Page 32 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“Effort,” he rasps.
Oh, we’re not talking about costumes anymore. Not even a little.
I clear my throat, trying not to combust. We keep going. Contestants flash by. Banter flies like knives. And the longer we do this, the thicker the tension gets.
By entry fifteen, the livestream comments have shifted from amused to fully unhinged.
@feralforflannel:just kiss already
@witchywoman:HE WANTS TO BREAK HER SPINE (romantically)
@dyinginsatin:swallow him whole queen
I try to keep it light. I try to stay professional. But then he leans back against the wall with that bored, dangerous posture, arms over his chest, muscles flexed—and I lose the thread of what I was even saying.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, gesturing weakly at his marker-covered torso. “I just can’t believe you are seriously shirtless again.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “Overheating.”
My jaw drops. “It’s forty-two degrees inside this lodge!”
He finally turns his head toward me.
“Maybe you should stop staring,” he says.
Oh, that’s it.
You want to start a war? I’ll show you war.
I step closer. Just enough to become a problem. “You know what your costume is missing?”
“A sense of shame?” he deadpans.
“A matching leash.”
His nostrils flare. “You think you could handle me on a leash?”
I smile sweetly. “Who said you’d be wearing it?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
And then—he does something that should be illegal. Something that steals the bones from my legs.
He smiles.
A slow, dark, wicked thing. A threat disguised as amusement.
Oh no. Oh no, I liked that way too much.
I scramble. “Okay, folks! Time to vote on finalists!” I laugh too loudly. “Isn’t this fun?”
Thorne doesn’t look away from me.
Not once.
The screen floods with hearts and skull emojis. Comments fly like bats in a cave.
@mountainMILF:this tension is ILLEGAL
