Page 17 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
Her eyes flare. She licks her lip. “You already touched me.”
My pulse kicks.
Yeah.
And I’ll do it again.
This woman is going to wreck me.
“I did,” I say. “And I’ll do it again tomorrow. And the day after.” I drag my mouth along hers—barely touching. Teasing. Owning. “Because I can.”
She stares at me. Fire. Fury. Hunger.
“And when you break again,” I whisper, “I’ll be right here to catch you.”
She doesn’t kiss me.
I don’t kiss her.
But we stay like that—pressed together in heat and agony—breathing each other in until the storm outside dies.
And another storm inside us begins.
We don’t sleep.
We don’t stop.
And now?—
There’s no going back.
Chapter 5
Aspen
Ididn’t sleep a wink last night. Not really. I pace the lodge until the fire burns low and the shadows creep like they’ve been waiting for me to slow down. Every time I close my eyes, I swear I still feel his hand on my waist—rough, warm, proprietary. Like he was claiming a piece of me he has no right to.
Which is why I do the only thing that makes sense.
I grab the bat lights.
If the mountain man wants war over décor, war he shall receive.
I sling the second strand of lights over my shoulder and head toward the loft railing. The lodge is quiet in the pre-dawn hours. Almost peaceful. The kind of quiet people write poetry about. Or murder ballads. Hard to tell which. Outside, snow falls slow and thick, swallowing the trees.
With a bite of my lip, I lean over the loft and hang the glowing bat strand across the edge. Then another above the windows. Then another from the chandelier. By the time I’m finished, the living room looks like a gothic ballroom hosted by chaos gremlins.
I survey my work.
Perfect.
The generator hums to life outside, rattling faintly. Then the back door slams. Heavy boots stomp across the floor.
Showtime.
Thorne rounds the corner, covered in a fine mist of snow, shirt stretched over his shoulders now, jaw tight. His eyes hit the bats immediately.
He stops walking.
