Page 13 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
I’m a fool to think I could hold on for much longer.
“Come here,” I say, the command quiet but absolute. My fingers drum over my thigh because there’s no place I want her more.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise, but she doesn’t hesitate. She uncurls herself, and in the firelight, she moves with a quiet grace.
One moment she’s listening to the logs crackle, and the next, she’s swinging a leg over my thighs, settling herself firmly in my lap. The boldness of it, the sheer lack of hesitation, sends a wave of heat straight through me. The fine wool of her sweater brushes against the bare skin of my wrist.
My hands come up like they’ve got a mind of their own. One finds the delicious curve of her waist, steadying her as she claims the space she’s so willingly taken. The other cups her jaw, my thumb stroking the impossibly soft skin just below her cheekbone. Her eyes are wide, brown pools in the firelight, watching me, waiting.
“I should tell you about something I find interesting,” I say, my voice lower than I intended, roughened by the sudden, pounding rhythm of my own blood. “You hit it right on the nose with this next round of pastries. I despise sugar. Sweet things hurt my teeth and make my stomach clench up in the worst kind of ways.”
I let the words hang there, my thumb drifting down, tracing the full, perfect bow of her bottom lip. A nostalgic taste, sharp and vivid, floods my senses.
“But that night,” I continue, holding her gaze, ensuring she feels the weight of every syllable. “That night we kissed… for the first time in my life, I enjoyed something sweet. I’ve been thinking about it since.”
Her breath hitches. As if she wants to continue to torture me, her teeth catch her bottom lip. Biting down hard, the soft sound that escapes is all it takes for my body to betray me. My cock doesn’t stand a chance.
A pretty woman on my lap is all it takes for the blood to rush south.
My thumb presses gently against her lip, parting them just a fraction. Her tongue flicks out, and I have to swallow down the mixture of a groan and a curse.
“The problem with a single taste,” I murmur, leaning in until our breaths tangle, “is that it creates a craving. And I find, Maribel, that now I’ve gotten my fill of everything else… I’m craving my dessert.”
Her eyes grow big at that before she innocently scooches closer. The friction is the most perfect torture.
For a moment, she simply looks at me, her gaze searching mine in the flickering firelight. Then, she eliminates the last inch between us.
Her kiss is hesitant at first, a soft, questioning press of her lips against mine. It’s a ghost of the kiss I remember, and the memory slams into me with the force of a physical blow. My hand tightens on her waist, pulling her flush against me, and a low sound rumbles in my chest.
That single sound makes her hesitation dissolve. The kiss deepens, turning bolder, hungrier. It’s like she’s needed this as much as I have. Her hands come up to frame my face, her fingerssliding into my hair. It’s my turn to be undone. The careful control I wear like a second skin begins to fray at the edges as her tongue pushes past my lips, filling me with her addicting sweetness.
My hand slides from her waist, my fingers skimming up the soft wool of her sweater until I find the hem. I slip beneath it, my palm flattening against the warm, smooth skin of her lower back. She gasps into my mouth, a tiny, sharp intake of air, and her back arches into my touch.
“Your hands are cold,” she whispers against my lips, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts, giving me better access.
“Is that a complaint?” I murmur, my voice uneven as I splay my fingers, learning the delicate arch of her spine. How many times have I tried to picture what she looked like beneath those aprons? My fingers are pointing out every dip, every soft spot.
“No. It just… tickles.” Instead of giggling, she sighs as her thighs squeeze around my hips.
I’m cursing softly under my breath as my palms glide higher, over the incredible softness of her skin, and discover nothing but bare, smooth flesh. No bra. No barriers. Nothing in my way at all.
“Tell me, Maribel,” I breathe, my thumb sweeping across in a slow circle over her rib cage, just beneath the swell of her breast. “Is it ticklish here?”
I don’t wait for an answer. I shift my hand, capturing the full, perfect weight of her breast in my palm. Her breath catches, her lips parting on a silent gasp. My thumb finds her nipple, already a tight, pebbled peak against my skin. I roll it gently, then pinch, just enough to make her gasp.
She is so devastatingly responsive. Every flick of my tongue, every roll of my thumb, earns a shudder, a gasp swallowed by my mouth. Her hips roll against me in a slow, torturous grind, the friction against the denim a sweet, maddening agony. My cock isrigid, straining against my jeans, and she’s only making it worse, this beautiful, relentless pressure.
I’ve never been happier to suffer.
I pour everything into that kiss—weeks of wanting, the stark loneliness on this mountain, the sheer, blinding need she ignites in me. The world narrows to the taste of her, the feel of her, the little sounds she makes in the back of her throat.
It’s that loss of control, the feeling of the ground falling away, that finally breaks the spell.
I tear my mouth from hers, my breath sawing from my lungs. I can’t remember the last time someone has left me this wrecked without lifting a damn finger.
I have to stop. Now. Or I will lose the last shred of my control right here on this couch.
Her breath tickles my lips where her teeth just nipped. “You’re not done yet, are you?”
