Page 9 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
Night settles over the cabin as I change into the oversized t-shirt I sleep in. Through the thin walls, I hear Josiah moving around, getting ready for bed himself. The boards creak as he walks the hallway, pausing briefly outside my door before continuing to his room. The small hesitation sends a thrill through me.
He's thinking about me too.
I slide beneath the quilt, but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. The memory of his large hand in mine, the taste of his skin on my tongue, the sharp intake of breath I'd drawn from him. It all swirls together, building a restless heat that makes it impossible to lie still.
What would it be like if he gave in to whatever's building between us? If he stopped fighting this pull we both clearly feel?
I close my eyes, imagining a future where he finally accepts what I've known since I was fifteen—that I belong with him. I picture us in this cabin, but not as tentative housemates. As husband and wife.
Our wedding would be small, just a few people from town at that little white church in Silver Ridge. I'd wear something simple but beautiful. And Josiah would look at me the way he did today in the kitchen, but without holding back. Without guilt or hesitation.
The thought sends a wave of heat through me. My fingers drift beneath the covers, tracing patterns along my stomach, edging lower. I know I shouldn't, the walls are thin, and Josiah's room is just down the hall, but the ache between my thighs has become impossible to ignore.
I bite my lip as my fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties, finding the slick heat there. A small gasp escapes me before I can stop it.
I imagine our wedding night, how gentle those rough, calloused hands would be as they undressed me. How his gray eyes would darken as he saw me fully for the first time. The weight of his body over mine, pressing me into this very mattress.
Would he be gentle? Or would that control he keeps so carefully in check finally break?
My fingers move faster as the fantasy takes shape. Josiah, unleashed. His large hands gripping my hips, his mouthclaiming mine. The hardness I glimpsed in his expression when I sucked his finger fully realized as he finally takes what we both want.
Heat builds low in my belly, my breath coming in shortened gasps that I muffle against the pillow. In my mind, it's his fingers, not mine, creating this exquisite pressure. His breath hot against my ear, telling me I'm his. That I've always been his.
The tension coils tighter, threatening to snap. I imagine him above me, inside me, making me completely his. My back arches as the fantasy overtakes me, pleasure crashing through my body in waves that leave me trembling and breathless.
As reality slowly returns, guilt creeps in around the edges of lingering pleasure. I'm in his home, his guest room, fantasizing about him while he's just down the hall. It feels like crossing a line, even if he'll never know.
But that small hesitation outside my door—what if he does know? What if he hears me and recognizes the sound for what it is?
The thought should mortify me, but instead, it sends another jolt of heat through my oversensitive body.
I curl onto my side, pulling the quilt tight around me as my racing heart gradually slows. Tomorrow, I'll continue proving to Josiah that I belong here. That what's between us is worth exploring. That I'm a woman grown, not the child he remembers.
But for now, I drift toward sleep, sated and more determined than ever to make my fantasies reality.
Morning brings with it a sense of exposure I'm not prepared for. As if my nighttime activities are somehow written across my face for Josiah to read.
I dress carefully in jeans and a simple blouse, trying to look mature without seeming like I'm trying too hard. My reflection in the small mirror shows cheeks still flushed with the memory of last night's fantasy. There's no way he could know, but I can barely meet my own eyes, let alone his.
When I finally venture to the kitchen, Josiah is already there, coffee brewed, eggs and bacon sizzling in a cast-iron skillet. His back is to me, shoulders broad beneath his flannel shirt, and the sight sends my mind straight back to last night's imaginings.
"Morning," I manage, voice coming out huskier than intended.
He turns, and for a second, I see a heat that wasn't there yesterday before his usual stoic mask slides back into place.
"Sleep well?" he asks, turning back to the stove.
"Fine," I lie, unable to look at him directly as I pour myself coffee. "You?"
"Well enough."
An awkward silence falls between us, thick with unspoken tension. I focus on my coffee, avoiding his gaze even as I feel his eyes on me.
"You're quiet this morning," he observes, setting a plate of eggs before me.
"Just thinking," I reply, still not meeting his eyes.
"About?"
