Page 8 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

Oh, and the view isn’t bad either—a certain distractinglyhunkyman moving through the space like he has all the patience in the world.

Logan. When I find him cooking breakfast on day two of my stay, I can see my exhaustion wasn’t playing tricks on my eyes.

He’s still hot. Like, eye-opening, sexual awakening hot.

No wonder I never took Jeremy’s offerings for sex. Any other guy that I accepted was just to pass the time.

When I look at Logan, I get this new sensation I’ve never felt before. A tingling in my gut, something light and easy.

Iwant to be the one to ask him for his attention. Hell, even better, I want to work for it.

This is no good.

If I cave to these wants, what’s stopping him from feeling uncomfortable and asking me to leave?

Ireallylike sleeping in.

I also like the look that forms in his eyes when he looks my way. Just like now, when he hears the floor creak beneath my bare feet.

One nonchalant glance turns into a choking sound catching at the back of his throat.

“Is that what you wore around your bandmates?”

His voice is calm, but there’s a roughness beneath it—like gravel under polished leather. A warning to keep my distance, a sensation I choose to ignore.

I glance down at myself and take in my sleepwear. Thin cotton shorts, a tank top clinging to every curve to beat the heat. Bare skin everywhere else. I guess I never noticed it. Didn’t even think about putting a bra on this early in the morning.

Even though he warned about how cool it gets at night, my mind helped me stay toasty through the late hours. So yeah, my wardrobe isn’t terrible.

“Most of the time,” I say, drifting closer. The cabin’s warmth licks up my thighs, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his gaze. “Sometimes it’s even less, if you can believe it.”

A beat. His jaw flexes.

“Then again, we’re very comfortable in our own skins,” I add, tilting my head at him before letting my hip brush the counter beside him, close enough to catch the scent of him—woodsmoke and more of that piney scent. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”

His eyes drop—just a flash, but I see it. The way his stare lingers on the dip of my waist, the swell of my chest. He’s quick to look away, but not quick enough.

Unless my imagination is playing tricks on me, I think he might be half as interested in me as I am in him.

“Don’t want you getting cold, that’s all.” His grip tightens on the wooden spoon, knuckles whitening as he pushes around the sausage links. The poor utensil creaks under the pressure.

I don’t need to look down to know my nipples are turning into little peaks. Is it the cool temperature? No, of course not.

Did he catch a glimpse of them? Does he know the true cause?

Sinking my teeth into the bottom of my lip, I fight between asking this man to warm me up, and taking a seat before I do something stupid.

Thanks to the pulse between my thighs, my legs have a little quiver to them as I make the smart decision to turn away and walk toward the table.

Unfortunately, I’m not always completely smart. I’m too addicted to toeing the line.

I keep my eyes locked in his direction as I hoist myself onto the edge of the table, the wood cool against my bare thighs. My lips catch between my teeth, but it’s no use—a slow, wicked smile curls anyway.

He’ll scold me for this.

Any second now, that deep, graveled voice will rumble about manners, about chairs existing for a reason, and I’ll blink up at him with all wide-eyed innocence, swing my legs down, and play the good girl.

Until then?

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