Page 10 of Silent Mountain Man
"Yes," I nod. "Exactly like that." I look at him, really look at him—the strength in his features, the gentleness in his eyes that belies his imposing presence. "You've shown me there's another way to live. To see."
He writes again, his expression intense.
You've reminded me what connection feels like.
The words make my breath catch. I watch his face in the firelight, the play of shadows across his features, the way his eyes hold mine, unwavering.
"Gunnar," I ask softly, "do you ever wish you could speak more easily?"
His pen hovers over the paper. Finally, he writes:
Only when it matters.
"And what matters?" I echo his words from last night.
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his gaze. Then, in a voice rough from disuse but surprisingly deep, he says, "This."
The single word hangs in the air between us, monumental in its simplicity. His actual voice, given to me like a gift.
I can't help myself—I reach up, touching his face, my fingers brushing against his beard. "This matters to me too," I whisper.
The moment stretches, taut with possibility. Then he's leaning forward, or I am—I'm not sure who moves first—and his lips find mine in the firelight.
The kiss is gentle at first, questioning, but quickly deepens into something more urgent. His hands frame my face, large and warm, as though I'm something precious. I press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, drawing him nearer.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, his eyes have darkened with desire. No words are needed. I take his hand and guide it to the hem of my borrowed sweater, an invitation.
His touch is careful but confident as he slips his hand underneath, warm against my skin. I shiver, not from cold but from the electricity of his fingers tracing my ribs, the curve of my waist.
I tug at his shirt, wanting to see him, all of him. He hesitates only briefly before pulling it over his head, revealing what I'd only glimpsed before—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles defined from physical labor rather than a gym.
And the tattoo—not just on his arm but extending across his chest, tribal patterns in black ink that emphasize his strength. In the firelight, the design seems almost alive, shifting with each breath he takes.
"You're amazing," I whisper, reaching out to trace the lines of ink across his skin.
He doesn't respond with words, but his eyes tell me everything—desire, vulnerability, need. His hands move to my sweater again, this time lifting it away completely. The cool air makes me gasp, but then his hands are warming me, exploring the curves he uncovers with reverent attention.
His single spoken word—"This"—ignites something primal between us. The kiss that follows isn't gentle or questioning. It's desperate, hungry, months of his silence and days of our tension exploding into raw need.
I climb onto his lap, straddling him, my hands tangling in his hair as his grip tightens on my waist. His mouth moves from my lips to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, drawing a gasp from deep in my throat.
"I need to see you," I whisper, tugging at his shirt.
He lifts his arms, allowing me to pull the fabric over his head, revealing what I've only glimpsed before—a torso carved from hard labor. The tribal tattoos are even more extensive than I imagined, black geometric patterns flowing across his broad chest, wrapping around his shoulders, accentuating the power in his body. In the firelight, they seem to pulse with each heavy breath he takes.
"God, look at you," I breathe, running my fingers over the intricate designs, feeling his muscles jump beneath my touch.
His eyes are dark, hungry, as he pulls my sweater off in one fluid motion. His sharp intake of breath as he sees me bare from the waist up sends heat rushing through me. His large hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I'm arching into his touch, grinding against the hard length I can feel straining against his jeans.
"Gunnar," I moan as his mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue circling one nipple then the other, teeth scraping gently in a way that makes me shudder. "Please..."
He stands suddenly, lifting me with him as if I weigh nothing, my legs wrapped around his waist. He lays me on the blankets by the fire, his body covering mine as he works at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips, helping him slide them down along with my underwear, leaving me completely naked beneath him.
His eyes devour me, taking in every inch as he kneels between my spread thighs. The contrast is intoxicating—me completely bare, him still half-clothed, the power dynamic making me wetter than I've ever been.
He helps me, shucking his jeans and boxer briefs in one movement. When he's finally naked, I can't help the moan that escapes me. He's magnificent—thick and long and already glistening at the tip. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his jaw clench with restraint.
"I've been thinking about this since I first saw you," I confess, my thumb circling the sensitive head, spreading the moisture gathered there. "How you would feel inside me."
