Page 18 of The Mountain Man's Sweet Treat
I’m panting and desperate. His bare chest is so warm and solid beneath my fingertips. I’ve never felt safer than I do with his big hands gentle cradling my head. I’ve never been tiny or delicate, but with the way his strength and might is surrounding me, I feel like I am.
“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, his breath fanning across my warm face. The warmth has nothing to do with how hard we’ve worked today. No, it’s the way he’s staring at me, like I’m a treasure. His treasure to possess and plunder.
Underneath the fabric of the flannel shirt, my nipples are sharp points, and I press against him. I’m eager for motion and friction and the feeling of sparks igniting. But he’s determined to slow down and savor this moment. To savor me in his arms. It’s as if he’s laid awake every night imagining this perfect moment.
“Sophie,” he breathes my name softly, a dream and a prayer all at once. Then he lowers his head. The first brush of his lips against mine is soft, like he’s trying to discover if this is a dream or real life.
He traces the seam of my lips with his tongue, groaning softly in the back of his throat. The vibration hums from his body through mine, and this is what I’ve been craving. This is what I’ve needed, to feel fully alive and in the moment. To feel this protective mountain man holding me tenderly and devouring me fiercely.
I open my lips, and he sweeps his tongue inside, tracing my mouth. His tongue meets mine, stroking me sensually. When I groan, he does it again.
This is what Heaven feels like, I decide with my body pressed up against his. He’s so solid and muscular, and I can’t stop rubbing myself against him. His hands slide from my head down my back, sending shivers down my spine.
Then he’s gripping my ass through my jeans, kneading my fleshy mounds. A possessive growl erupts from his throat when he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his hips. The moment we’re settled like this, our bodies connected everywhere, I can’t help but feel like this is right.
This is the peace and contentment that I’ve spent the past few months searching for. The realization is so startling that I pull away from him. I can’t even speak, my vision has gone so blurry that all I can do is suck in oxygen as I try to get my blood flowing in the right direction.
He doesn’t seem to care if he ever breathes again because he presses soft kisses to my jaw and neck, licking my skin like he can’t get enough of my taste. His words are a strangled whisper, “You’re so sweet, my perfect treat.”
“I need to go for a run.”
He stops kissing me. When he lifts his gaze to mine, his pupils are blown, and his eyes are hooded. If I said the word, I think he’d carry me into his cabin, lay me out in his big bed, and feast for hours. “You want to run now?”
“It helps me think,” I murmur, wiggling against him so he’ll put me down. Big mistake. I just grinded down on his hardness, and it feels so good. What would it feel like to have him moving inside of me, making love to me slowly?
He puts me on my feet. “Then let’s go.”
“You’re going with me?” I repeat, not sure I’m understanding what he’s saying right. My thoughts feel so jumbled from that kiss. I need to sort them out. I need to make sure that I’m not making a mistake.
He steps to the pile of logs we haven’t split yet. He puts on his flannel shirt, not bothering to button it. “Which path do you prefer?”
“Do you think you can keep up with me?” The challenge is out of my mouth before I can stop it. He’s fit, but just because he’s in shape, it doesn’t mean he knows how to run. Although, judging by that kiss, there’s nothing wrong with his cardiovascular system.
The grin he gives me lets me know he enjoys a challenge just as much as I do. “This lumberjack can go all night long.”
Chapter 9
Sophie
I didn’t think I’d like running with someone else, but I like running with Whiskey. He keeps pace with me easily, and he doesn’t try to make conversation. Like me, I think he understands the need for solitude.
He doesn’t say a word, not even when I stop at mile four to down an entire bottle of water. A flock of geese fly overhead, calling out to each other on their migration. The temperature has dropped, the early evening air pricking at my skin. “You have more stamina than I thought you would.”
“All night long,” he reminds me, his voice dangerously low and sexy. Why did I stop kissing this man again? Nope, I do not need to be thinking about that.
I clear my throat. “Do you run a lot?”
“I would if I had a pretty running partner,” he answers easily.
“It helps me with the noise,” I explain, gesturing to my head. “Everyone thought I took up running to lose weight. But I just wanted to feel strong and in control again. Have you ever had a moment when you just felt completely powerless?”
He nods, and I think again of the shrapnel scars on his side. “Sorry. Stupid question. Let’s get back to running.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, the touch instantly soothing me. “You’re not powerless. You’re rebuilding after trauma. That takes courage and grit.”
I make a non-committal noise and crush my water bottle, stowing it away in running pack. I’m sure he’ll show me how to repurpose the plastic later. Mr. Live-off-the-Land has some pretty cool ideas about sustainability. My mom would love him. She reads all of these survivalist magazines to research storylines for her show. She’d love to see how Whiskey lives off the grid, a man that shuns modern civilization.
“You’re smiling,” he observes as we start on the path. We’re walking now, heading toward the cabin like we’re two lovers out on an evening stroll.
