Page 38 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

She blinks. "What kind of things?"

"Possessive things. Caveman things. Things that involve making absolutely sure that if we do this, it's nothing like 'not great.' It's fucking perfect."

A small smile curves her lips. "You said perfect again."

"Because I mean it." I brush a strand of wet hair away from her face. "But we don't have to do anything. We can stop right here. We can just sit by the fire, dry off and pretend this didn't happen."

"I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."

"Then what do you want?"

She's quiet for a moment, and I can see her thinking, processing. Then she says, "I want you to keep touching me. I want to see where this goes. I just... I might be nervous. And I might not know what I'm doing."

"That's okay. I know what I'm doing." I kiss her jaw, then her neck, feeling her pulse jump under my lips. "And we'll go as slow as you need. If you want to stop at any point, you tell me. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good." I kiss her neck again, then the hollow of her throat, and she tilts her head back to give me better access. My hand is still on her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she's making these small moans that are driving me insane.

"Your shirt is wet," I murmur against her skin.

"So is yours."

"We should probably take them off. For warmth."

She laughs breathlessly. "Is that your excuse?"

"It's a good excuse."

"It's a terrible excuse."

"But you're not saying no."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's a challenge in her eyes despite the nerves I can still see there. "Take yours off first."

Chapter 9 - Hannah

I can't believe I just said that.

*Take yours off first.*

Like I'm some kind of confident seductress instead of a twenty-eight-year-old virgin who's never done anything more intimate than kiss a guy at a college party before chickening out.

But Griffin doesn't laugh at me. Doesn't make me feel stupid for the challenge in my voice. He just holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he reaches down and pulls his wet thermal shirt over his head.

And oh my God.

I saw him shirtless earlier when he was chopping wood. I saw him in the waterfall. But this is different. This is him half-naked and sitting on my bed, water still dripping down his chest and shoulders, every muscle defined in the firelight.

The scars are more visible now, the burn marks across his shoulder and ribs, the shrapnel scars scattered like stars across his skin, that long jagged line down his side that makes me wonder how the hell he survived whatever put it there.

He's massive. Broad shoulders that seem to take up half the cabin, arms corded with muscle, a chest that's all hard planes and old damage. There's a dusting of dark hair across his pecs, trailing down his stomach to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.

And he's watching me watch him, completely unbothered by my staring.

"Your turn," he says, and his voice is rougher than before.

My hands shake slightly as I reach for the hem of my own thermal shirt. It's soaked through, clinging to my skin, and I have to peel it off slowly. The wet fabric catches on my breasts, and I feel my nipples tighten even more as the cold air hits them.