Page 16 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

"Terrible idea."

"Tony will kill me."

"Tony's in Sacramento."

He kisses me.

Both hands on my face, thumbs on my jaw, tilting my chin up. His mouth is warm, firm. Not tentative. Not asking. He kisses me with twelve years of distance collapsing into one moment, and I grab his shirt to stay upright because my knees actually buckle.

My back hits a pine tree. His body presses against mine, solid and heavy. One hand stays on my jaw. The other drops to my hip, fingers digging into the curve above my jeans. I open my mouth and his tongue slides against mine, slow, thorough. He tastes like cider.

A sound comes out of me. Desperate. Needy. His grip on my hip tightens.

"Inside," I say against his mouth. "Now."

He pulls back. Eyes dark, breathing hard. "Ivy."

"If you say my name as a warning one more time, I'm going to scream."

He looks at me. Really looks. And whatever he sees in my face makes the last of his resistance crack apart.

His hand finds mine. We walk to his cabin. He opens the door, pulls me inside, and locks it behind us.

The cabin is dark. I don't care. My back is against the wall before the lock clicks, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, the spot below my ear that makes my hips roll forward against his. He groans. Low, guttural. His hands slide under his jacket on my shoulders and push it off. It hits the floor.

"Been thinking about this," he says against my throat. "Since the goddamn bonfire."

"Since the bonfire?" I pull at the hem of his henley. "I've been thinking about this since I was sixteen."

He makes a sound that's almost a laugh. Pulls the henley over his head. Broad chest, dark hair trailing down the center, muscles roped along his ribs. Olive skin. A scar on his left shoulder from a jobsite accident he hasn't told me about yet.

My sweater goes next. Then my bra. His eyes drop to my breasts and his jaw flexes.

"Fuck, Ivy."

"Bedroom."

"Can't wait that long."

He lifts me. Both hands under my thighs, my legs wrapping around his waist. My bare chest presses against his. He carries me to the couch, sits down with me straddling his lap.

I roll my hips against him. He's hard. Thick through his jeans. His hands grip my waist, holding me in place while he presses up against me. The friction through denim makes both of us groan.

His mouth finds my nipple. Tongue circling, then sucking hard enough that my head falls back and my hips grind down on instinct. His other hand cups my breast, thumb rolling the peak. He switches sides. Sucking, licking, teeth grazing gently. My hands are in his hair, pulling, and he grunts against my skin.

"Off," he says, fingers working my jeans open. "These need to come off."

We separate long enough for me to strip. Jeans, underwear, boots kicked into the dark. He watches me. Standing in front of him naked while he sits on the couch still half-dressed. His eyes track down my body, slow, and the look on his face is reverent and wrecked at the same time.

"Come here." Rough. Commanding.

I straddle him again. His hand slides between my thighs and two fingers push through my pussy, spreading me open. I gasp. His thumb finds my clit, circling slow, firm pressure.

"You're soaked," he says.

"Been waiting four days. What did you expect?"

He adds a third finger. The stretch burns and I moan into his neck. He fucks me with his hand while his mouth works my breast, his thumb relentless on my clit. Building. Building. My thighs shake.