Page 9 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
It doesn’t get to have her.
Let the past try and haunt me. Let the risk of exposure loom. All I want—with a ferocity that terrifies me—is to make her mine. To claim this one, pure thing for myself before the universe can snatch it away, too.
I don’t wait. I don’t hesitate. I meet her halfway.
The first brush of her lips is a shockwave—softer than I ever could have dreamed, yet it ignites a fire in my veins that feels like coming back to life after a long, cold death. My hand slides against the soft silk of her hair, cradling the back of her head as my other arm bands around her waist, pulling her flush against me.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It can’t be. It’s weeks of stolen glances and desperate longing poured into a single, searing connection. Giving myself time not to worry about the future, to ignore the constant worries that fog my mind,
She melts against me, a breathless sound escaping her throat, and her hands come up to clutch at the front of my shirt, like she’s finally getting something she desperately wants too.
At that moment, I am not the disgraced CEO. I am not the mountain hermit. I am not a creep lurking in the shadows.
I am just a man, kissing the woman who has become his entire sun, and praying to whatever god will listen that I never have to let her go.
Unfortunately, all good things have to come to an end. The burn in my lungs is a brutal reminder that we are, in fact, mortal, and she breaks away with a soft, gasping breath that I feel deep in my soul.
Her cheeks are flushed a perfect, rosy pink as she sways back, catching herself on her heel. A dreamy, dazed smile plays on her kiss-swollen lips, and she bites the lower one, a silent debate flickering in her hazy eyes. I’m willing to bet she wants to ask for another.
My every instinct is to close the distance, to claim her mouth once more. One more taste wouldn’t be enough. If I kiss her again, I won’t stop at her lips. I’ll want to trace the line of her jaw with my mouth, to taste the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat, to discover every hidden, sweetened spot until she is ready to give her entire self to me to taste.
My gaze flicks up, a desperate search for a lifeline to cling to before I drown in her, and it lands on the unblinking black eye of the security camera tucked in the corner.
Reality claws its way back in—cold, unwelcome, and merciless.
The last thing I want to do is get her in trouble with the owner of this place.
My eyes drop from the camera, and for a split second, they land on the forgotten slice of apple pie on the counter. The perfect, flaky crust. The last bite I didn’t take. If I finish that, I can’t kiss her again. The perfect crust, the crumbs… it would distract me from the perfect memory of her taste.
I look back at her, at the hopeful, breathless question in her expression, and I know I have to end this before I lose all control. As I stand here, I’m barely hanging on as it is.
“Best thing I’ve tasted today,” I rasp, the words gravelly and raw with a truth she can’t possibly understand. It’s a pathetic understatement.
A slow, radiant smile breaks across her face, and it’s worth every second of the agony of stopping. She doesn’t say anything, just gives a small, happy shake of her head as if she can’t quite believe this is real.
Neither can I. Every step back feels like tearing something vital from my chest.
This might be the end of the kiss, but the beginning of something I’m not sure I’ll survive.
* * *
Since it’s clear that I can’t stay away from this woman, I need to do what is necessary to secure myself a spot in her life. The only way to do that is to tell her the truth. She needs to know what she’s getting herself into. Even if it risks her not wanting me, I don’t want to fear every day that it will be the day she discovers what made me lose everything.
Where do I even start with my explanation? Do I start with who I really am? That in itself is a shock. Then again, would a cute baker ever have a reason to be interested in the tech world? My name might mean nothing behind it.
If Maribel hasn’t seen my name in any tabloids or news articles, then maybe she’s heard my name in a specific video. Rather, a string of them. All viral, of course. The worst thing to happen in my life, at the same time, I discovered what a “story time” is.
Cradling my phone, I stare at our previous messages. She wants to give me more pastries, like the previous ones, which were only a couple of days ago. She’s an eager one, I’ll give her that. Then again, I can’t blame her. I want to see her again. Not with a counter separating us, but close enough that I can reach out and touch her.
Sighing softly under my breath, I lean back.
I don’t want to fuck this up. Maybe I can please her with another tasting session and reveal everything to her all at once. Then, if she’ll still have me…
Not wanting to get ahead of myself, my fingers hover over the keyboard.
I’ll invite her to my home and show her what I have to offer. I haven’t had to woo a woman before, not even during my younger years. If the scandal doesn’t deter her, I don’t want anything else about me to affect her decision to do the job.
Typing out the invite more times than I care to admit, it takes a few tries before I’m satisfied with the question I’m sending her.
