Page 54 of Grumpy on the Mountain
This is pure heat and need and tongues and the taste of her driving me absolutely insane. Her body presses against mine, soft curves molding to hard angles, and I can feel every inch of her through our clothes.
I wrap my arms around her, lifting her off the ground, and she makes this small sound that goes straight to my cock. My handsfind her waist, her back, the curve where her spine meets her ass, and she arches into me like she can't get close enough.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes have blown wide, her pupils dilated with craving and want that would drive a worthier man into a feverish state.
"Molly," I start, but she's already stepping back, her hands going to the hem of her sweater.
"What are you doing?" I manage to ask, though the words come out strangled.
She smiles, slow and devastating. "What do you think I'm doing?"
With one swift, confident movement, she pulls her sweater over her head.
Fuck.
She's wearing a black lace bra that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that her nipples are hard, pressing against the delicate fabric like they're begging for attention.
Her skin is pale and perfect, a light flush spreading across her chest, and I want to trace every inch of it with my tongue.
"Molly," I say again, but it comes out more like a groan.
She reaches behind her back, and the bra comes undone with a softclick.
The fabric falls away, and I forget how to breathe.
Her breasts are perfect. Full and soft with pale pink nipples that are tight from the cool air, or arousal, or both. There's a light dusting of freckles across her chest that I want to map with my mouth.
Goddammit.
The way she's looking at me right now. All confident and shy and fucking gorgeous… the sight makes my cock strain against my jeans.
The bra drops at my feet, and she notices the way my eyes track its path. The way I'm staring at her like I'm starving and she's the first meal I've seen in weeks.
Because that's exactly how I feel.
I'd been telling myself I didn't remember her—the girl my brother used to parade around.
But that was bullshit.
I remembered everything. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous. Standing here now, with her half-naked and perfect, I realize I've been waiting for this moment since I was seventeen.
"You're staring," she says, but there's no accusation in it. Just heat.
"Hard not to," I manage, my voice rough as gravel.
She bites her lip, and the small action sends another surge of blood south. Her hands move to the button of her jeans, and I realize this isn't going to stop.
She's going to strip completely, right here in my spare bedroom, and I'm going stand here with a throbbing boner and watch every second of it.
The jeans slide down her legs, revealing miles of smooth skin and black lace panties that match the discarded bra. She steps out of the denim, kicking it aside, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.
"These too?" she asks, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her panties.
I can't speak. Can barely think. All I can do is nod.
She takes her time with it, sliding the lace down inch by agonizing inch, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to die. I can't look away. I don't want to.
This moment, with Molly Jennings standing before me, is a kind of perfection I never thought I'd experience again.
