Page 15 of My Bossy Mountain Man

The right thing would be to take this slowly. To be careful with her. But as I cradle her face between my hands, all reason evaporates.

No one else has touched her like this. No one else ever will. The thought coils tight in my chest—a possessive ache that burns hotter when her lashes flutter against her cheeks.

“There isn’t a single thing I’d change about you,” I murmur against her skin. My lips trace the curve of her cheekbone,tasting the salt of her skin while breathing in the faint sweetness of her shampoo. When I reach her temple, she shivers. “If you want me even half as much as I want you, Tulip, we’ve got nothing to fear.”

Her laugh comes breathless, barely there—until my mouth finds the delicate hollow spot beneath her ear. Then it dissolves into a gasp that vibrates against my tongue. I don’t miss my chance. I press closer, flattening my tongue against the frantic flutter of her pulse as her fingers scramble at my shoulders.

“Dallas—” My name fractures in her throat as she arches, offering more. Always more. Her surrender is sweeter than any victory I’ve ever known.

“Tell me where the nearest bed is, and I’ll do everything. You won’t even have to lift a finger.” With hunger fueling my words, I nip at her throat as that very same hunger grows into something bigger.

When she takes my hand this time, it’s to guide me deeper into her home. Unlike the start of my visit, I won’t be trying to take in the small details of her bedroom. Instead, I’ll be able to take her in.

7

Tulip

It’s almost ironic how many times I’ve deliberately dressed to catch this man’s attention only to falter now, standing in the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom, suddenly achingly aware of every flaw.

The clasps of my overalls resist my trembling fingers, the metal cool and unyielding. One buckle gives way, the click too loud in the charged silence between us. The next buckle, I struggle to undo with trembling fingers.

I fumble, my pulse hammering, not from inexperience but from the terrifying possibility that he might see me—not the carefully curated version in pretty clothes, but the reality beneath. Stretch marks, softness, imperfections laid bare.

I’m not afraid of the act itself. I’m afraid of the way his eyes might darken with disappointment, how his hands might hesitate instead of crave.

My insecurities have always gripped me, and tonight, they tighten around my throat, whispering the same thoughts that weigh heavily in the back of my mind.

What if he changes his mind?

Then Dallas pulls his shirt over his head, and every anxious thought evaporates. Sizzles up like water on a hot pan.

The fabric slides up, revealing shoulders that belong on a laborer, not a man who spends his days shelving books. His chest is broad, dusted with just enough dark hair to make my fingers itch to reach out and touch. The dim light catches the definition of his abdomen, and suddenly, my mouth is dry.

I gape at him, utterly still, like a fish tossed onto the riverbank.

His lips quirk. “You’re staring.”

Obviously.But all I manage is a strangled noise, halfway between a whimper and a laugh. His confidence is effortless, his body a quiet rebellion against every stereotype I’d pinned to him. The man who whispers sonnets in the library stacks also hasthishidden under his T-shirts? It’s unfair.

“Hey.” A calloused thumb brushes my cheek, startling me. “You with me?”

I nod, but my breath hitches as his hand trails down to my half-undone overalls. His fingers replace mine, deftly working the last clasp.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, “and I will.”

The problem is, I don’t want him to. With the way he takes his time to strip me of the denim-clad one-piece, it’s like he already knows I’ve got a mental battle going on.

“You’re just… really impressive, and I’m—”

My voice cracks as his expression shifts. Not the usual fleeting scowl, but something deeper—a frown carved into his features like a confession. It stills me.

“You’re gorgeous, Tulip.” His voice is rough, scraping against the quiet between us. “Every day I’ve spent with you, I’ve fought battles not to say it out loud. Not to reach for you. Do you have any idea what that does to a man?”

His hand closes around mine, pressing my palm flat against his chest. His skin is warm, the muscle taut beneath my fingers, and beneath that—

A heartbeat. Wild and relentless, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

He’s just as wrecked as I am.

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