Page 12 of Snug with the Mountain Man
And just like that, I stop pretending.
“Storm knocked out the whole ridge,” he says, stepping in. His voice is low and gritty. “Figured I’d check on you.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my voice is breathy and my pulse has picked up.
He shrugs out of his jacket and shakes the water from it. “Yeah, I can tell.”
I move back toward the fire, giving him room. He drops his coat and boots by the door, then follows, his steps heavy on the hardwood floor.
The air crackles, not from the static or the storm, but from us.
I grab a bottle of wine and pour two glasses without asking. His hand brushes mine as I hand him one. It’s warm despite the cold.
We sit. Close. Too close. I sip. He doesn’t. His eyes are on me.
“Why are you really here, Ford?”
“I told you. I can’t stay away.”
The wine tastes sweeter suddenly. Or maybe that’s just the heat crawling across my skin.
“You never could before either,” I whisper, emboldened.
His jaw tightens. “Maisie—”
“No.” I set the glass down and turn to face him. “Don’t say it. Don’t pull back again. You kissed me. You touched me. You looked at me like you wanted to devour me.”
He growls low in his throat, the glass in his hand forgotten.
“Say it,” I whisper. “Tell me you want me.”
“I’ve always wanted you.”
I can’t breathe. Not when he says it like that. Like it’s ripped out of him. Like it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said.
I reach for him, and the moment I do, he snaps.
His mouth crashes to mine, teeth and tongue and heat. His hands are everywhere, gripping my waist, fisting in my hair, pulling me flush against him like he’s starved.
I moan, wrapping my arms around his neck, letting him take whatever he needs.
Then we’re stumbling. My back hits the wall near the hearth. His thigh presses against my legs, and he groans against my neck.
“Been losing my mind thinking about you,” he growls. “The way you look at me. The way you say my name.”
I gasp. He grins wickedly, then bites my earlobe.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Say it while I make you mine.”
“Ford,” I whisper.
His breath stutters, and then he’s stripping me. He’s not gentle or careful with me. He’s needy.
He pulls my shirt over my head and unhooks my bra. His mouth latches onto the swell of my breast, and I cry out, my hands scrambling at his belt.
“You think I don’t remember that little pink swimsuit?” he mutters. “You, dripping wet and looking at me like you didn’t know what you were doing? You knew. You always knew.”
I moan as his hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips, hauling me against him.
