Page 12 of Blazing Mountain Man

“Cash—“

“I’ve got you. Let me feel it.” His voice is low, rough against my skin. “Good girl. Take it.”

I come hard, thighs clamping around his head, fingers fisted in his hair. The orgasm rolls through me in deep, pulsing waves. I hear myself moan his name, broken and loud enough that anyone walking past the locked door would know exactly what’s happening inside. He works me through it, tongue gentling but never stopping until the last tremor fades and I’m trembling, slick, open.

As he stands, eyes locked on mine, I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around the thick length of his cock. I stroke once, twice. He’s hard and heavy, the head already wet. I guide him to my entrance and look up.

“Come here.”

He pushes in slowly. The stretch is familiar yet still overwhelming—thick and relentless as he sinks deeper, opening me inch by inch until his hips are flush against mine and I can feel the heavy pulse of him all the way against my cervix. I suck in a sharp breath at the fullness, at the way my body has to yield around him even after five years of taking him exactly like this.

For a second, neither of us moves. Just the press of him inside me, the heat of his chest against my breasts, the pale light silvering the scars and ink on his skin. I look up at him—dark eyes half-lidded, jaw tight with restraint, snow still melting in his hair—and the sight alone makes me clench hard around his cock.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Still so tight for me. You feel that? How deep I am?”

“Yes.” My voice comes out rough. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

He starts to move—deep, measured thrusts that rock the desk beneath me. Every drag of his cock pulls at sensitive places inside me, every forward roll grinds against my clit and sends bright sparks up my spine. I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back, meeting every stroke with a wet, solid sound that fills the quiet office. Skin on skin. The slick noise of how wet I am for him. His low groan when I squeeze around him on purpose.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, bracing one hand beside my head, the other sliding under my thigh to open me wider so he can drive deeper. “Taking me so well. Look how pretty you are stretched around my cock.”

I do look—down between us, watching the thick length of him disappear into me over and over, shiny with my arousal, the dark hair at the base of him brushing my clit on every thrust. The sight makes me moan, makes my walls flutter.

“God, Cash—feels so good. You’re so deep. Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” He picks up the pace, harder now, the desk creaking in protest. Each thrust is deliberate and powerful, the head of him dragging over that swollen place inside me that makes my thighs shake. “You were made for this. For me. Say it.”

“I was.” I dig my nails into his shoulders, arching up to meet him. “I’m yours. This cock is mine, and I want every fucking inch of it.”

A rough laugh punches out of him, half groan. “Greedy girl.” He lowers his head to kiss me, breath hot and ragged against my mouth. “Then take it. Come on my cock, Elyse. Let me feel you break.”

The first flutter of the orgasm builds low and inevitable, coiling tighter with every hard snap of his hips. I can see everything—the flex of muscle in his arms as he holds himself over me, the dark flush high on his cheekbones, the way his eyes never leave mine even when the pleasure starts to pull his mouth open. Outside, the mountain is roaring. In here, there’s only the wet slap of us, the desk rocking, my own sharp gasps every time he fills me completely.

“Cash—I’m⁠—“

“I know. Give it to me. Right now.”

The climax hits sharper this time, tighter, milking him in strong rhythmic pulls that force a broken sound from my throat. My vision whites out for a second as I cry out his name, nails scoring his shoulders as the pleasure rips through me in long, pulsing waves.

He follows immediately, burying himself to the root with a raw, guttural groan, cock throbbing hard as he comes. I feel every thick pulse, every flood of heat spilling deep inside me. The way his whole body locks and shudders against mine while he empties himself.

We stay like that, tangled and breathing hard, the aftershocks still flickering through both of us.

“I put a rope on three clients tomorrow,” he says after a long silence. “Five years ago, the thought would’ve had me packing a truck.”

“And now?”

“Now I rope them up, and I bring them down, and I come back here.” His mouth finds the top of my head. “Every time. Same place. You.”

“Same place,” I agree. Then, because I’ve been holding it since the test line went pink two mornings ago and I can’t hold it one second longer. “Mostly the same place. We might have to slow the pace a little this spring.”

He goes still. Not the running kind of still. The listening kind.

“Elyse?”

“Six weeks, give or take.” I lean back so I can see his face as the news sinks in. “So the Patagonia card might have to wait a year. Maybe two. Turns out you can’t do a fourteen-day trek at altitude with a newborn strapped on.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all. Then his whole face changes, the weathered lines of it going soft in a way I’ve only ever seen in this office with the door locked. He puts one big hand over my stomach, like he’s already learned how to hold something that isn’t there yet.

“A year,” he says, rough. “Two. However long it takes.”

“I don’t mind.” And I don’t, which is the thing I couldn’t have imagined five years ago, back when the wall was every place I’d never go. “The horizon’s not going anywhere. It’ll keep.” I put my hand over his. “And then we go get it. All three of us. I already know which card I’m mailing from the first trip.”

“Yeah?”

“Somewhere with a mountain and a road out of it.” I feel him laugh more than hear it, the old line handed back to him. “That’s the whole list.”

He pulls me in and holds on with both hands, the way he holds everything he’s decided not to lose.

The radio crackles—Marco, the 4:15 loading, the board lighting up with the evening rush. In a minute, I’ll get up and turn the light back on, unlock the door, and be the fixed point this whole mountain moves through. In a minute.

Not yet.

Outside, the storm that used to mean stranded means home now. And the man who never stayed is warm beneath me with his arms locked around me, going nowhere. The horizon’s still out there on the wall in my own handwriting, waiting for both of us to go get it together.

We’ve got all the time in the world.

I lean back into him and let the 4:15 wait.