Page 15 of Mountain Man's City Girl
She deserves better than a man who hid from the world.
But none of these reasons can erase the memory of her lips against mine. The way she tasted—like coffee and mountain air. The feel of her hand on my chest, steady and sure, like she was grounding me to earth.
I rub my face, drag my fingers through my hair. My body feels electric, humming with an awareness I haven't felt in years. It would be easier if this were just physical. Just desire. But there's something more dangerous happening—a crack in the walls I've spent years building, letting in light and air and her.
A soft knock at the door.
My head snaps up. For a moment, I think I've imagined it—conjured it from sheer wanting. Then it comes again, a little louder, more determined.
I stand, crossing the room in four strides. I know who it is. I know what this means. My hand hesitates on the knob for only a second before I open the door.
Jade stands there, hair damp from the rain, eyes clear and direct. She's changed into a soft-looking sweater that falls off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her lips are slightly parted, her cheeks flushed. She's never been more beautiful.
"Hi," she says, voice steady despite the pulse I can see fluttering at her throat.
"Hi." My own voice is rougher, betraying everything I'm trying to hide.
She doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend this is about anything other than what it is. "I don't want to wait anymore."
My breath leaves me in a single exhale. All the reasons I should send her away evaporate in the face of her certainty. I step aside, a silent invitation.
She walks in, bringing with her the scent of rain and something floral—her shampoo, maybe, or lotion. The door closes behind her with a soft click that feels final, irrevocable.
We stand there, inches apart, the air between us charged with everything unsaid. I should speak. Should make sure she understands what she's asking for. But before I can find the words, she reaches up and places her palm against my cheek, fingers brushing through my beard.
"I know what you're thinking," she says quietly. "That this is a mistake. That I'm too young, or you're too damaged, or we're too different."
"Aren't we?" My voice is barely audible.
She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "No. We're exactly who we're supposed to be, Victor." Her thumb traces mybottom lip, and I have to fight not to groan at the simple contact. "And I want you. All of you."
The last thread of my restraint snaps. I pull her to me, one hand at her waist, the other tangling in her hair. Our mouths meet in a kiss that's nothing like the tentative one we shared at the tower. This is hunger, pure and unrestrained. She makes a small sound against my lips—half sigh, half moan—and it undoes me completely.
My hands roam her back, her sides, learning the shape of her through the soft fabric of her sweater. She's all curves and warmth, her body pressing against mine with an urgency that matches my own. When her fingers find the hem of my shirt and slip underneath to touch bare skin, I shudder.
"Jade," I murmur against her mouth, not sure if it's a question or a plea.
"Yes," she answers anyway, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "Yes to whatever you're asking."
I lift her then, hands gripping her thighs as she wraps her legs around my waist. Her weight is solid and real in my arms, anchoring me to this moment. I carry her to the bed, laying her down with more care than the hunger in my blood wants to allow.
She looks up at me, hair spread across my pillow, eyes dark with desire. "You're thinking too much," she says, reaching for the hem of her sweater. In one fluid motion, she pulls it over her head and tosses it aside.
My breath catches at the sight of her—the swell of her breasts in a simple black bra, the soft curve of her stomach, the constellation of freckles across her collarbone. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Your turn," she says, sitting up to tug at my shirt.
I pull it off, suddenly self-conscious of the scars that mark my torso—evidence of a life lived hard and sometimes carelessly. But there's no judgment in her gaze, only appreciation as her hands trace the contours of my chest, fingers tangling in the hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath my jeans.
She reaches behind her back and unhooks her bra, letting it fall away. Her breasts are full, nipples pebbling in the cool air. I can't help the groan that escapes me at the sight.
"Touch me," she whispers.
I lower myself beside her, one hand cupping her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. She arches into the touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.
I replace my thumb with my mouth, tasting her skin, feeling her nipple harden against my tongue. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in slightly when I graze my teeth against the sensitive peak.
"Victor," she gasps, the sound of my name in her mouth like a prayer.
