Page 36 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"Y-yeah," Hannah agrees through chattering teeth. "G-good idea."

I work quickly, my hands clumsy from the cold but still competent. Tinder, kindling, fuel. The fire catches fast, and I feed it until we've got a solid blaze going. Heat starts radiating out immediately, and I move closer to it, holding my hands out.

Hannah strips off her sweater and jacket, standing in just her soaking thermal shirt and jeans, and moves to stand beside me. We're both dripping onto the floor, creating small puddles, but neither of us cares. We just stand there, side by side, waiting for the warmth to seep back into our bones.

"That was stupid," she says after a minute, but she's smiling.

"Probably."

"We could have died."

"We didn't."

"We're going to be sick tomorrow."

"Maybe."

She looks at me, and there's something in her eyes I haven't seen before. Something lighter. "I don't regret it."

"Good. You shouldn't."

We stand there a while longer, until the shivering starts to subside and feeling returns to my fingers and toes. Hannah's thermal shirt is still plastered to her body, and I can see everything again: the curve of her breasts, her nipples still hard from the cold, the way her waist dips in before flaring to her hips.

I force myself to look at the fire instead.

"Come on," I say, moving toward the bed. "Sit. You need to get warmer."

She follows, and we both sit on the edge of her bed, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Bear flops down on the rug in front of the stove with a contented sigh, already warming up.

"You're not as grumpy as you seemed," Hannah says, and there's something teasing in her voice.

I glance at her. "I can be if you want."

"No." She nudges my ribs with her shoulder, gentle and playful. "You're perfect like this."

Perfect. Nobody's ever called me that. Especially not in the last eight years, when I've been anything but. Broken, maybe. Damaged. Functional on good days. But never perfect.

"Hannah—"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—" she starts, turning to look at me, and whatever apology she was going to make dies on her lips.

Because I don't let her finish.

I close the distance between us and kiss her.

Our lips are cold. We're both still dripping wet, water from her hair running down between us, soaking into what's left of our dry clothes. Her mouth is slightly open in surprise, and I take advantage, deepening the kiss, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head.

Her hands come up to grip my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, and she opens for me completely. Her tongue meets mine, and fuck, she tastes good.

I angle my head, taking more, and she matches me. Her nails scrape against my skin through my wet thermal shirt, and I can feel her breasts pressed against my chest, perfectly soft and full. The cold is forgotten. The wet clothes are forgotten. Everything is forgotten except the way she feels against me, the way she tastes, the small sounds she's making in the back of her throat.

My hand slides from her hair down her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. I want to see all of her, touch all of her, taste every inch.

But I don't. Not yet. Because this is already more than I planned, more than I should be doing, and I need to make sure she actually wants this and isn't just caught up in the moment.

I pull back, just enough to look at her. Her eyes are dark and wide, her lips slightly swollen from the kiss, her breathing as uneven as mine.

"Tell me to stop," I say, my voice rough.