Page 8 of Noel with the Mountain Man
"Probably not," I agree.
"This is a bad idea."
"Terrible."
But I'm already pulling him back down.
He kisses me again, slower this time, thorough and devastating. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling his heart pounding under my palms. "What if I don't want you to stop?"
His eyes go dark. "Noel—"
"I know this is crazy. I know we just met. But I'm so tired of being careful. Of being too much or not enough." I meet his gaze. "I want this. I want you."
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then, slowly, deliberately, he smiles, transforming his whole face.He’s so fucking beautiful.
"Thank God," he breathes, and kisses me again.
This time, there's no hesitation. No holding back. He lifts me easily, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the stairs.
"Bedroom?" he asks against my mouth.
"Yes," I gasp. "Definitely yes."
He takes the stairs two at a time, and I laugh breathlessly into his shoulder because this is insane and perfect and exactly what I didn't know I needed.
He lays me down on the bed—the same bed we shared last night, except now there's no pretense of space between us. He hovers over me, his weight on his forearms, his eyes searching mine.
"You're sure?" he asks.
I pull him down to me. "I've never been more sure of anything."
And then there are no more words. Just his hands learning my body, my fingers tracing the muscles of his back, the two of us coming together like we were always meant to find each other in this storm.
His hands slide under my sweater, palms rough and warm against my skin. I arch into his touch, and he makes a low sound in his throat that goes straight through me.
"You're so soft," he murmurs, pushing the sweater up. I help him pull it over my head, and then his mouth is on my collarbone, my shoulder, the curve of my breast above my bra.
I'm fumbling with the buttons of his flannel, desperate to feel skin. He helps me, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside. And then I can finally touch him—the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears into his jeans.
"God, you're beautiful," I breathe.
He huffs a laugh against my neck. "That'smyline, beautiful."
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my ribs, cupping my breasts through the lace, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasp. He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with practiced ease, and then that's gone too.
For a moment, he just looks at me. His eyes are so dark they're almost black, and the way he's staring makes me feel like the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.
"Kyler—"
"I want to remember this," he says roughly. "Every inch of you."
Then his mouth is on my breast, tongue circling my nipple, and coherent thought becomes impossible. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him to me as he worships first one breast, then the other, until I'm writhing beneath him.
He kisses his way down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He pauses, looking up at me for permission.
