Page 27 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
“Micah,” I say softly, once we’re back inside his truck, the doors closed, the quiet wrapping around us. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances at me, all broad shoulders and slow-burning intensity. “You don’t have to ask permission to talk to me, Ellie.”
I bite my lip. “Okay. So… Whatarewe doing?”
His jaw tics. “Protecting you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He exhales and rests his hand on the steering wheel, fingers drumming lightly. “I know.”
I wait.
When he doesn’t speak, I reach over and put my hand on his thigh—not to distract him, but toanchorhim. Totouchhim, because God, Ineedto.
“Micah,” I whisper, “do you want me?”
He doesn’t move for a second. Just breathes. Slow. Controlled. His entire body is coiled like a wire stretched too tight.
“Ellie,” he finally says, low and rough, “you have no idea how much.”
The air in the truck turns thick. Charged.
Then suddenly, we’re moving. He shifts into gear and pulls out of the diner parking lot, driving like he’s on autopilot, like if he doesn’t focus on the road, he might say something—ordosomething—that changes everything.
Neither of us talks for the rest of the drive.
But I feel it.
The tension. The heat. The way his hand flexes on the wheel like he wants to reach for me again but doesn’t trust himself.
And honestly? I don’t trustmyselfeither.
When we get backto the cabin, it’s quiet. Snow drifts down like ash. The sky’s darkening, bruised purple at the edges. I step inside and shiver from the temperature shift. Micah locks the door behind us, then stalks past me to the fireplace, lighting it with practiced ease.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me.
So I make the first move.
I step up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. “You don’t have to hold it all in, you know.”
He stills.
“Everything that’s happening, everything you’re doing to protect me—it’s not just your burden.” I press my cheek to his back. “You don’t have to be the mountain all the time.”
His breath comes out ragged.
I feel the tremble in him—barely there, but it’s real.
And then he turns.
Suddenly, I’m facing him. His hands frame my face, his eyes dark and burning. “This is the worst idea,” he rasps.
I nod. “Probably.”
“People are watching you. Hunting you. You’re not safe.”
“I feel safe,” I whisper. “With you.”
