Page 21 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
After a moment’s mischievous hesitation, I grab the Santa themed panties with the peppermint charm and a short red velvet Santa robe with white fur trim.
The IRS is going to fine or jail me for this.
The cabin is quiet when I step out, except for the faint tick of the fireplace and the hum of Beckett at the kitchen table, hands busy with a battered notebook and a mug bigger than my fist. He looks up, eyes scanning my length of bare thigh and the ridiculous white faux fur cuffs at my wrists. His jaw flexes, but the rest of his body doesn’t move. There is a tension in the room so absolute it feels like a third person present.
“Is there a dress code I missed?” Beckett asks, straight-faced, but the low rasp in his voice gives him away.
“Mmm.” I fuss with the trim on my robe, then turn a slow circle like I’m on a very exclusive runway. “I didn’t want your comments section thinking Mrs. Claus was a one-panty-wonder.”
He stands, steps around the table, and stops just shy of touching me. The urge to close that distance nearly short-circuits my self-control. I stay perfectly still, waiting to see what he’ll do. My heart thumps so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
Beckett’s eyes do a slow tour, starting at my face, then lower, where the edge of the robe barely covers the Santa panties and my thighs. The air between us is a livewire, every inhale an invitation, every exhale a dare. I wonder briefly if he’s going to say something funny, like he did with the bacon. Maybe he’ll roast me for my fashion sense, or maybe he’ll pretend he’s immune to the visual. But he just watches, jaw set, gaze scrolling over every detail like he’s memorizing me for later.
“You look …” he starts, then shakes his head.
I tilt my chin. “Go on. Critique the ensemble. It’s the shop’s holiday showcase special.”
He doesn’t smile. “It’s not the outfit. It’s you in it.”
He steps closer so that I have to tilt my head back to keep his gaze. His hands curl, then uncurl at his sides. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he says, almost a growl.
I blink once, stunned, then laugh just to break the intensity. “That’s not a complaint, is it?”
“Not remotely.”
The feeling between us is thick and fizzling at the edges. I fidget with the tie of the robe, waiting for him to make the next move. This man can start a fire with two sticks and a look, but when faced with a girl in candy-cane lingerie, he’s suddenly all hesitation and hunger.
“Do you want me to change?” I ask, raising a brow.
He shrugs, just once. “Not unless you want me to lose the remaining self-control I have.”
I reach for a comeback, but my words are gone. The rush in my veins and his eyes holding mine are the only two things I’m able to concentrate upon. I hold that eye contact, letting him see everything — yes, the nerves and the dare. Because the truth beneath my fear is that I want this. I want him.
Chapter 12
Beckett
Ruby’s gaze is fixed on me, hungry, nervous, hopeful. It’s a look that says she wants to be caught, wants the tension between us to snap. I could reach for a joke, something to cut the heat and put us both back on the safe side of the flame, but I don’t. There’s nothing safe left to say, and I’m done pretending that’s what I want.
She stands stock-still in the middle of my kitchen, all bare legs and embarrassment disguised as bravado. The robe is barely there, and the panties — fuck, if there was ever a moment to lose it, this is it. I want to tear that little peppermint off with my teeth and see her shake apart for me.
She takes a tiny step forward. “Well?” she says, voice low and sultry. “Are you sure you want this?”
“Ruby, I haven’t wanted anything this bad in a long time.”
I don’t touch her, not yet. I let the words fill the space, watch the effect. Her eyes go wide, soft and a little feral. The robe slips off her shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, and it fuels my inner fire. She’s so fucking beautiful, I have to close my eyes for a second just to keep from going full animal.
I step in. Slow, deliberate, so she can change her mind. She doesn’t. Instead, Ruby lifts her chin, daring me closer. I reach up, thumb tracing the line of her neck, the edge of her jaw. Her skin’s warm, pulse thudding wild under my fingers. I want her to know I’m a man who means every damn second of this.
“You’re sure?” I ask, just once. It’s the last time I’m going to give her the chance.
“God, yes,” she breathes, and that’s it. It’s like the entire universe shrinks to the space between us. I cup her jaw, rough thumb gentle at the corner of her mouth. She opens for me, greedy and sweet. I feel the tremor run through her and it’s an electric shock.
Her hands slide up my chest, curling in my shirt, and I realize she’s shaking. Not scared. Wanting. So deeply that it makes my own hands unsteady as I slowly skim her bare thigh. The velvet of the robe gives way to soft flesh, the dip of her hip, the faintest shudder as my fingers brush the seam of her panties. I want to memorize this … the way her whole body leans into my touch, how her breath stutters when my lips brush her ear.
“Take me, Tinderwolf,” she whispers, and it’s a plea for me not to stop. I don’t.
I slide my hand behind her neck and pull her in for another kiss. It’s nothing like the first one. It’s without hesitation, no holding back. She tastes like fucking Christmas, like everything I’ve missed and and every reason I built this bunker of a life. She clings to me, nails biting through cotton and into skin, and I want more — more of her voice, more of her body, more of the wild, unapologetic way she lets me in.
