Page 33 of Restored By the Mountain Man
We drink, our eyes locked over the rim of our glasses. The kitchen fills with the scent of garlic and herbs, creating an atmosphere of warmth and intimacy that makes me forget everything outside these walls.
By the time we sit down to eat, the sun is setting outside his dining room windows, casting everything in golden light. Ezra has set the table with actual cloth napkins and candles, turning our simple dinner into something that feels dangerously close to a date.
"This is incredible," I tell him after the first bite of pasta. "Your mother's sauce recipe?"
"With a few modifications of my own," he admits. "I've had a lot of time to perfect it."
The conversation flows as easily as the wine. We talk about the farm, the new partnership, our plans for expanding the distillery's reach. But underneath the professional topics, there'san undercurrent of awareness that makes every accidental touch of our hands feel electric.
When Ezra gets up to clear the plates, I stand to help, and suddenly we're both reaching for the same dish. Our hands collide and instead of pulling away, we both freeze.
"Zoe," he says, my name barely more than a whisper.
I look up to find his face inches from mine, his eyes dark with something that makes my heart race. The memory of our kiss last night, my private session this morning, combined with the wine and the intimate atmosphere, has created a tension that feels ready to snap.
"I know this is complicated," I whisper back.
"Very complicated," he agrees but doesn't move away.
"You're my boss."
"I am."
"We're both still healing."
"We are."
"But I can't stop thinking about you," I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
His breath hitches. "Zoe..."
"I know it's crazy. I know all the reasons why this is a bad idea. But when I'm with you, I feel alive in a way I haven't since before Tom died. And last night, when you kissed me, it ignited something in me."
For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then his hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip.
"You have no idea how much I want you," he says, his voice rough. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself."
I pull in a breath. "Then don't."
That's all the permission he needs. His mouth crashes down on mine and this kiss is nothing like the tender explorationfrom last night. This is hunger, and need, and suppressed desire finally given free rein.
I melt against him, my hands fisting in his shirt as I kiss him back with equal desperation. His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against his body, and I can feel the evidence of his dick pressing against my stomach. The sensation sends heat racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly.
"Upstairs," I gasp against his mouth.
But instead of leading me to the bedroom, he lifts me onto the dining room table, stepping between my thighs and kissing me again. His hands roam my body with reverent touches, like he's memorizing every curve.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his forehead pressed against mine.
"I've never been more sure of anything," I tell him honestly.
His hands find the hem of my sweater and slowly, carefully, he begins to lift it over my head. The cool air hits my heated skin but his gaze burns hotter than any fire.
“So fucking sexy," he murmurs, echoing the words from my fantasy this morning.
His mouth finds my neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin while his hands explore the newly exposed territory. When his lips trail down to the edge of my bra, I arch into him with a soft moan.
He traces the lace edge of my bra with his fingers. His restraint peeling back with every careful touch. His hands slide around to my back, fingers finding the clasp of my bra.
