Page 18 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
He kisses me.
It starts slow—controlled, careful—but that control slips fast. He presses in, mouth parting mine, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, the other curling around my waist like he can’t bear the thought of space between us.
I melt. Completely. Boneless. My hands are on his chest, then his shoulders, then fisting in the flannel like I might fall if I let go.
Micah kisses like he lives—quiet intensity, full-body focus, no wasted motion. It’s all heat and need, but there’s reverence there too. Like he’s been starving and is terrified to ruin it by rushing.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, “You sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe, voice trembling. “God, yes.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time. His tongue brushes mine and my knees buckle, heat rushing through me like a match to gasoline.
We stumble backward, only half-aware of where we’re going until the back of my knees hit the couch and I collapse into it, pulling him with me. His weight settles over mine, heavy andperfect, and I feel every line of him, every breath. His hand slips under my sweater, palm dragging up my side like he wants to memorize me.
But then he stills.
I know the moment the wall comes down between us again. It’s not cold—it’s careful. Controlled.
He leans his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I need you,” he whispers like he’s lost all control.
Before we can go any further, there’s a loud crash outside and Micah is off and out the door before I can even say,mistletoe.
8
Micah
It hits like a crack of thunder.
One second Ellie is under me on the couch—warm, breathless, trusting—and the next, the night outside splits open with a sharp crash. Heavy. Sudden. Wrong.
My body is already moving before my mind catches up.
Gun in hand. Safety off. Awareness bleeding outward like heat through the walls.
The cold hits hard. Bitter air slicing lungs. Boots crunch on fresh ice. The dog—Ranger—is at my heel before I even register his movement, fur bristled, a low warning bubbling from his throat.
Good. Someone wants a fight?
They’re about to get one.
The world is still except for the wind through the pines. It’s sharp, dry, and biting. I move like a ghost across the clearing, Ranger pacing tight, eyes gleaming, breath fogging white.
I scan everything.
Every branch sway. Every shadow that shouldn’t be.
Then… movement.
A black car. It’s low, tinted, engine throat-deep and expensive. It burns rubber at the end of the long drive, fishtailing as it rips back down into the trees.
Too far to chase on foot. Too fast to get plates in the dark.
But it wasn’t subtle.
This wasn't fear.
This was a message.
