Page 23 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
And just like that—breaks it.
His hand is rough, warm, certain—a brand against my skin. My breath stutters, chest tightening as his thumb drags across my jaw in a slow, claiming stroke I feel everywhere.
“You—” I start, but nothing coherent forms. I hate that he does this to me—rewires me with a single touch. Pulls me apart without force. Makes me want.
“Rule broken,” he says, voice molten and unapologetic.
My pulse pounds against his palm. “That was your rule.”
“It was yours.” His eyes are molten green fire in the flickering light. “You made it. I’m breaking it.”
“You don’t get to do that.”
“I already did.”
I step back but he follows, crowding me until my spine meets the wall. “You don’t get to just?—”
He cages me with his arms, palms pressing to the wall on either side of my head. “To what? Touch you?” His gaze drops to my mouth. “You want me to stop?”
No. Yes. Maybe. Shit.
“We had a deal,” I manage, but my voice wavers, soft and breathless. Dangerous.
He leans closer, lips a breath from mine, his hold on control razor-thin. “We had rules,” he says. “Rules have consequences.”
Before I can ask what kind, before I can breathe, he drags his mouth along the curve of my jaw, slow and hot and devastating. Not a kiss. Not yet. But a promise.
I freeze. Melt. Ignite.
“Thorne…” It comes out like a plea.
He inhales against my skin like I’m something he’s been starving for. “You wanted distance,” he rasps. “But you don’t fucking want distance from me.”
Liar, liar, lace on fire.
His mouth finds the corner of mine, brushing once—soft, testing—before pulling back just enough to force me to chase him.
I don’t.
But I want to. God, do I want to.
“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper.
“What am I doing?” His breath skims my lips.
“You’re trying to win.”
He laughs low. Dark. “No, witch. Winning implies there was a contest. I’m just taking what’s already mine.”
Heat slams low and wicked between my thighs. I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him.
“You think I’m yours?” I whisper.
He tilts my chin with two fingers, forcing me to look at him—every primal inch of him. “Not yet.”
My stomach flips.
Then flips again when he steps back, leaving me pressed against the wall, intoxicated and furious and achingly, painfully wanting.
