Page 25 of Snug with the Mountain Man
One year ago, I was aimless. Lost in the in-between. Wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life.
Now?
Now I have a job I love working with my sister-in-law, and a man who looks at me like I’m the only thing that ever made sense.
I slide behind the wheel of my truck and head up the gravel road toward our cabin. The porch lights are on. The windows glow. There’s a soft plume of smoke curling from the chimney. And somewhere inside, I know Ford is waiting.
The sight of it makes my chest ache in the best way.
I walk through the door and there he is, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, a half-built shelf behind him, and sawdust still clinging to his jeans. His hair is tousled. His flannel shirt’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows. And his eyes?
Locked on me like he’s starving.
“Took you long enough,” he growls, like it’s my fault time exists at all.
I smile, slow and teasing, as I set down my bag. “Miss me?”
He stalks toward me in two long strides, grips my hips, and yanks me close. “Always.”
Then he kisses me.
God, that kiss.
It’s rough, hungry, deep. His hands grip my ass like it’s his job. I melt into him instantly, arms winding around his neck, heart galloping like he still does this to me after a year of mornings, nights, and every moment in between.
I break the kiss with a laugh, breathless. “I thought you were making dinner.”
“I was,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along my jaw. “Then I got distracted thinking about bending you over the kitchen table.”
Heat flashes through me. “Again?”
“Always.”
I swat his chest, but don’t exactly move away. “At least let me take off my shoes first.”
Ford’s mouth finds the side of my throat, and I gasp.
“I want you now,” he growls, already walking me backward, lips never leaving my skin. “You’re lucky I waited this long.”
His hands are under my skirt in seconds.
“Ford,” I breathe, clinging to his shoulders.
Before I can tease him back, his mouth is doing wicked things, and I lose my train of thought entirely.
Later—muchlater—we’re sprawled on the couch in a tangle of limbs, a blanket half-draped over us. He’s shirtless, hair mussed, still catching his breath. I’m pressed against his chest, dazed and drowsy, my heart full to bursting.
He brushes his fingers through my hair. “This is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“What is?” I murmur.
“You. Us. This.”
I smile against his chest, kiss the spot over his heart. “You’re such a softie, Ford Kane.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Too late. Bonnie already suspects.”
