

There she is—sprawled across my couch like she still belongs there, figure splayed against the cushions like she’s testing their memory of her. Eyes shut, those long lashes of hers brush her stained cheeks.

Five minutes back in my life, and she’s already asleep, breathing slow and deep like the years she’s spent away never happened.

My feet move without thinking, and soon, I’m hovering over her behind the couch.

My hand drags down my face, rough against my beard, but my eyes won’t stop drinking her in. Through a screen, she’d been pixels and distance.

Now—now I can see the plump of her lips, the way her collarbone rises with each breath, the faded ink painted across her skin I don’t recognize.

The tank top she’s wearing clings like a second skin now that she’s ditched her leather jacket, dipping low enough to tease more than it reveals—every curve a calculated provocation. Her skirt rides high, the kind of hemline that’s an invitation for bastards like me to look as they please.

But it’s the torn pantyhose that tells a story. I can’t decide whether it’s careless or calculated. Snagged on a fence? Ripped off in a hurry? Either way, she wears the damage like an accessory.

I shouldn’t be looking this hard. Shouldn’t be memorizing.

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