Page 7 of Craved By the Mountain Man

Every warning inside me crashes into every memory I have spent two years trying not to revisit.

He is broader than I remember, his shoulders heavier and his body harder, and there is something about the extra two years written into his face that does terrible things to my ability to form coherent thoughts.

Then there is the fact that he is wet.

Very, very wet.

Water beads along his shoulders and tracks over the heavy muscle of his chest, following the dark line of hair down his stomach until it disappears beneath a white towel wrapped low around his hips.

A towel.

That is all he is wearing.

My fear, already struggling with the discovery that the man pinning me to a wall is Gavin Mercer, is forced to make room for an entirely different emergency.

My eyes drop before I can stop them.

The towel sits dangerously low on narrow hips, secured by one tucked corner and a disturbing amount of optimism.

Heat flashes through me, and I lick my suddenly dry lips before my brain can veto the decision.

My gaze snaps back to his face.

Gavin’s eyes have dropped to my mouth.

Oh, no.

They lift again.

He saw that.

Wonderful.

Recognition settles fully over his face.

“Hannah?”

His grip loosens at once, but for one suspended second neither of us moves.

My wrists are still above my head, his bare chest is inches from mine, and one of his thighs has ended up between my legs during my spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to knee him.

Somewhere during my attempted burglary, the universe has developed a deeply inappropriate sense of humor.

Hearing my name in his voice after two years does something strange to my spine.

I swallow.

“Hi.”

Brilliant.

Two years, sixty-eight thousand dollars of fraudulent debt, multiple threats, six hours of driving, one successfully picked lock, and hi is the best my brain can produce.

His gaze searches my face.

Then he seems to register our position too.

Gavin releases my wrists.