Page 12 of Healing with the Mountain Man
The entire trip up, I convinced myself that Dean wasn’t jealous. That he was growing tired of me already.
The man doesn’t look tired. He looks impatient.
He couldn’t even walk to his bedroom or mine. Instead, he carried me over to the couch, sitting me down ever so gently before crashing down to his knees.
“Tell me what you need me to take care of.” His words come out rough, messy. Like he doesn’t even have the patience to wait for my answer, his hands smooth up my thighs.
I can feel the calluses of his palms catching against my jeans, the heat of his fingers soaking through. Back and forth, he adds a little pressure with each stroke so my thighs fall open a little more.
We both know the answer, but he wants me to say it out loud.
I spent three years harboring my feelings, lacking the courage to put three words on paper without scribbling them out with flushed cheeks.
Now he expects me to tell him how much my pussy is aching for his touch? That I want him to be the one to help get me off instead of relying on my own hand?
How embarrassing. Even more with him tucked between my legs, looking up at me with a hunger in his eyes that is beyond consuming.
Every shift is uncomfortable. I can feel the fabric clinging to my soaked folds. I’m getting to the point where I’m ready to be the one to rip them off to find some relief.
Pursing my lips, I reach to unbutton my jeans underneath his gaze. My tongue is twisting in all sorts of knots, making it impossible to speak and hard to breathe. Despite pulling down the zipper and opening the flaps, I find no relief.
The heat only continues to build.
“Dean.”
His jaw flexes with the way I whine his name. He likes me when I’m this needy.
Gliding one of his hands up, he doesn’t continue rubbing my thighs to tease me. Instead, his hand stops right at the top before he squeezes hard enough to throb. Then, his thumb strokes the teeth of my zipper. “Right here?”
Biting my bottom lip, I nod. If my blush could grow any hotter, I’d give the sun a run for its money.
A groan rumbles from deep within his chest, primal and unrestrained. In one swift motion, he yanks me to the edge of the couch, the sudden movement wrenching a gasp from my throat. His grip on my hips is ironclad, fingers pressing into my skin like he’s memorizing the shape of me. Then he leans in, nostrils flaring as he inhales deep right where I’m aching for him.
“Fuck.” The word is a growl, vibrating against my damp skin. “You smell mouthwatering.” His lips brush the soaked fabric of my underwear, the contact so light it’s torture. “I’ve dreamed of knowing how you taste. Tell me, are you gonna be sweet like sugar?” A hot exhale fans over me, making my hips jerk.
Oh my god. How long has he fantasized about this? The thought alone sends a fresh surge of wetness between my legs, but before I can form a response, his fingers hook into the band of my jeans.
In one ruthless pull, he strips them down my legs, the denim scraping my skin. A ragged sound tears from his throat—something between a snarl and a moan—and the vibration of it travels straight to my clit, making another whimper leave my lips.
Pants gone, he looks at my underwear like he wants to grip the thin strip and pull until the fabric gives out.
Iwant him to. So much that I get the courage I need to slide a hand between my thighs and pluck at it. Lifting just enough that he can see the tease of pink hiding beneath.
“Rip it,” I breathe, the words barely more than a whisper.. My fingers tremble against the damp lace, tugging just enough to make the fabric strain.
His eyes flash with satisfaction, a slow smirk curving his lips. “Fuck, Alani. Say it again.”
I swallow, my pulse fluttering under his gaze. “Please, rip it. I need you to—”
He doesn’t let me finish. With a rough growl, his fingers hook into the delicate fabric, and with one sharp pull, he tears it apart. The sound is obscene, the sudden exposure even more so. A gasp punches from my lungs as cool air kisses my bare skin—but his warmth follows instantly, his hands spreading my thighs wider.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Soaked already. Fucking dripping for me.” His thumb swipes throughmy folds, gathering the proof of my need, and I jerk against him with a whine. “Pretty little pussy, all pink and mine.”
The possessive tone weighing down his words is far heavier than the jealousy in his eyes earlier. So heavy, my body shakes beneath the gravity of it.
I nod, frantic, my hips lifting shamelessly toward his touch.
He groans, dragging his knuckles through my slick. “No one has touched this pussy before, have they? Three years, you didn’t let anyone near you.”
