Page 24 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

He handed me the dry clothes and waited. I set them beside me. There was no room to stand.

“You’re not turning around, are you?” I whispered.

“No.”

“Thinking about it?”

“No.”

At least the man was honest.

I unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it off, then pulled my sweater over my head. The cold air hit my damp skin, tightening my nipples beneath my white lace bra, turning them into hard, aching peaks.

Ford’s body went rigid.

I took off my boots and put them by the door, somewhat out of the way. Then, I unfastened my jeans and pushed the heavy denim down over my hips. The damp fabric stuck to my thighs, forcing me to wriggle and shift.

He reached over and tugged at them. “Lift up.”

I obeyed. He pulled the wet denim down and off, and then I was sitting there in my bra and panties in front of a man I wanted to make love with. It was out of character for me. I was usually too self-conscious to even consider sex most of the time. But not here. Not with Ford.

“Your turn,” I said.

He took off his boots and put them next to mine. Next, his hand reached for the hem of his wet black shirt.

I tried not to look eager. I failed miserably.

Ford pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion and tossed it into the corner.

My mouth went completely dry.

His chest was broad, muscular, and covered in a light trail of dark hair that tapered down his stomach. A pale scar cut diagonally across his ribs, and another marked his left shoulder. He wasn’t lean or groomed for show—he was thick, powerful, and built from years of hard labor on this mountain.

His hands moved to his belt buckle.

My breath hitched.

The heavy brass buckle unlatched with a loud click. Then the top button of his jeans. The sound of his zipper dragging down felt deafening in the tiny tent. He stopped with his jeans open, not off.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached past me to the pile of supplies and unrolled a thick insulated pad across the bottom of the tent. Next, he unzipped his sleeping bag and spread it out on top of the pad. I huddled in the corner, letting him work. Still sitting in my bra and panties. Still not putting on the dry clothes.

Once he was done, he looked at me. I didn’t try to hide my curves but that didn’t make me absolutely certain I was doing the right thing. For one wild second, I almost got up and ran out into the rain. What did I think I was doing? Sleeping with a man who had considered me a pest for weeks.

Then he held out his hand and I went to him. He laid me back against the sleeping bag, then shoved his jeans off and anything else he’d had underneath. He came over top of me and I could feel every inch of his warm flesh. Every. Delighful. Inch.

“Are you sure, Maggie?”

I didn’t have to ask for clarification of the questions. I knew what was about to happen, same as I knew I would get that winning photo.

“I’m sure.”

His large, calloused hand settled on my waist. “You can say no any time.”

“I know.” I smiled at him. “But that word isn’t in my vocabulary, remember?”

“I remember,” he said, lowering his head.

His mouth brushed mine, this kiss nothing like the first one. This one was soft. Exploring. Like we had all the time in the world, and maybe we did—at least for now, with the rain hitting the tent and everything else shut out.