Page 16 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
He drives into me in one single, deep, filling thrust that steals the air from my lungs. After the first follows another, and another.
Each thrust is a perfect, maddening friction, stoking a fire deep in my belly that’s already roaring out of control.
I am hurtling towards the edge, the world dissolving into a blur of heat and pleasure. Just as I feel the first violent tremors of my release begin, his hands slide under me, his grip firmand certain. He locks his arms, lifting my hips clean off the rug, tilting me to a devastating new angle.
He plunges into me, deeper than I thought possible, planting himself so deep it feels like he’s touching my soul. The sensation is too much, too perfect. A white-hot shockwave erupts from my core, and I shatter. My vision whites out again, and a throat-aching wail rips out as the climax seizes me, wracking my body with endless, pulsing waves.
He watches me fall apart, his mouth curved into a smirk. With a final moan, he drives into me one last time, his own body seizing as he spills himself deep inside, his heat flooding me in a way that feels profoundly, irrevocably possessive. He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, sealing us together until the last of my tremors subside.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers my hips back to the rug, his body collapsing over mine, our sweat-slicked skin sliding together. He is a heavy, welcome weight, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.
For a long time, there is only the sound of our struggling breaths and the crackle of the dying fire. He shifts just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to my shoulder.
“Mine,” he whispers again, his voice thick with emotion and satisfaction.
And in the deep, seeded aftermath, I can only believe it. I am his.
8
Wesley
Epilogue
The late afternoon sun spills across the pages of my book, a golden, lazy light that holds no real urgency. This is my favorite kind of quiet—the kind that is full, not empty. It’s woven from the lingering echo of a day well-lived: the faint, sweet scent of the cookies Elara and I baked this morning still clinging to the air, the bright smear of her crayon on the floorboards near the bookshelf, a testament to a masterpiece created and abandoned in a moment of new inspiration.
This peace, this vibrant, breathing tranquility, is something I could only have built with a woman, also known as my wife. The fortress I once built of glass and cold, clean lines is now a home, its walls softened by the chaos and warmth of a family. My fortress, it turns out, was just a shell waiting for a heart.
A sudden, rapid padding of small feet on hardwood pierces the calm. It’s a sound I know as well as my own heartbeat—thefrantic, barefoot slap of a three-year-old on a mission. I lower my book just in time to see a flash of dark, flyaway curls and a pink dress, now sporting a suspicious green stain near the hem, streak from one doorway to the other.
Our daughter, Elara, skids to a halt in the center of the room, her little chest heaving with dramatic, panting breaths. She freezes, a miniature statue, then slowly turns her head. Her eyes—her mother’s warm, liquid brown eyes, so full of life and mischief—find mine. A cheeky, utterly unrepentant grin spreads across her face, revealing the tiny gap between her front teeth. There is rich, dark garden soil smudged on one cheek and a single, stubborn oak leaf tangled in her wild curls. She brings a single, grubby finger to her pursed lips.
A silent plea to stay silent. Her co-conspirator.
My heart clenches, a painful, beautiful squeeze of pure adoration that still, after all this time, steals my breath. I am her accomplice in all things. I give her a slow, solemn nod, my own face a mask of grave understanding, playing my part in the game.
Satisfied, she giggles silently, a puff of air and joy, and darts out of the room again, a tiny, muddy ghost disappearing toward the long hall of closed doors and potential hiding spots.
The silence she leaves behind is charged with her energy. I don’t have to wait long.
A moment later, Maribel appears in the doorway, out of breath, her hands planted on her hips. A stray curl has escaped her ponytail, and her cheeks are flushed.
“Did she come through here?” she asks, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on me with knowing suspicion. “You’re hiding her, aren’t you? I can see it on your face.”
I keep my expression neutral, the very picture of innocence, as I set my book aside. “Who?” I ask, my tone light and utterly feigned.
She rolls her eyes, but the smile she’s trying to suppress wins, playing at the corners of her lips. “The tiny tornado covered in garden soil. She’s supposed to be in the bath. I turned my back for one second to get a towel…” She sighs, a sound of mock exasperation that doesn’t hide her deep, resonant amusement. “She was justthere,and then she was gone.”
Giving our little fugitive a few more precious seconds to pick a proper place to hide, I open my arms to my wife. She doesn’t hesitate. She walks over to me, a familiar, welcome sight, and allows me to hook an arm around her waist, pulling her down onto my lap on the sofa. She settles against me with a soft sigh, her body a perfect fit against mine. She smells of sunshine and the lavender from the garden she’s been tending, a scent that is the very essence of my peace.
“Five more minutes,” I murmur against her hair, my voice low before I brush a kiss against her temple. I hold her, my gaze fixed on the empty doorway where our daughter vanished. “Five minutes, and then we can hunt her down together. She’ll probably be behind the drapes in the study. She thinks we can’t see her feet.”
Maribel melts in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder. Her nod comes lazily, contentedly. “Sure. Five, maybe six,” she concedes, her voice a soft hum against my chest. “We’ll see what happens.”
This game of hide and seek will end with both girls admitting defeat. Elara will take her bath, and Maribel will remain here right in my arms. There’s no other place I’d rather have her be.
