Page 15 of Auctioned to the Mountain Man

I don’t need my imagination of him showering or breathing in his soap to turn me on. My body is already on fire, my clit throbbing and begging for attention. It has been ever since he got his hands on me.

I’m torturing myself by letting this simmer. Letting him win.

The shower’s spray is cold, but it does nothing to douse the fire under my skin. I scrub my hair too hard, lather my body too fast, my movements sharp with frustration. When my fingers finally dip lower, skimming the slick heat between my thighs, I freeze.

Is this really it?

Am I really going to fold every time Silas riles me up, fingers curling into my own flesh because he refuses to do it himself? It’s pathetic. Worse—it’s unfair.

Why does he get to stroke this hunger and walk away untouched? Why am I the one left breathless, my body a battlefield of unslaked need, while he smirks from the sidelines?

I let him set the pace, silently hoping to give me a continuation.

Not again. Not this time.

I’llbe the one to make the move.

So, instead of relieving the intense throbbing between my thighs, I get out of the shower.

Fumbling with getting dressed, I abandon the bathroom to hunt him down. Hair still dripping, skin still flushed from scrubbing, I find him sitting so comfortably on his couch. When he feels my stare, he looks my way.

I don’t give him time to speak. Instead, I’m stomping toward him. Heart racing and lungs burning from forgetting to breathe, my hands curl into fists.

“Lily–” He chokes on my name, his eyes struggling to pick where to stare.

“You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met.Infuriating,actually. The list might not be long, but you are number one.” My chest heaves as the words come flowing out.

His brows suddenly furrow deep, his eyes narrowing. “How long is the list?”

I’m ready to strangle this man. Right now, I can’t tell if I want to use my hands or my thighs. “Whydoes that even matter? Seriously. You—”

A raw, guttural sound tears from my throat, made up of half frustration, half surrender, as I fling my hands wildly between us.

Words evaporate like steam on my tongue. Who is this person I’ve become under his watchful gaze? This reckless, hungry creature who can’t stop staring at the way his bare chest rises with each controlled breath?

The power shift hits me like a lightning strike. For once, he isn’t the immovable mountain looming over me. For once, those broad shoulders are level with my heaving chest, his stormy eyes looking up through dark lashes as I loom over him instead.

I can reach him now.

The realization sends me stumbling forward before my brain catches up. My knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, my frown mirroring his as my fingers dig into the rock-hard muscle of his bicep to steady myself.

I expect resistance. A firm grip to halt my advance. Another infuriating display of his self-control.

Instead, his hands slam onto my hips with enough force to bruise, yanking me down until I’m straddling him completely. Every nerve ending ignites as I feel him,all of him,thick and straining against me through the thin barrier of our clothes.

A ragged groan escapes him when I instinctively roll my hips, the friction drawing twin sounds of pleasure from us both.

“Stop holding back,” I pant against his lips, our breath mingling in the charged space between us. My nails scrape down his chest, reveling in the way his abs contract under my touch. “Unless you’re scared you can’t handle what happens when you finally let go.”

I’m not a handful. Maybe a pain in the ass, but so is he. We’re perfect for each other. Can’t he see that?

When he growls, a shiver rolls through my body. Acting likehe’sthe one suffering here, he slips his hands under my shirt and glides his fingers against my skin. As he leans forward, the heat of his breath against my chest makes my pebbling nipplesagainst the fabric so obvious. No wonder he was struggling to pick where to stare.

“I’m scared you’ll leave once I do,” he admits in a hoarse whisper.

My heart flutters when I see the hunger in his gaze, the attempt to keep himself under control.

Is that what this has been all along?

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