Page 11 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

"I don't want you to stop," she whispers, her voice hitching as I find a sensitive spot just below her ear. "I just want—"

"What?" I ask, pulling back just enough to see her face, flushed and beautiful in the afternoon light. "Tell me what you want, Violet."

Her eyes meet mine, amber and gold in the sunlight, pupils dilated with desire. There's still wonder there, still disbelief, but the wariness is gone.

"You," she says simply. "I want you. Even though it makes no sense. Even though we barely know each other." She takes a shaky breath. "I've never wanted anything the way I want this."

The confession ignites something in me—possessive, primal, protective. I lift her easily, her soft thighs wrapping around my waist as if we've done this a hundred times before. Her weight in my arms feels right, perfect.

"You have me," I tell her, carrying her toward the bedroom—not the spare room with the desk, but the master bedroom where she slept last night. "You've had me since before we met."

She laughs softly against my neck, the sound vibrating through me. "That's still the craziest thing I've ever heard."

"I know," I agree, laying her gently on the bed, following her down until I'm braced above her, drinking in the sight of her spread beneath me, hair fanned out on the quilt, eyes bright with desire and something deeper. "But it's true all the same."

Chapter 5 – Violet

Paul's hands move with reverent hunger across my body—sliding beneath my t-shirt to trace the soft curve of my waist, his calloused fingers creating shivers wherever they touch. His mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I let my head fall back with a soft gasp. The contrast between his gentle exploration and the barely restrained power in his frame makes my heart race.

He lifts me with surprising ease, strong hands cupping my thighs as I wrap my legs around his waist. The hardness of him presses against me through our clothes, making me acutely aware of where this is heading.

When my back meets the quilted bedspread, Paul follows me down, his body a welcome weight above mine. I run my hands over the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex and shift beneath my fingertips.

"I need to see you," I whisper, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "All of you."

A slow smile spreads across his face—not cocky, but deeply pleased. He sits back on his heels between my thighs and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

The sight of him steals my breath. Afternoon sunlight streams through the curtains, bathing his torso in golden light that highlights every ridge of muscle, every plane and hollow. His chest and arms speak of years of physical labor, powerful and defined without the artificial perfection of a gym-sculpted body.

But it's the scars that draw my eye—a constellation of stories written across his skin. A long, silvery line runs from his leftcollarbone down across his pectoral muscle. Smaller marks pepper his right side. A puckered circle mars his left shoulder.

I push myself up onto my elbows and press my lips to the longest scar, feeling the slight ridge of it against my mouth. His sharp intake of breath encourages me. I follow the line with my tongue, tasting salt and skin. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair.

"Your turn," he says after a moment, his voice even deeper than before. "Let me see you, Violet."

A flutter of nervousness passes through me. My body is nothing like the toned, athletic women I imagine someone like Paul would normally desire. I'm soft where they would be firm, rounded where they would be lean. Years of desk work and comfort food have left me with generous curves and a fullness to my belly that no amount of dieting has ever quite erased.

But the hunger in Paul's eyes as his fingers find the hem of my shirt leaves no room for doubt. This man wants me—specifically, exactly as I am.

I lift my arms, allowing him to pull the garment over my head. Cool air kisses my skin, drawing goosebumps across my flesh. Paul's gaze is almost reverent as it travels over the black lace of my bra, the fullness of my breasts spilling over the cups, the soft curve of my waist.

"Beautiful," he breathes, one hand reaching out to trace the lace edge where it meets my skin. "You have no idea how many nights I've lain awake thinking about you—about this—not even knowing what you looked like. Just knowing you'd be perfect." His finger trails down between my breasts, following the centerline of my body to the waistband of my jeans.

When his fingers find the clasp of my bra at my back, I arch to give him better access. The bra falls away, and I resist the instinctive urge to cover myself. Instead, I watch his face as he looks at me, savoring the naked desire I see there.

"Gosh," he murmurs, cupping the weight of one breast in his large hand. The contrast of his tanned, work-roughened skin against my paleness sends a shiver through me. His thumb circles my nipple, which tightens immediately at his touch. "So responsive."

He lowers his head, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and the wet heat of it draws a sound from me I barely recognize as my own—part gasp, part moan. His tongue circles the sensitive peak while his other hand kneads my neglected breast, thumb teasing until both nipples are hard and aching. Each pull of his mouth sends a corresponding tug of pleasure straight between my thighs.

"I love how sensitive you are," he says against my skin, his breath cooling the dampness left by his mouth. "Love watching your reactions." He switches to my other breast, lavishing it with the same attention while his now-free hand slides down to the button of my jeans. He pauses there, looking up at me. "May I?"

The gentleness of the question, the care taken despite his obvious desire, makes my heart swell. "Yes," I whisper, lifting my hips slightly in invitation. "Please."

He unbuttons my jeans with careful precision, drawing down the zipper tooth by tooth, the sound loud in the quiet room. Then his hands are at my hips, thumbs hooking into both denim and the waistband of my underwear, a question in his eyes. I nod, and he slides both garments down my legs in one smooth motion.

And then I'm naked beneath him, completely exposed to his gaze. A flush spreads across my skin—not just from desire, but from the vulnerability of the moment.

Paul sits back again, his eyes traveling slowly over every inch of me, lingering on the fullness of my hips, the soft roundness of my belly, the plush curves of my thighs.

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