Page 6 of Rugged Mountain Man
Then I remember—getting lost, stepping in the trap, the storm, and Cole.
My ankle protests as I swing my legs off the couch. I glance down at it, wrapped securely in a bandage. It feels tender, but the sharp pain is gone. Testing it with a careful roll, I realize it’s already much better. A good thing, because I’d hate to hobble around like a damsel in distress for much longer.
My gaze drifts to the pile of clothes neatly folded on the sofa. My jeans, socks, and shirt are clean and dry—no trace of mud or rain. Next to them sits my cleaned hiking boots. The sight tugs at something deep inside me. He didn’t have to do that.
The sound of a skillet scraping pulls my attention to the open kitchen. Cole stands at the stove, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his grey t-shirt, his arms moving with that same quiet strength I noticed when he carried me. He’s flipping something in a pan—eggs, I think—and the sight of him doing something so… normal throws me.
Mountain men don’t cook breakfast in my head. They chop wood and growl at people.
But then his head turns, and his dark eyes land on me.
He freezes, spatula mid-air. His eyes drop, skimming over my bare legs peeking out from beneath his shirt. The movement is slow, deliberate, like he’s taking in every inch of me and cataloging it. My pulse quickens under his gaze, a heat spreading from my chest all the way down to my toes. When his throat works in a hard swallow, a spark ignites low in my belly.
Cole turns back to the stove, and for a second, I think I can breathe again—until I really look at him.
His T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, the fabric worn soft and stretched across the expanse of his back. His arms flex with every small movement, thick and corded with muscle, and the tattoos that wind up his right arm only add to the rugged, dangerous energy of him. Ink swirls over his bicep, disappearing under the edge of his shirt, and I can’t stop imagining how far those tattoos go—or how good they’d look with nothing in the way.
And his jeans. Worn and sitting low on his hips, they do absolutely nothing to hide the hard strength of his body. He’s barefoot, his movements steady and unhurried, like he’s entirely in control of everything—including me. My pussy clenches. It can’t be. I’ve never had this reaction to a man before.
I swallow hard, dragging my gaze away before I lose what little composure I have left. This is ridiculous. Mountain men are not supposed to look this good. Aren’t they supposed to be scruffy, grizzled old hermits with bad teeth and questionable hygiene? Not… this.
This is trouble.
Heat flushes through me, and I grip the edge of the blanket tighter. “Good morning,” I say, my voice raspy from sleep.
“Morning.”
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah.” I tug at the hem of the shirt, suddenly hyperaware of how short it is. “I, uh, slept well.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with that unreadable expression. My skin heats under his gaze, and I shuffle toward the counter, needing something—anything—to do.
“Coffees on the counter,” he says, his tone even, but his eyes are still on me. “Help yourself.”
I pour a mug, my hands shaking slightly, and take a sip to hide my face. The coffee is strong and black, nothing like the fancy lattes I’m used to, but I like it. It’s real. Grounding.
When I glance at him again, he’s back at the stove, but the tension in his shoulders is unmistakable. Does he notice me staring? Does he care?
“You hungry?” he asks without turning around.From the feeling in my pussy, but not for breakfast.
“A little.”
“Good. Sit.”
I sit at the small table, the old wood smooth under my hands. The cabin is even cozier in the daylight, every surface neat and intentional.
He sets a plate in front of me and another across the table before sitting down. His presence fills the room, heavy and warm.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a bite of the eggs. They’re perfectly seasoned, the toast golden and crisp. “This is good.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I roll my eyes. “Charming as ever.”
He smirks, just barely. “Eat.”
I glance up at him as I chew, catching the way his forearms flex when he lifts his fork. His tattoos shift with every movement, dark ink against tan skin. I look away quickly, heat rising to my cheeks.
