Page 10 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

"I know you felt it when we kissed," I say, my voice dropping lower. "I know your body recognized mine. I know you've been watching me all day, thinking about it happening again."

She swallows hard, her eyes darting to my mouth before meeting my gaze again. "You're very sure of yourself."

"No," I correct her. "I'm sure of you. Of us. There's a difference."

She shakes her head and turns away, moving quickly back into the main room of the cabin. I follow, giving her space but unwilling to let this conversation end.

"This is insane," she says, pacing the worn floorboards. "We met yesterday. Yesterday, Paul. And you've built me furniture? Stocked art supplies? Read private letters from my grandmother?" She runs a hand through her hair, mussing the copper strands. "In what world is that normal?"

"Nothing about this is normal," I agree, leaning against the doorframe. "But that doesn't make it wrong."

She stops pacing and faces me, her chest rising and falling with quick, agitated breaths. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches her from the side, illuminating the curve of hercheek, the fullness of her lower lip, the soft swell of her breast beneath her sweater.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she says, but the words sound hollow even to my ears. "This was... a nice interlude. A pleasant surprise. But it's not real life."

Something in me snaps—not in anger, but in fierce determination. I push off from the doorframe and close the distance between us in three long strides.

"This is the most real thing you've ever felt," I say, my voice low and certain. "And you know it."

I don't touch her, though every cell in my body strains toward her. I just stand there, close enough to feel the heat of her, to catch the scent of her skin, to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

"You're afraid," I continue, softer now. "Not of me. Of how right this feels. Of what it means to want something this much, this fast."

"Stop," she whispers, but she doesn't step away.

"Tell me I'm wrong," I challenge her gently. "Tell me you don't feel this pull between us. Tell me you can walk away tomorrow and forget the way we fit together."

Instead of answering, she reaches up, her fingers hesitating just shy of my face. Then, with a small sound that might be surrender or might be determination, she lays her palm against my cheek. Her touch is cool and soft, and I fight the urge to turn my face into it, to kiss her palm, her wrist, to taste the delicate skin there.

"I don't know what this is," she admits, her voice barely audible. "I don't know how to make sense of it."

"Then stop trying," I tell her, covering her hand with mine, holding it against my face. "Some things aren't meant to be analyzed. Just felt."

I see the moment she lets go—something shifting in her eyes, a tension releasing in her shoulders. She steps closer, her body now flush against mine, her face tilted up to hold my gaze.

"This is crazy," she says again, but this time the words hold wonder rather than denial.

"Yes," I agree, sliding my free hand to the small of her back, feeling the warm give of her body through her sweater. "It is."

When she rises on her toes to kiss me, I'm ready. This kiss is different from our first—not discovery but confirmation. Her mouth is soft but insistent against mine, and I respond in kind, letting her set the pace while my body hums with the effort of restraint.

Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me down to her, eliminating the height difference between us. I slide both hands to her waist, fingers spreading to span the softness there, to feel the lush curve where her waist flares to hip.

She makes a small sound against my mouth, and something primal in me answers, deepening the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that mimics what my body craves.

Her body is pliant against mine, her breasts pressed to my chest, her hips aligned with mine. I can feel every soft curve, every place where she yields. The contrast of her softness against my hardness sends heat spiraling through me.

I walk her backward until she meets the wall, never breaking the kiss. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging slightly in a way that makes me growl against her mouth. I press closer, lettingher feel what she does to me, what she's been doing since the moment I saw her step out of that car.

"Paul," she gasps when I finally release her mouth to trail kisses down her neck.

"I've thought about this," I murmur against her skin, tasting the salt-sweet flavor of her. "Every night for months. The way you'd feel in my arms. The sounds you'd make."

Her head falls back against the wall, giving me better access to the column of her throat. I take advantage, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the tender skin there, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips.

"Tell me to stop," I say against her collarbone, even as my hands slide lower, cupping the full curves of her ass, pulling her more firmly against me. "If this isn't what you want, tell me now."

Her answer is to arch against me, her body seeking more contact, more pressure. Her hands slip beneath my shirt, her fingers cool against the heated skin of my back, tracing the ridges of old scars without hesitation or disgust.

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