Page 11 of Falling for the Mountain Man
I see the flicker of hesitation, a ghost of the real world haunting the edges of this perfect moment. Her eyes dart toward the kitchen entrance, and a sliver of fear cuts through me.
Don’t pull away. Not now.
“Please,” she whispers, and the raw plea in that one word undoes me completely. “Let’s go somewhere else. I can’t… I can’t bear to be interrupted again. I need this. I need you.”
That’s all it takes. Every atom in my body is already in motion.
I carry her, my grip secure, my entire being focused on the singular mission of getting her to a room, any room, where I can worship her properly.
Then her hands cup my face, not with softness, but with a claiming hunger that steals the air from my lungs. She kisses me, and it’s not a response—it’s a demand. A searing demand that she is every bit as lost in this as I am.
The shy girl is gone, replaced by a siren pulling me under, and the groan that rips from my chest is pure agony and ecstasy. My knees nearly buckle.
The most challenging task I have ever faced is not running us straight into a wall, because all the blood in my body has rushed south, and my entire universe has condensed to the feel of her mouth on mine and the promise of what comes next.
I take her to the one place I know we won’t be disturbed. My bedroom. Shuffling inside, I shut the door with my foot, separating ourselves from the rest of the world.
“Always wanted to slip inside here in secret. Roll around in your sheets. Does that make me weird?” Her confession, whispered against my neck as I cross the threshold into my room, sends a fresh, searing wave of heat through me.
I laugh, a rough, breathy sound that’s more air than humor. It’s either that or groan from the sheer, overwhelming want her words ignite. “Weird?” I ask, my voice dropping as I reach the bed. “Is that what you think?”
Before she can answer, I let her go. She bounces once on the mattress, a soft gasp escaping her lips, her light-colored hair fanning out around her like a halo. The sight of her here, in the center of my bed, exactly where I’ve only ever dreamed she’d be, is my undoing.
I feel like I’m overheating, my skin too tight, the air in the room too thick to breathe. I fist the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head in one frantic motion, tossing it to the floor without a second thought. The cooler air is a relief against my burning skin, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough except her.
My eyes are locked on her as my hand goes to the straining bulge in my pajama pants. I squeeze myself through the soft fabric, a sharp, involuntary groan tearing from my throat at the pressure, at the sheer ache of it. She watches the movement, her eyes wide with curiosity, and I see her breath catch.
I crawl onto the bed, caging her beneath me, bracing one arm beside her head. I lower my face to hers, close enough to feel her warm, quick breaths against my lips.
“The last thing I think when I look at you,” I tell her, my voice a low, raw rasp, “is that you’re weird. The only thing I’m thinking is that you’remine, Zaria. Now…are you going to tell me what you want me to do, or am I going to have to figure that part out myself?”
6
Zaria
Oh my God. This is really happening.
Ryder is right here, his breathing a ragged, panting sound that’s the only thing I can hear.
The scent of him—the hazelnut from his coffee, and a woodsy smell—fills the space between us. This isn’t a dream. It’s too vivid, too overwhelming. The weight of his gaze on me is a physical thing.
Please don’t let me be dreaming. This has to be real.
I need to know he’s real.
My hand lifts, and my fingertips whisper across the hard expanse of his chest. He’s searing to the touch, a stark contrast to the cool sheets beneath me. I press my palm fully against him, needing to anchor myself.
Instantly, I feel the traitorous thumps against my fingertips.
His heart is a runaway train beneath my hand, a chaotic, pounding beat that doesn’t just match mine—it challenges it.
My breath catches in the back of my throat.
He’s just as lost in this as I am.
“Oh boy, where do I start?” The laugh that escapes me is thin, breathy, more of a nervous exhale than anything else.
I squirm beneath the solid weight of him, the soft cotton of his pajama pants a delicious friction against my thighs.
