Page 5 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Because we both know what’s coming next.
3
Ellie
Well.
That escalatedquickly.
Micah’s mouth is still on my lips when my brain finally decides to catch up to the moment—and panics accordingly. Not that I stop him. Not that Iwantto.
Because,holy emotional whiplash, the man kisses like it’s a combat skill. Like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s spent his whole life holding back, and suddenly decided… not to.
Now I’m sitting in the world’s coziest wooden kitchen, legs crossed at the table like a lady while the same man who just devoured my mouth is making me dinner, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, andcompletely unfazed. Like he didn’t just short-circuit my brain.
He chops vegetables with surgical precision. Tosses them in a cast iron pan like he’s preparing for war. And I'm sitting here trying to remember how breathing works.
He's different.
Not just from the guys I’ve dated—but fromanyone. He doesn’t talk unless it matters. He’s quiet in that way people usually mistake for cold. But it’s not. Not with him. With Micah, the quiet isfull. Intentional. Everything he does feels like a decision made three steps ahead.
Which makes the kiss evenmoreunhinging.
He chose that.
And now he’s choosing to act like it never happened. Cool as the snow falling outside. Stirring a pan like it owes him money.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” I say, trying to fill the space with something that isn’tme staring at his forearms.
He looks over his shoulder. “Dinner?”
I smirk. “Thatkiss.”
He pauses for half a second before flipping a pepper with extreme focus. “You started it.”
“Idid not.”
“You sat on my lap.”
“You said, and I quote,‘I’m not going to stop at kissing.’That’s not exactly a deterrent.”
He grunts, but I catch the edge of a smirk. A rare sighting. Practically a miracle.
After a beat, his tone shifts—quieter. “Tell me about the packages. The threats.”
I straighten, the heat of the moment simmering down under the weight of reality. “It started two weeks ago. I got a box at work—no return address. Just a vintage ornament and a card that saidYou’re next.I thought it was a prank. Until the next one came.”
Micah sets a plate in front of me—chicken, roasted potatoes, and whatever those veggies are that smell like heaven. He sits across from me, watching me with that deadly stillness that says he’s listeningtoo closely.
“Next one?” he prompts.
“Broken partridge ornament. A photo of my car. Then a receipt from a coffee shop I was at two days before, with my name scrawled on it in red ink. I reported it. The local police shrugged. That’s when I called Nate.”
Something in Micah’s jaw ticks.
“How do you know Nate?” he asks, tone clipped.
I blink. “He used to volunteer at the teen center. We did an outreach event with veterans. He helped a lot of the boys open up. Why?”
