Page 18 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
“I always am,” I say, softening it with a smile. “But you don’t have to buy. I just like the pitch.”
His eyes focus on my mouth. “Dangerous pitch.”
“Maybe you need a little danger.”
The space between us feels suddenly small—air thick with everything we didn’t say last night. Beckett doesn’t move fast. He just sets his hands on the counter, palms braced, leaning slightly closer until I can see the faint gold flecks in his eyes.
“Ruby,” he says, voice low. “You really think I’m safe?”
I swallow. “No,” I whisper. “I think you’re pretending to be.”
That cracks him up. His breath heaves in a soft laugh, and then he crosses the final inch between us. One hand lifts, hesitates just long enough for me to lean in, then his mouth finds mine. The connection is warm, certain, tasting faintly of coffee and something wilder underneath. He kisses like he means it, like we’ve spent the whole storm winding up to this. Slow, and then a little less so. I feel his tongue begin to tangle with mine and he deepens the kiss as I open wider.
His hand caresses my jaw, thumb gentle beneath my chin, and for a second I forget everything including my freezing toes and the caffeine I desperately need. I forget the fact that I’m still wearing his shirt and not much else. I forget about the boxes of merchandise that need to be at the store.
Yes, I forget it all because as I kiss him back, I feel possibility. It’s magnetic. One kiss and Beckett’s all in, moving closer. For a man who claims to hate complications, he kisses like he’s waited his whole life for one. And maybe I have, too. Just one complication that makes sense.
When we finally break, the air feels rewired. Ranger sighs, bored of human nonsense.
“Guess the terms are settled,” I murmur.
He touches his forehead to mine, still smiling. “Not even close.”
Chapter 10
Beckett
Kissing Ruby feels like waking up after a long sleep I didn’t know I was in. She tastes like coffee and sugar and trouble … the good kind. The kind that knocks the dust off every quiet corner I’ve built inside myself.
Her hands are small against my chest, tentative at first, then certain. I deepen the kiss, just enough to let her know I’mnot guessing anymore. Her soft gasp nearly undoes me. I’ve been starving for something I convinced myself I didn’t need.
When we finally come up for air, she laughs — low, breathless — and presses her forehead to mine. “Guess the terms are settled,” she whispers.
I smile against her hair. “Not even close.”
But when she steps back, I feel the absence like cold air. I could chase her. I want to. Instead, I let her walk away, because I know what happens when you push for too much too soon. I’ve made that mistake before.
I don’t tell her, but I barely slept last night. Every creak of the cabin made me wonder if she was up … perhaps coming back to me near the fire. Every gust of wind through the eaves reminded me she was here — under my roof, in my bed — and somehow the place didn’t feel like mine anymore.
I’d thought about going to her more times than I care to admit. Just to ask if she was warm enough. Just to see if she’d meant the way she’d looked at me before she said goodnight. But I didn’t. I wanted her to be the one to decide if there was room for me.
She’s standing there in my flannel, laughing into her coffee like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I’m still trying to act like a man who slept fine.
Ruby leans against the counter, eyes still a little dazed from the kiss. I can’t stop looking at her. “You’re thinking too hard,” she says.
“Habit,” I mutter, turning a strip of bacon that’s already flirting with disaster.
“Must be a loud habit,” she teases. “You look like you’re trying to calculate how much trouble I am.”
“Already did,” I say, glancing her way. “Didn’t change the math.”
That makes her grin. “And the answer?”
“Trouble worth keeping around.”
Her smile softens, and the silence between us warms again. Then I notice smoke curling up from the pan. “Damn it.” I whirl back around, flip the bacon, and grab a towel to fan the air. Ruby’s laugh fills the kitchen, bright and merciless.
“You’re really leaning into the domestic fantasy,” she teases, grabbing a spatula. “Need a hand, Chef Tinderwolf?”
