Page 12 of Falling for the Mountain Man
There’s one place I definitely want him to explore, a throbbing, insistent ache between my legs, but I want to savor this. I want to stretch this exquisite torture out forever.
Reaching down, I hook a finger into the soft, cotton hem of my shirt. I pull it up one agonizing inch at a time, the fabric whispering over my skin.
The cool air hits my stomach first, raising goosebumps in its wake. I reveal a soft belly I’ve never been confident about, but the weight of his stare is a tangible heat, a brand that sears away my insecurities. He had no issue picking me up, his hands sure and strong on my hips—the memory alone makes my core clench.
“How about here?” My voice is barely a whisper as I push the shirt all the way up, stopping just shy of my chin. The sound he makes is guttural, a thick, choked groan from deep in his chest that vibrates through me.
Oh. Right. Should I have warned him I wasn’t wearing a bra?
The air leaves his lungs in a sharp hiss. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the deep brown irises whole as they fixate on my breasts. He stares as if he’s discovered something sacred, the eighth wonder of the world made just for him.
The sharp line of his jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he pulls back to drag a calloused hand down his face. “Fuck.”
I can’t hold back a light, breathless laugh. He looks so devastatingly serious. I could tell him they’re nothing special—just soft flesh I’ve idly squeezed in the shower, nipples I’vepinched out of curiosity, wondering what all the fuss was about. But the raw hunger on his face tells a different story.
He shifts, sitting back on his heels, and the loss of his heat is a small agony. His gaze never wavers from my peaked, rosy nipples, hardening further under his intense scrutiny.
One of his hands drops back to himself, and he palms the thick outline of his cock through his pants, a bold, unashamed gesture that makes my mouth water now that I’m focusing on the effect I have on him. “Cup them for me, sweetheart.”
My smile vanishes. The command in his voice, low and rough with need, doesn’t just send a shiver through me—it makes my walls clench in want for something inside.
Every nerve ending sparks to life, a wave of heat crashing from my chest to my thighs, leaving my limbs heavy and trembling. Slowly, my hands obey his husky order, rising to frame the soft weight of my breasts, my thumbs brushing tentatively over the taut peaks.
My skin tingles in a way I’ve never experienced. Might have something to do with having an audience this time around. Without him saying the words, I roll my nipples between my fingers and moan.
“Look at you.” He hums in the back of his throat, and he groans softly when he tightens his grip on himself. “You’re going to make me come before I can give you what you want.”
My heart flutters in my chest, skipping a beat. “Can I see?”
He lets out a sharp, guttural curse, and before I can second-guess my boldness, he’s shoving his pants down. The air catches in my lungs, escaping in a soft, shocked gasp.
There he is. Thick and formidable, his cock stands proud, flushed a deep, ruddy red and swollen with a need that mirrors my own. A prominent vein pulses insistently along the underside, a visible testament to the blood pounding throughhim. The broad, smooth tip is already glistening, a single bead of moisture welling at the slit.
Unconsciously, my tongue darts out to wet my lips, my mind dizzy with the imagined taste of him—salt, skin, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly male.
I have been curious about this man—his mind, his hands, his secrets—for what feels like an eternity. Now, the final, most intimate mystery is laid bare before me.
A low groan rumbles in his chest as his fist pumps slowly, twice, along his rigid length. The sight makes my breath catch. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and his mouth twitches with the effort of his control.
“You should see the way you look right now,” he rasps, his voice graveled with need. “Do you like what you see, Zaria? Do you enjoy knowing what you do to me?”
I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that this is all really happening. That my mere presence, the sight of me watching him, makes his body tense and his cock weep with that undeniable evidence of his desire.
“Maybe a little.” The admission is a whisper as I drag my hands down my stomach, feeling the tremble in my own limbs. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pants. “It makes me feel… powerful.”
It makes me feel more confident. Like there’s nothing I can do that this man would consider wrong. It’s a heady, intoxicating drug that I can’t get enough of.
It’s why, with his heated gaze as my guide, I’m able to shove the rest of my clothes down my hips and peel them off.
I want him to see that I’m in the same desperate shape he’s in. The cool air hits my feverish skin, but it does nothing to quench the heat pooling low in my belly.
My pussy is slick and swollen to the touch, a throbbing ache already begging for attention, but my own fingers only ghostover the sensitive nub. I can’t explore much. Not while I’m already teetering on the edge just from his eyes on me.
While he drinks in the sight of my flush spreading across my chest, his hand begins to move in a more deliberate rhythm. A smooth, practiced glide from root to tip, spreading the bead of precum that gleams at his slit.
Ryder West is pleasuring himself to me. I watch, mesmerized by the primal display, by the way his knuckles tighten and his hips give a slight, involuntary thrust into his own circle of fingers.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” His thumb swipes through the moisture leaking from him, the act so intimate it steals the air from my lungs. A raw, guttural moan breaks past his lips—a sound I’ve never heard from him—and it arcs straight through me, coiling my own tension tighter. “I could look at you like this for hours,” he pants, his rhythm never faltering, “and never get tired. Never get enough.”
