Page 20 of Mountain Men on Ice

That’s what this is really about. It isn’t about my brother ordering us to keep our hands to ourselves. Not for me.

For me, it’s about worrying that I don’t belong in their world. That I’ll never be enough.

I can’t listen to my brain one more second.

I pad down the hall. Light leaks under his door. He’s awake too. My heart aches. We haven’t spoken since earlier. I’m tired of not speaking to him.

I knock, barely.

A rough, low “Yeah.”

I open the door. He’s on his side, back to me, tee stretched over his back. The room smells like cedar and heat and him. He doesn’t turn, but awareness rolls through him like a tide.

“I can’t sleep. Can I…”

“Yeah,” he says again, softer.

I slide under the covers, cool sheets against my shins, heat pouring off him. I fit my knees to the backs of his, careful with his brace. For a beat, neither of us breathes.

Then he exhales and curls around me. One arm slips under my pillow. The other drapes over my waist, palm spreading across my stomach. His nose nuzzles my hairline, breath warm at my nape.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For earlier. I was being a coward.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I did.” He kisses between my shoulder blades. “I panicked. Thought about him. The team. Ruining the only good things I haven’t already broken.”

I lace our fingers. “You didn’t break me.”

“I could,” he says into my skin, like a confession he hates. “That scares me worse than the knee.”

We lie in that truth while lightning counts time on the walls. His heartbeat steadies mine. Words I usually hide rise up.

“It scares me too,” I whisper. “How much I want this. How much I want you.”

His arm tightens. “Stevie.”

I don’t want to talk.

I turn my head. His mouth finds mine. I press my behind more squarely against his groin. He rolls his hips gently. Testing his leg, testing me.

His kisses move down my neck as he cradles my breast with one hand. His other hand finds my pussy. I slip my fingers into the hair at his nape. Pushing myself against him more until he groans.

“Hey,” I breathe. “We go slow. We keep your knee happy. I’m in this with you.”

“Always telling me what to do,” he rasps, a scrape of humor like relief.

“Bossy.”

“Perfect.” His palm slides under my shirt, splaying over my ribs where the tiny notes live, tracing them without looking. I feel it everywhere.

And when he slides into me again, I clench my eyes shut tight, savoring every breath, every touch, as we guide each other to completion.

After, we breathe together until our pulses settle. His hand cups my hip; mine rests over his, anchoring us to now.

“Rockstar,” he whispers behind my ear. “I’m sorry—again. For ever making you feel small.”

“You didn’t make me small,” I say. “I’m just… done being it.”