Page 18 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
He studies my face, searching for something—regret, perhaps. "You okay? Any pain?"
The simple question, filled with genuine concern rather than the awkwardness I expected, warms me from within. "Just a little sore. Nothing bad."
Concern flickers across his face. "I tried to be careful."
"You were perfect." I touch his cheek, feeling the rough texture of his beard against my palm. "Everything was perfect."
A slow smile spreads across his face, devastating in its sincerity. "Better than good."
His hand moves from my waist to my hair, fingers threading through the tangled strands. The gentle intimacy of the gesture makes my heart clench with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
"We should talk about this," I say, even as I lean into his touch.
"Probably," he agrees, but then his mouth is on mine, and talking becomes the furthest thing from my mind.
His kisses are different this morning—less careful, more knowing. He's learned my body now, knows how to touch me, where to focus his attention. And I'm an eager student, more confident in my explorations of him, delighting in the sounds he makes when I find sensitive spots.
When he rolls me beneath him, settling between my thighs, there's only the briefest hesitation. "Still sore?"
"Don't care," I breathe, pulling him down to me. "Need you."
This time there's no pain, only pleasure that builds more quickly, more intensely than before. He's still careful with me, but there's less restraint, more abandon in the way we move together. When release comes, it's stronger, deeper, his name a prayer on my lips as he holds me through the aftershocks.
Later—much later—we finally make it downstairs for coffee. I'm wearing his flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up multiple times and the hem falling to mid-thigh. Wyatt, in just jeans and nothing else, moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, the muscles of his back and shoulders shifting beneath tanned skin marked by my nails.
The domesticity of the moment feels dangerous in its rightness.
"We're going to be late," I observe, watching the clock tick past eight.
Wyatt hands me a mug of coffee, his fingers lingering against mine. "I called Tim. Told him we'd be in around ten."
"What did you tell him?"
"That we had some business to discuss." His eyes hold a hint of mischief. "Which isn't entirely untrue."
I can't help but laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
He sets his mug down and moves closer, trapping me against the counter with his arms on either side of me. "What would you call it?"
The playfulness in his tone doesn't mask the genuine question underneath. What is this? What are we doing?
"I don't know," I admit. "It's complicated."
"You said that last night, too."
"It was true last night. It's still true this morning." I look up at him, forcing myself to voice the concerns that professional ethics demand. "I'm here to consult on your business, Wyatt. My company was hired by your investors. This is..."
"A conflict of interest?" he supplies when I trail off.
"At minimum."
He sighs, stepping back slightly to give me space. "Do you regret it?"
"No." The answer comes without hesitation, surprising me with its certainty. "Last night meant something to me. You mean something to me."
His expression softens, relief evident in the relaxing of his shoulders. "You mean something to me too, Sophia. More than I expected. More than makes sense given how short a time we've known each other."
The admission, simple as it is, makes my heart swell. "So what do we do now?"
