Page 29 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
I scramble off the bed, hyperaware that I’m wearing another of his T-shirts and nothing else underneath as I yank down the hem and try keeping my knees pressed firmly together.
“I was going to shower, but I changed my mind.” The lie slips out easily as I reach for my clothes.
He shifts his grip, lifting out just my small pile. The delicate lace looks impossibly fragile in his large hands. Those rough, work-worn fingers that could snap the thin straps without effort, are holding my underwear with unexpected care. The white fabric seems to glow against his tanned skin.
“I...” My throat dries as our fingers brush during the transfer.
His hands are warm and callused, and for a moment, I imagine them touching me through that same delicate lace.
“Thanks,” I manage, clutching my things against my chest.
He nods, already backing out toward the door, his dark brows drawn down in a frown, and his beautiful lips pressed together in a hard line. “No problem.”
Then he’s gone, footsteps retreating down the hall.
I stand there for a moment with my heart pounding, looking down at the underwear in my hands. He washed these. Touched them. And for some reason, the thought of it makes me horny as hell.
It must be all the fresh air I’m getting.
I set them carefully on the dresser and return to bed, lifting the collar of his T-shirt to my nose. The fabric smells like him. Manly, with deep woodsy tones that make my stomach clench. I burrow deeper into it as I climb under the covers.
His bed. His sheets. His scent surrounds me completely.
I close my eyes, but all I see is him standing in the doorway. How the morning light and a sheen of perspiration made his skin glow. The way his chest heaved with each breath. The dark trail of hair leading down to...
My hand drifts to my stomach, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.
I shouldn’t. He’s right there in the living room. It seems rude. Naughty, even. And these walls are probably paper-thin…
I squirm, pressing my thighs together to ease the ache building inside me. Painful. Everything about this is painful.
But the memory won’t leave me alone. The way he looked at me when I was on my knees. How his eyes darkened when I sucked his thumb. And the barely controlled hunger in his expression before he fled.
My fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin. Light touches, nothing more. But my body is already primed, has been ever since breakfast, when I felt exactly how affected he was. Like me.
He wants me. That much is undeniable.
The thought sends heat pooling between my thighs. Big, gruff Ben, who barely speaks more than one-syllable grunts and lives alone on a mountain. Ben, who fixes things with his strong, capable hands... hands that carried me so easily…
Ben wants me.
I bite my lip, hand drifting lower. I’m already wet, have been for hours, and the first touch makes me gasp. This will be so quick, it’ll barely count, I tell myself, giving me permission to indulge in my Ben-shaped fantasies. There’s no way I’d be able to sleep like this.
I need release.
Closing my eyes, I settle back against the pillows. In my mind, it’s his hand.Those rough fingers I watched folding my delicate underwear are now touching me through them. The white lace is the only barrier between his skin and mine.
“Ben,” I whisper, so quiet, it’s barely a breath.
I circle slowly, building the sensation, lost in the fantasy.
He’s here in bed with me. That massive frame is pressed against my back. His hand’s between my thighs while the other covers my mouth to keep me quiet.
“Shhh,” he’d rumble in my ear, as if there’s anyone on this mountain to hear us.
My fingers move faster, chasing the building pressure as he’s kissing my neck, his beard, rough against my sensitive skin.
Those brawny arms hold me in place, keeping me exactly where he wants me, while he takes me apart with patient, devastating touches.
