Page 54 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“Maybe yours need to be dragged out before they rot,” I snap.
He plants one hand against the wall beside my head, eyes fierce. “Careful.”
I lift my chin, matching his heat. “No.”
The air goes deadly still.
His jaw ticks once before he says, low and dark, “You want to know why I left that morning?”
“No,” I whisper. “I want to know why you came back.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Then lower.
Then back to my eyes like he’s two seconds from tearing every lie between us apart.
“I came back,” he says, voice rough, “because you’re in my blood now. And I can’t take one more breath pretending you’re not.”
My heart hits my ribs hard enough to hurt. The fire doesn’t feel warm anymore. It feels dangerous.
“Thorne,” I breathe.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I’ll do for you.”
I swallow. “What will you do for me?”
He doesn’t answer—not with words.
He grabs my waist and drags me into him, mouth claiming mine like he’s been starved for a lifetime. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t cautious. It’s a collision—of pride, anger, need. Of everything we’ve tried to hold back.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even though he’s already everywhere. His kiss is heat and teeth and truth, and I bite back, take what I want right along with him.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to speak against my lips. “You ruin my control.”
“Good,” I pant. “I don’t want controlled.”
He groans. “No, witch. You want ruined.”
Maybe I do.
Maybe he already has.
His grip tightens on my waist, and without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind me and rips off the black silk ribbonholding my costume corset together.
“Hey—” I breathe, half protest, half gasp, but my voice cracks in the middle when he tilts his head, eyes low and hungry.
“You knew what you were doing when you put this on,” he growls, voice thick. “Parading around in leather and lace like a wicked little temptation.”
My pulse races. “And you knew what you were doing when you looked at me like you wanted to sin.”
His lips twitch, not in amusement—in surrender. He drags one hand from my waist up to my throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding, letting me feel the darkness he’s kept chained. He wants me to know:this is real now.
He slides his thumb beneath my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Last chance, witch. If I keep going?—”
