Page 11 of Auctioned to the Mountain Man

I should stop this. I could. After all, I’ve got exactly what I came for—an excuse to leave.

Yet for the first time since he dragged me into this mess, I’m not plotting how to escape.

I’m too busy wishing my arms were longer, my grip stronger, so I could fist his shirt in my hands and pull until there’s no space left between us at all.

The air between us is thick, charged like the moment before a storm breaks. Instead of pulling me back under, he turns away, his jaw tight, and leaves me hanging.

Going as far as returning to where he was previously working, I watch in pure disbelief as he picks up his chisel like nothing happened. Doesn’t say a single word to explain his actions.

I wish I had the strength he has to move on. My entire body feels weak, purely ready to give him full control.

Seemingly satisfied with nothing but a handful of kisses, I watch as wood curls under the weight of each push of his tool.

His knuckles are pale, his grip intense. Okay, maybe he’s not as calm as I thought.

A shiver runs through me at the thought of pushing him over the edge, making him have no option but to cave to the pressure growing between both of us.

I press my thighs together, trying to smother the ache, but fail miserably.

Alright. If he can pretend everything is okay, then so can I.

Once the work is done, he’ll have nothing to put his attention on as an excuse. Once I’m the only thing in his view, he’ll have no other choice but to deal with this thing growing between us.

Or, I’ll take the time we’re separated to think clearly. To ponder on leaving, like I probably should.

If Frankie were here, she’d tell me to put my virginity on a platter and serve it to him for dessert. She’d tell me to go wild and not waste such a great opportunity. It’s not like men are desperate for my attention.

Even if Silas isn’t the nicest kind of person, he makes my body ache and my pulse race. Once his hands get on me, he doesn’t have to speak to get me going. The only thing he needs to claim and write his name on is my heart.

Is it crazy that I want to find a pen?

Clearly, I’m inhaling too much of that staining liquid.

Hopping off the workbench on wobbly legs, I try to act nonchalant. Going back to the chair, I pick up my rag and continue working.

Dizzy from the fumes, head swimming from the kisses, I ignore the weight of his eyes drifting in my direction more than not.

I feel his gaze like a physical touch every time I shift, every time I swallow thickly. He’s watching, but he doesn’t move. Never shifts under the pressure between us.

Unlike him, I try to keep my attention on my work. Trying to make sure all the wood turns the same shade of brown, I ignore the tremble of my fingers.

I don’t know how much time passes as we work in silence. Enough that I’m tempted to demand he turn on whatever system is connected to the speakers hanging on the wall.

Once he’s done chipping away with his chisel, he’s taking measurements before filling the air with the shrillish scream of a saw. It’s loud enough to drown out my thoughts, thank goodness.

Just when I’m finishing up the chair, he’s scratching down a list with a pencil that’s swallowed up by his hand with brows furrowed so deep. Is he aware that he’s got some sawdust in his beard?

His eyes snap up, catching me mid-stare like he’s got some sixth sense for when I’m watching him. He straightens, shoulders rolling under his sweat-damp shirt, and clears his throat like he’s dislodging more than just sawdust.

“Need to make a run to town. Gotta pick up some pieces and parts. Might as well grab lunch.” A pause. A flick of his gaze down my body, quick but searing. “You hungry?”

“Starving.” The answer flies out too fast, my voice catching on something far hungrier than food.

The workshop continues to feel stifling, the air thick with resin and unsaid things. I turn toward the stained sink, scrubbing my hands under water that runs rust-brown with stain and sweat. My reflection in the grimy mirror is flushed, lips still swollen from his.

When I turn back, he’s waiting by the door, arms crossed, like he doesn’t have the patience to linger about. But I don’t miss the way his nose flares when I step into his space, close enough to return the same behavior.

I block his path, just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to lift my hand and brush a curl of wood shaving from his beard. My fingers linger, tracing the coarse strands, dislodging sawdust like I’m memorizing the texture of him.

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