Page 11 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

My hands tighten on the cider bottle.

Someone turns on music from a truck speaker. A few couples start dancing on the packed dirt near the fire. Nothing choreographed. Just swaying, arms around each other, the way people move when the night is cold and the fire is warm and nobody's watching too closely.

Ivy watches them. Her face goes soft. Open. Hungry in a way she probably doesn't know she's showing.

"Do you dance?" she asks.

"No."

"Ever?"

"My wedding. Once."

"One dance at your entire wedding?"

"It was sufficient."

She laughs. Full, loud, her whole body tipping forward. A few people look over. She doesn't notice. Or doesn't care.

"Reid Castellano. You are tragically undercooked as a human being."

"I've been told."

"Come on." She stands and holds out her hand. "Dance with me."

"No."

"It's not a real dance. It's swaying. A bonfire sway. Zero skill required."

"Ivy."

"Reid." She drops her voice low, mocking my tone. Big brown eyes looking up at me. The firelight turning her skin gold. "One sway. Thirty seconds. Then I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night."

I take her hand.

Stupid. So incredibly stupid. But her fingers close around mine, warm against my rough palm, and she pulls me toward the fire.

We don't really dance. She's right. It's swaying. Her hand on my shoulder, mine on her waist. A foot of space between us that feels like both too much and not enough.

She's shorter than me by nine inches. Has to look up. The firelight puts bronze in her dark hair. Her eyes are locked on mine, and the laughter from thirty seconds ago has faded into something quieter. Something more dangerous.

"See?" she says. Low. "Not so bad."

Her hand shifts on my shoulder. Fingers brush the back of my neck. Barely there. Every nerve ending in my body lights up.

My hand tightens on her waist. Just a fraction. Just enough that her eyes widen.

The music keeps playing. People are talking, laughing, drinking cider around the fire. We're in the middle of a crowd at a public bonfire in a town where everybody knows my name. And all I can see is her mouth.

Full lips. Slightly parted. She's not breathing evenly. Neither am I.

We're close. Too close. My thumb moves against her hip through the denim. Her fingers curl into the fabric at my shoulder. The space between us shrinks to inches.

"Reid," she whispers.

Her mouth is right there. Right there. Warm breath on my jaw. Her eyes half closed, chin tipped up.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.