Page 11 of Guarded By the Mountain Man

I'm still laughing when he lowers his mouth to my breast, and then I gasp. He's slow about it, thorough, one hand splayed warm across my back to arch me up to him, his stubble dragging against my pebbled nipples. Every lick and suck lands in my core until I'm squirming against the quilt with my fingers buried in his hair. He pulls my jeans down next, working them down my legs along with my underwear. The cold air and his hot stare hit me at the same time, and I fight the urge to cover myself.

“No, beautiful. Don't you dare,” he says, catching my wrist and pressing a kiss to the palm. “I've been thinking about this since you climbed into my truck in that ruined dress. Let me look at you.”

I reach for his shirt and he strips it off in one motion. In the firelight from the door, my mouth drops open as I stare at him. His body is incredible, muscled and thick. I unbuckle his belt, and when I wrap my hand around his huge cock he sucks in his breath. He lets me learn his weight and heat, his jaw tight, letting me explore until his fists clench.

“You have to stop… or this will be over in a minute,” he says, easing me back against the pillows.

He kisses his way down my body; my ribs, my navel, the inside of each thigh, and when his mouth reaches my clit I arch up on the bed. He learns me the same expert way he does everything; patient and precise, listening, adjusting, murmuring against me that I taste sweet, and I'm doing so well, that he could stay right here till spring. The tension winds up my spine tighter and tighter until his fingers press into me, curling, filling, his tongue working steady, and I come hard with my heels digging into the mattress, shouting his name.

He works me through it, waiting until my breath starts to slow down.

“Okay?” he asks, moving up over me. He’s braced on his forearms, all that size held in careful check, with the huge heat of his cock resting right where I'm aching and empty.

“More than okay. Don't you dare stop.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

His fingers slowly stroke my clit as he eases into me by inches, watching my face the entire time, stopping when I tense. After a brief burst of pain, which he talks me through, the stretch turns to pleasure, my body working to make room for him, until my hips tilt and he slides deep into me. We both groan at the same time, and he holds there, shaking slightly with the effort of not moving.

“Look at me,” he says roughly, and I do. “Still good?”

“Yes. Please.”

He starts to move. Slow at first, long and deep, one hand cradling my head and the other hooked under my knee, opening me to him. The sting gives way to pure pleasure as I meet him. I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs and rock up into every stroke.

“You’re so tight. So wet.” His voice is like a growl.

“Holt... I'm…”

“I know. I've got you.” He shifts his angle, grinding his hips against me on every stroke, exactly where I need him. The wave of my orgasm gathers until it breaks and I come apart underneath him, clenching around his cock over and over again. His control finally slips, and he thrusts into me harder and faster, the headboard knocking the log wall. When he comes, his lips are by my ear as he groans loud and long.

“You’re mine. All mine.”

I hold on to his shoulders and I don't let go. When our breathing has returned to normal, he gets up and comes back with a warm washcloth, cleaning me up gently, then pulls the quilt over us both.

I lie there listening to his heart slow down. His hand is moving lazily in my hair, the rain steady on the roof. My whole body hums, sore in a way that feels oddly pleasant.

“So that's what all the fuss is about,” I say, and his chest shakes under my ear.

“Well, that's the introductory lesson.” His voice is playful. “There's a syllabus.”

“I'm a very good student. Ask around.” I prop my chin on his chest and look at him, his thick gray-streaked black hair a mess from my hands. “I'm staying, Holt. Not just through the holidays. I'm staying in Wildwood. I want this too.”

He wraps both arms around me and holds on like something in him has been waiting years for permission, and kisses the top of my head.

“Good. I’m going to need to build a bigger kitchen.”

I'm smiling into his chest, half asleep, warm to the bone for maybe the first time in my life, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

It lights the ceiling blue. He reaches over me easily, and then he sees the screen and his whole body tenses.

The name on the screen says Dane Oakley.

“Who's Dane Oakley?” I ask.

He puts the phone face-down without answering, and pulls me closer, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Chapter Eight