Page 9 of Auctioned to the Mountain Man

The only thing in my head right now is the image of bending her over the very table she’s so damn curious about and exploring how supportive it would be under our weight.

Fuck me.I’ve got it bad. Instead of addressing this issue, I’ve made it worse.

Like she doesn’t understand where I’m coming from, she glances down at the handprint she’s left over her right breast. The one I’m trying my damned hardest not to look at. “Oh.”

Releasing her, I bury my fingers through my hair and turn away. I’ve stopped her from causing more damage, so that’s good and all. Now, I need to walk away before I do something stupid.

Something I can’t take back.

Reminding myself that she’s probably got someone waiting for her back at home, my feet remain glued to the ground. I don’t think my boots have ever felt so heavy.

“I didn’t think about that, I’m sorry.” She sighs behind me, apologizing for something she really doesn’t need to. “You’re just really good at what you do. It’s hard not to appreciate your stuff.”

For giving me a compliment, she sounds grouchy about it.

When I glance over my shoulder, a mistake, of course, I see she’s still flustered. She’s poking and prodding at that shirt.

I told her to bring clothing that isn’t important. Something worth losing.

“That shirt important to you?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend, fingers flexing at my sides like I’m still fighting the urge to reach for her again.

I don’t owe her an apology—but I did startle her, and now there’s a smear of dark stain streaked across the faded lettering. There’s no saving the fabric.

She blinks, slow and dazed, like she’s still catching up. Then her fingers twist nervously in the material, tugging it away from her skin just enough that I catch a glimpse of collarbone, the delicate hollow of her throat.

“Oh, it’s from a few years ago, back when I attended school. It’s not—no, it’s just comfy, I guess.” Her words trip over themselves, soft and flustered, and something hot coils low in my gut.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard through my nose.

It’shers.

Not some boyfriend’s. Not some other man’s. Just hers, worn thin from time, from use, from her body curled up in it.

The realization shouldn’t hit me this hard.

I need air. Space. A minute to wrestle back the stupid, reckless thoughts flooding my head—because it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.

She could still have someone. She should have someone.

I shouldn’t be standing here, staring at the way the fabric clings to her just a little where the stain’s soaked in, wondering how much darker it’d be if I pressed my palm there.

“I’m gonna step out,” I mutter, already turning before she can see the way my jaw ticks. “Get back to work and finish that chair.”

My voice is steady. My hands aren’t. They’re itching to touch her. Itching to map out her body and see everything that shirt is covering.

She clicks her tongue, frowning at me like a switch has been flipped.

“Does it kill you to be nice?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the thick air between us.

I need to walk away.

Lily doesn’t let me escape before I can.

She steps forward, deliberate, slow—like she knows exactly how much it unravels me to breathe in the same air. Her frown mirrors mine, but there’s fire in her eyes, a defiance that makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.

When I breathe in deep, it’s not just the scent of the woodstain filling my lungs. It’s my shampoo clinging to her that makes my head spin. Makes me think she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she knows what to do to push me over the ledge.

“You bought me at that auction,” she says, jabbing a finger into my chest. The contact burns, even through my shirt. “But you act like I’m some kind of burden. Like you can’t stand the sight of me. So what’s your deal, huh? Why am I here if all you’re gonna do is glare at me like I’ve pissed you off just by existing? I get it, you spent way too much money to call it a loss, but why are you putting us both through this?”

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