Page 21 of Wild for the Mountain Man
I roll my hips up to meet his thrust, and he groans, deep and wild. He’s so hot and hard inside me I swear I feel every ridge, every twitch. The pressure is building again, every nerve ending lasered onto the place where he fills me and rubs against that spot inside I didn’t even know existed.
My legs shake. I can’t keep them still. He shifts his angle, finds the exact spot that makes me whimper, and stays there, rocking me with thrust after thrust, each one harder than the last. I can barely stand it.
My hands are everywhere—clutching his arms, digging into his back, searching for something to hold onto so I don’tfloat away completely. I want to mark him, leave proof in his skin that this happened.
He lowers himself, chests pressed together, foreheads almost touching. His eyes pin me there. “You’re so beautiful,” he rasps, and the words are so raw and stunned that I almost cry. No one’s ever looked at me like that. Not ever. It makes me want to give him everything.
I arch up, meeting his next stroke with all the strength I have, and the shock of it lights me up inside. I cry out, a sound I don’t recognize as my own but I know it’s real, and he kisses me to swallow the sound, kissing me like I’m the only woman he’s ever wanted. I try to say his name, but I’m too full of him, too brimming with the friction and the heat and the relentless rhythm of us together.
I fall apart a second time, the orgasm shocking me with its suddenness, flooding my body with a pleasure so sharp it nearly hurts. My whole self tightens around him, milking him, pulling him deeper and deeper until he’s shaking above me.
Wade buries his face in my neck, breaths coming in broken gasps, and then with a guttural groan he lets go, pulsing inside me, so hot and deep I can feel it everywhere.
We collapse together, a mess of limbs and sweat, both of us trembling. He holds himself up enough that he doesn’t crush me, but his weight is perfect—safe and heavy and mine. A minute later, and he’s still hard inside me, softening only as the aftershocks taper off.
The room smells like sweat and sex and the woodsmoke drifting in from the living room. I can’t move. I don’t want to. My hands are still locked behind his shoulders, nails sunk in where I left angry little marks. Wade finally rolls to the side and draws me tight against his chest. His skin is hot and a little damp.
We lie there, breathing in sync, saying nothing because there’s nothing left to say. I half-expect shame to creep in, orawkwardness, but all I feel is this electric, bone-deep glow. It’s like I’ve finally switched on after years of just living beneath the surface.
Wade’s hand is in my hair. He combs his fingers through it, gentle and steady against my scalp. It’s unhurried, almost meditative, like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment as much as the shape of my body.
After a long silence, he kisses the top of my head. “You okay?”
His voice is rough, uncertain. Like he’s not sure if what just happened is a miracle or a disaster. I find his hand, guide it to my heart, and hold it there. “Better than okay,” I say, and I mean it.
I want to say something beautiful or poetic, but all I can do is curl closer, soaking in the comfort of his skin and the aftermath.
He gathers me up, strong arms cocooning me as he shifts around, trying to avoid my ankle. Guilt seeps into me deeper. I need to tell him the truth. I’m not injured. I’m blissed out, but I wonder if his sheets are stained now with blood. Should I tell him I was a virgin? If there’s nothing on the sheets, I don’t have to. But in a way, I want Wade to know. I want him to understand that he’s that important to me – that I would lie, cheat and steal to have him all to myself.
Chapter 12
Wade
Ishift, propped on one elbow, surveying the aftermath like I’m still in a wildfire—chest heaving, sheets tangled, her skin glazed in sweat and the last flaming embers of climax. She’s so small next to me, her hair fanned over the pillow, lips parted. I could stare at her all day and night with ever feeling tired of it.
I reach to the nightstand for water and knock over my phone instead. It hits the floor with a thud and lights up. I scramble to pick it up, clumsy from the aftershocks in my muscles. She doesn’t stir, just makes a little satisfied noise and burrows deeper into the nest of blankets. I want to cover every inch of her in my hands, mouth, or some combination. I want to apologize for every second it took to get to her, for every wall I put up instead of just letting this happen sooner.
My eyes glimpse a streak of blood on the stark white cotton under her hip. I know what that might mean. She’s either on her period or, surely not … she was a virgin. How can Ibring this up gently, tactfully? I nudge the sheet higher, covering the evidence. The last thing I want is to make it weird, but the thought has rooted now and it won’t let go. I replay the entire evening in my head, every small sound she made, the way her body shook—was it more than just pleasure? Was it surprise or pain? Jesus.
I reach for her hand, tangle our fingers together. She’s so warm and trusting. The amount of trust floors me. I study her face. It’s impossible not to remember her as a child —age four, knees dirty from the creek, turning those green eyes up at me, trusting then too. I used to carry her on my shoulders up the switchbacks behind the Grant house. Never thought I’d be the one carrying her to bed, not like this. Not ever.
She shifts, hair spilling onto my arm, and her breath feathers across my bicep. I want to believe it's simple, that she just wanted this as much as I did, but now that glimpse of red on the sheets is all I can see in my mind.
I could let it go. Pretend I didn’t notice. But I can’t. It’s the kind of thing that would replay in my head until it rotted the whole memory. I’m not built for secrets, not the kind that matter.
So I just ask, quietly, “Lilah?”
She makes a sound, halfway between a sigh and a hum, and stretches catlike. Her legs brush mine, and I almost lose my nerve, but I don’t.
“Were you a virgin?” I ask. The words land gentle, but they fill the room like smoke. She doesn’t open her eyes, just squeezes my hand.
“I wanted to be sure,” she says, so quiet I barely hear her. “That it was you.”
I look away, then back. I try to find anger, shame or even relief, but all I feel is this hot, wild jumble of responsibility and awe that I can’t name. My chest aches with it.
“You should’ve told me.” I don’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but in the dark it’s the first thing that cracks through. She recoils a little, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The look on her face—it’s not fear, but a kind of embarrassment, a soft guilt.
“No one ever said it had to be a big deal,” she whispers. “Not for me, anyway.”
