Page 9 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

I let my feet dangle, kicking them lazily back and forth, the hem of my shorts riding up just enough to tease. The rhythm is careless, but my gaze isn’t—every sway, every shift, is an invitation. Anything to get his attention back on me.

No quick glimpses like he’s afraid he’ll get caught.

Look at me. Please.

Every time he does, the thrill that fills me is almost as satisfying as the touch I want.

When that heavy, dark stare is pointed in my direction, it’s like he’s peeling back every layer of cotton and skin between us. Like he already knows exactly where my mind went last night—tangled in sheets, his name a silent scream in my throat as I dreamed of those eyes watching me while my fingers—

A sharp inhale. The memory alone has my thighs pressing together, heat pooling low. His fault. All of it. The damp cling of my panties this morning, the restless ache still humming under my skin.

The spoon clatters against the pan. His jaw works, and he doesn’t have to look to know what I’m playing at.

Finally.

His head turns, slow, deliberate. When those eyes land on me—all I can do not to arch under the weight of it is stare back.

I want to say something flirtatious, something to get him to abandon cooking to give me the attention I need.

If I open my mouth, there won’t be smooth words coming out. No, it’ll be a desperation I can’t control.That’swhat Logan does to me.

It’s wrong, but fuck, I know it’ll feel right if I cross the invisable line between us.

“You look like you’re starving.” Kicking the air, my lips curve higher. “That food almost done, or are you going to burn it?”

A beat. The air between us crackles.

Then—in my head, I let my imagination unfold the next scene.

The spoon clattering against the counter as he opts to let our entire breakfast burn.

His hands on me before I can blink—rough palms sliding under my thighs, yanking me to the edge of the table with a thud that shakes the ground before shoving them open wide enough to make room for his broad hips.

My breath hitching as he leans in, close enough that his scent—warm spice and something wild—floods my senses.

“Five more minutes.” As his words swat away the fog flooding my thoughts, he turns and lets out a soft sigh.

Only in your fantasies, Violet.

No kidding.

* * *

The days in this cabin turn into a blur. A week of silence passes by in a blur, and I adjust as best as I can.

Logan has a pattern, and I follow along with him, creating one of my own. Some of his activities overlap with my schedule, as I often find myself invading his space on purpose.

Eventually, he’s going to get tired of all my pushing. I’m waiting for it.

So, after another delicious breakfast, I check my phone for any messages or social media posts. The service out here sucks, and it’s what I tell myself for why my inbox is mostly empty.

There’s some spam, of course. Word has gotten around about my replacement, so there are a few talent agencies that would love to use my skills for different bands.

None from Jeremy. No apologies, no regrets,nothing.

I hope he gets strep throat.

My mother hasn’t tried messaging me either. Though by the little image of her face tucked in the corner, shehasseen my last string of messages.

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