Page 11 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
"Thanks," she says, her voice suddenly soft. She doesn't pull away from my touch.
For a moment, we stand frozen in the gathering twilight, my hand still on her arm, her eyes wide as they meet mine. The air between us feels charged, heavy with possibility.
"Josiah," she says.
I should step back. Create distance. Remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I hear myself asking, "Why me, Wynonna? After all these years, all the men you must have met. Why come looking for me?"
She doesn't flinch from the directness of my question. "Because no one else made me feel like I belonged. Like I was home." Her eyes hold mine steadily. "No one else made me feel the way you do."
"And how's that?" My voice drops lower, rougher.
"Safe," she whispers. "Seen. Wanted."
The last word hangs between us, weighted with meaning.
"You were just a girl when you left," I say, one final attempt at maintaining the boundary between us.
"I'm not a girl now." She steps closer, her face tilted up to mine. "And you know it. I've seen how you look at me when you think I won't notice."
My hand tightens involuntarily on her arm. "Wynonna."
"Last night," she continues, her voice gaining confidence. "Did you hear me, Josiah? Did you hear what you do to me?"
Jesus Christ. The direct question knocks the breath from my lungs. My cock responds immediately, blood rushing south with such force I feel lightheaded.
"I heard," I admit, the words scraping out of my suddenly dry throat.
Her eyes widen, a flush spreading across her cheeks, but she doesn't back down. "And?"
"And I shouldn't have been listening," I say, fighting for control. "Just like you shouldn't be here. This isn't—"
"If you say 'appropriate' one more time, I swear I'll scream," she interrupts, frustration breaking through her usualcomposure. "I'm tired of you telling me what should be instead of admitting what is."
"And what exactly is this?" I demand, gesturing between us, my control slipping.
"This is me, standing in front of a man I've wanted since I first knew what wanting meant," she says, her voice steady despite the tremble I can feel beneath my fingers. "This is you, fighting what we both know is happening between us because you're stuck on who I was instead of who I am."
"I know exactly who you are," I growl, my restraint fraying with each word. "That's the problem."
"Then who am I, Josiah?" she challenges, stepping impossibly closer. "Tell me."
"You're Frank Crow's daughter," I begin, grasping at the reasons I've been repeating to myself. "You're fifteen years younger than me."
"That's who I'm related to, not who I am," she cuts in. "Try again."
Something in me snaps—the tight control I've maintained since she showed up on my doorstep crumbling beneath her persistent challenge.
"You're stubborn," I say, my voice rough. "Determined. Too smart for your own good. Beautiful in a way that makes it hard to breathe sometimes." The words pour out, unstoppable now. "You're the woman who crossed a country to find me. Who knew me well enough to track me down. Who makes me forget every damn reason I should put you on that bus to Manitoba."
Her breath catches, eyes widening at my admission.
"I listened to you," I continue, moving closer until I can feel the heat of her body against mine. "I listened to you last night. Every gasp. Every sigh." My lips hover near her ear as I add, "Even that little whimper when you came."
She trembles against me, her hands coming up to brace against my chest. "And what did you do when you heard me?" she whispers.
"I lay there with my cock so hard it ached," I confess, the raw honesty tearing from me. "Wanting to be the one making you sound like that. Wanting to bury myself inside you until you forget your own name."
