Page 12 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

"God, look at you," he says, his voice hushed with something like awe. "All these beautiful curves." His hands follow his gaze, exploring the topography of my body with careful attention—the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip, the softness of my inner thigh. His fingers trace the silvery stretch marks on my hips and stomach, marks I've always tried to hide.

He leans down to press a kiss to my belly, his beard tickling sensitive skin. "I could spend days just looking at you," he murmurs against me. "Touching you." Another kiss, lower, near my hip bone. "Tasting every inch of you."

My breath catches as his intent becomes clear. His broad shoulders nudge my thighs wider as he settles between them, his warm breath teasing against my most intimate place.

"Paul," I whisper, uncertain and wanting in equal measure.

He looks up the length of my body, his blue eyes dark with desire, his expression serious. "I've dreamed about how you'd taste," he says, his voice rough. "Let me have this, Violet. Let me taste you."

The idea that this powerful man has fantasized about this specific act—about me—sends a fresh wave of heat through my body. I nod, unable to form words, my fingers finding purchase in the quilt beneath me.

He starts with a gentle kiss against my inner thigh, then the other, working his way inward with deliberate patience. When his mouth finally makes contact with my center, it's with a reverence that makes my heart stutter.

His first touches are exploratory—learning the geography of my pleasure, noting what makes my breath hitch, what makes my thighs tremble against his shoulders.

His strong hands grip my hips, thumbs spreading me open to his gaze and mouth. The exposure is intense, almost too much, but the look of concentration on his face, the obvious enjoyment he takes in my responses, transforms vulnerability into power. He's at my mercy as much as I am at his.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs, the vibration of his words adding another layer of sensation. Then his tongue finds the bundle of nerves at my center, circling it with deliberate pressure, and coherent thought dissolves.

The dual sensation of his hot mouth and rough stubble against my sensitive skin is overwhelming. Pleasure builds steadily, coiling tighter with each skilled movement of his tongue. My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands—not guiding, just needing something to anchor me as sensation threatens to sweep me away.

"That's it," he encourages against me, his breath hot and intimate. "Let go for me, beautiful. I want to feel you come on my tongue."

His words, combined with a particularly clever motion, send me tumbling over the edge. My back arches off the bed as pleasure radiates outward from where his mouth is still working, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock.

His name falls from my lips like a mantra, a prayer, a plea.

Before I can fully recover, he's moving up my body, his jeans rough against my oversensitized skin. His mouth finds mine, and I taste myself on his lips—tangy, intimate, slightly sweet. His kisses are hungry now, less controlled, and I respond in kind, my hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

"Let me," he says, standing to remove his remaining clothes. When he straightens, I'm treated to my first full view of him, and my mouth goes dry.

He's magnificent—all lean muscle and sinew, his skin tanned except for a paler band at his hips. His arousal juts proudly from a nest of dark hair, thick and ready. A soldier's body, hardened by necessity and physical work, marred by scars but all the more beautiful for them.

"Now who's staring?" he asks, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Can't help it," I reply, deliberately echoing his words from earlier. I hold out my hand to him. "Come here."

He rejoins me on the bed, settling his weight between my thighs, the hot length of him pressing against my center without entering. We both groan at the contact. His forearms bracket my head as he leans down to kiss me again, this time with achingly tender care.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," he confesses, his voice rough with emotion and need. "It's like you've been carved into my bones since before we met."

In any other context, with any other man, these words might frighten me. But here, with Paul's body covering mine, with thetaste of desire still on my tongue, they feel like the most natural thing in the world—a truth I've somehow always known.

His eyes hold mine as he reaches between us, positioning himself at my entrance. The blunt pressure of him there makes my breath catch in anticipation. Slowly, with careful attention to my reactions, he begins to push inside. The stretch is delicious—a burning fullness that makes me gasp and clutch at his shoulders.

"You feel incredible," he groans, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint. "So tight. So perfect."

He advances by careful degrees, giving my body time to adjust to his size, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. When he's fully seated within me, he stills, letting us both acclimatize to the sensation of being so completely joined.

"Are you okay?" he asks, brushing damp hair from my forehead with gentle fingers, his eyes searching mine.

The tenderness of the gesture, juxtaposed with the intensity of our physical connection, makes my heart swell. I nod, unable to find words for how much more than okay this feels.

My body has never felt so perfectly filled, so completely claimed. I roll my hips experimentally, and the friction draws groans from both of us.

"Move," I urge, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him even deeper. "Please, Paul. I need you to move."

He withdraws almost completely before driving back in with a controlled thrust that has me gasping. He sets a rhythm that's neither too fast nor too slow—deliberate, focused, each movement designed to bring maximum pleasure. His eyes neverleave mine, watching every flicker of sensation, every parting of my lips.

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