Page 21 of Ensnared By the Mountain Man

The ridge. The lookout. The rock where he held my hand for the first time and told me about Chaz Monroe and I didn’t try to fix it, and he loved me for it.

“I could pack a lunch,” I say.

“Already handled.” He nods toward the bag from Sugar Moon, and I realize it’s bigger than his usual order. He planned this, and the thought of it makes something warm bloom in my chest.

Oliver goes to preschool in his helmet and his fire boots. Elias buckles him into the car seat while I stand in the doorway of the cabin that used to have nothing on the walls and now has Oliver’s drawings taped to every surface and a photo of the three of us on the mantel above the woodstove.

I think about the woman who drove to Wildwood from Colorado Springs with everything she owned in the back seat. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just knew I needed to be somewhere that nobody needed anything from me.

Turns out what I needed was someone who didn’t need me at all. Someone who just wanted me. There’s a difference, and it took Elias Riggs to teach me what it was.

He’s back in twenty minutes with two fresh coffees from Sugar Moon in the console. Mine with cream and sugar. His black. I climb into the passenger seat, and he drives up the mountain road, past the cabin, past the fork—all the way to the dirt track that dead-ends at the clearing. The same road, the same trees, the same light coming through the branches like the mountain is showing off.

He parks and grabs a blanket from behind the seat, the bag from Sugar Moon, and my hand. We walk the quarter mile to the lookout, and the valley opens up below us the same way it did the first time—green and gold and endless.

He spreads the blanket on the flat rock. We sit. He hands me the coffee he grabbed from the console on the way up—cream and sugar, the way I like it—and unpacks the bag. Scones, fruit, two muffins. I take a bite and look at the valley and feel the sun on my face.

“You planned this,” I say.

“I did.”

“You never plan things.”

“I plan things.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I just don’t announce them.”

I look at him. He’s leaning back on one hand, his long legs stretched out on the blanket, the sun catching the gray that’s just starting at his temples.

Forty looks good on him. Better than good. He’s broader than he was five years ago, steadier, more settled in his own skin. The haunted look behind his eyes is gone. Not forgotten, just quieted, the way a wound quiets when someone finally lets it heal.

“Come here,” he says.

His voice drops the way it does when we’re alone and Oliver is asleep and the cabin goes quiet and he looks at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Low and rough and full of intent.

My pulse picks up. “We’re outside.”

“We are.”

“Anyone could hike up here.”

“Nobody hikes this trail.” His hand finds my knee. Slides up my thigh. Slow, deliberate, like he has all day and plans to use every minute of it. “Nobody has ever been up here but us.”

“Elias…”

“Come here, Morgan.”

I lean into him, our mouths meeting in a slow, deep kiss that quickly turns hungry. His lips are warm from the sun, tasting of coffee and the sweetness of the scones, and I melt against him as his hands slide under the hem of my T-shirt, palms rough and sure against my bare skin. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly as his palms roam up my back, then down to cup my ass, pulling me closer until I’m half in his lap.

Elias breaks the kiss only long enough to tug my shorts and underwear down my legs in one smooth motion. I kick them aside, heart pounding, as he shifts lower on the blanket, guiding me back onto my hands.

The sun warms my face as I tilt my head up, eyes closed, breathing in the pine-scented air. His mouth trails hot, open kisses up the inside of my thigh, teasing, making me shiver despite the heat. Then his tongue finds my clit and he begins circling with just the right pressure, and I gasp, biting my lip to stay quiet.

Two of his fingers slide inside me, curling perfectly, stroking that spot that makes my thighs tremble. I sigh as I savor every lap of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers, the wet sounds mixing with the distant rustle of leaves.

The pleasure builds fast and sharp under the open sky, his mouth relentless, sucking gently as his fingers pump. I keep my cries quiet, reduced to soft whimpers and shaky breaths, until the orgasm crashes over me—waves of heat pulsing through my core as I clench around his fingers, my whole body arching toward the sun.

He doesn’t stop until I’m weak and panting, and then he rises up, already reaching for the hem of my T-shirt. I lift my arms as he pulls it over my head, his eyes dark with want as he unhooks my bra and tosses it aside. I help him shove his shorts down, freeing his cock—hard and thick, the sight of it making fresh heat pool between my legs.

I push him onto his back on the blanket, climbing over him, straddling his hips. Bracing my hands on his chest, I tease him first, rubbing the slick head of his cock along my wet entrance, circling my hips so he nudges against my clit.