Page 16 of Craved By the Mountain Man

“Getting there.”

She laughs.

The sound is soft, still edged with nerves, but it does something to the tightness in my chest.

I set the cast iron on the stove and turn on the heat.

Salt. Butter. Potatoes left from earlier.

Nothing complicated.

“You don’t have to feed me.”

“I know.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“You will be.”

“That sounds ominous.”

I leave that one alone.

The pan gets hot, and the steaks go in with a hard hiss.

I light the fire while they cook. By the time I come back, the cabin is warmer and the flames give me enough light to make another mistake.

The sweater clings to her breasts and stomach. Wet denim hugs broad hips and thick thighs. Her curls are starting to dry around her face, darker at the ends where the water still weighs them down.

Two years ago, I convinced myself I had remembered her body too generously.

I had not.

If anything, memory had been stingy.

My cock thickens against my sweatpants.

Christ.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

I grab a dry hoodie from the back of a chair and toss it to her.

She catches it.

“Yours?”

“No. Belongs to the other six-foot-four bastard living here.”

Her mouth twitches before she pulls it over her head.

The hoodie swallows her shoulders and hangs past her hips.

It should help.

Instead, seeing her in my clothes does something primitive to me that I refuse to examine.