Page 7 of Mountain Man's Winter Wonder
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“Terrified.”
His smile was gentle, reassuring. “We’ll go slow.”
And then his mouth was on mine, soft and sweet and perfect. The kiss was everything I’d imagined and nothing like I’d expected—tender where I’d thought it might be demanding,patient where I’d feared it would be rushed. His lips moved against mine like he had all the time in the world, like this moment was something to be savored.
Butterflies exploded in my stomach, and heat spread through my entire body. This was what I’d been missing, what I’d been too afraid to reach for. This feeling of being cherished, desired, alive.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathless and dizzy and absolutely certain of one thing. There was no going back now.
4
BUCK
Sheraton was a virgin. And she wanted me to be her first.
The thought of it, of her spread out on my dark sheets, her skin flushed and her eyes dark with pleasure, made me groan aloud. The sound was low and rough, strangled by the sheer force of my want. Her fingers pressed harder, a slow, experimental squeeze through the denim that had me seeing stars.
“Sheraton,” I breathed, a warning and a plea all in one.
Her answer was a slow, wicked smile. She continued her exploration, her palm moving over my length in a torturous, circular motion that made my erection press painfully against the unforgiving metal of my zipper. Every nerve ending was on fire, focused entirely on the point where her hand met my body. The rough texture of the jeans, the softness of her skin beneath—it was a maddening, perfect friction.
I could feel the thick, heavy pulse of blood, my erection pressing insistently against my fly. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, seeking more pressure, more of her. A low, guttural sound escaped me, something primal and completely beyond my control.
Then, she surprised me. Her fingers, nimble and sure, found the button of my jeans. With a deft flick, they came undone. The sound of the zipper lowering was drowned out by the music blasting from the speakers above us.
I stopped breathing.
Her cool fingers slid inside, beneath the waistband of my briefs, and then her hand was on me. Skin to skin. Her touch was tentative at first, a soft, curious stroke that made my entire body clench. I heard myself gasp, a sharp, ragged intake of air. My head fell back against the vinyl booth with a soft thud, my eyes squeezing shut.
“God,” I choked out.
Her grip firmed, learning my shape, my heat. She began to stroke me—a slow, deliberate rhythm that was both innocent and devastatingly erotic. Her thumb swept over the sensitive head, smearing the moisture beading there, and a shudder wracked my frame.
My own hand moved on its own, settling on her thigh, then moving over her zipper and downward. Through the rough material of her jeans, I could feel the heat of her. I moved higher, my fingers sliding over her clit through the thick fabric. She gasped, a sharp, sweet sound, and her rhythm on me faltered for a blissful second.
I pressed my fingers firmly against her, mirroring the slow, circling motion she was using on me. She was so wet, the denim already soaked through with her arousal. The evidence of her want undid me completely. I pressed harder against her clit, and she cried out, a soft, broken whimper that went straight to my dick.
Her hips began to move against my hand, a helpless, tiny rocking motion. Her own strokes on me became less controlled, more frantic. Her breath hitched, coming in little pants that she tried to smother. Each soft, desperate sound she made—every gasp, every sigh, every choked-off moan—was gasoline on the fire burning me alive. I was so hard it was a physical ache, a tight, throbbing need that demanded release. I was seconds away from losing all control, from pulling her onto my lap right there in the diner and?—
“More coffee, folks?”
The voice was cheerful, loud, and far too close.
We froze. Our hands snapped back to ourselves as if electrocuted. My lungs burned as I dragged air into them, trying to force my expression into something neutral, something that didn’t look like a man who was about to come in his pants in a public establishment.
Sheraton smoothed her napkin back over her lap with trembling hands, her cheeks flushed a glorious, guilty pink. The server, a blissfully unaware woman named Sheila, according to her name tag, hovered with a glass pot of coffee.
“No,” I managed, my voice a gravelly wreck. I cleared my throat. “No, thank you. Just the check, please.”
Sheila nodded, her eyes flicking between us with a knowing glint that suggested she wasn’t as oblivious as she seemed. “Sure thing, honey. Be right back.”
She bustled away. The silence she left in her wake was thick, charged, and vibrating with unfulfilled need. I could still feel the ghost of Sheraton’s hand on me, the warmth of her heat against my palm. My heart was hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.
I looked at Sheraton. Her lips were swollen, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. She looked thoroughly, beautifully ravished. The urge to lean over and capture her mouth, to taste the sounds she’d been making, was a physical pull.
Sheila returned with the leather billfold. I didn’t even look at the total. I pulled out my wallet, shoved a stack of bills inside—it was probably double what we owed—and slid out of the booth, my movements stiff.
