Page 110 of Ten Mountain Men

In this moment, nothing else matters. It’s just Ranger and me, and…something blooming that should absolutely not be. It’s not even possible. We just met!

As we finally break apart, a contentment I can’t deny washes over me. I sigh without meaning to.

“Was that okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

“It was more than okay,” I assure him, my voice a whisper. “It was perfect. I feel good with you, Ranger. I mean, I feel good with all of you, but…I just feel good.”

“Well, I’m glad,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“This might be out of line, but do you think you might, not now, but while you’re here, do you think I might be able to get you to perform oral sex on me the way you did for Ash?”

He watches me, as if his gaze is searching my face for a sign that what he’s said was not out of line. I put him out of his misery. The thought of my lips wrapped around his cock has my mouthwatering.

“Ranger,” I say, wrapping my hands around his forearm. I get back up on my tiptoes again and whisper, “Let’s do that tonight.”

He grins. “I really like this whole friendship and sex thing.”

I laugh. “Me too.”

“Let’s get these vegetables inside,” he says.

As we step inside, the warmth of the cabin wraps around me, a stark contrast to the chilly garden air. It smells faintly of woodsmoke and cedar, the comforting scent of home. Before I can set my basket down, Clay comes through the back door, his towering frame filling the space.

“Goldie, just in time.” He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Wanna help me pluck some fruit?”

I hesitate. Knowing Clay, that’s a euphemism for something naughty.

“I’m going to need you to be more specific.”

“We have a little orchard of sorts out thataway,” Ranger clarifies with an arm-sweeping gesture toward the west. Or is it the east? “Clay’s going to pick some apples and pears.”

That could be fun, right?

“Sure, I’ll come with you,” I say. “Just let me grab a sweater.”

“You don’t think I can keep you warm, sweetheart?” he asks.

“I think you’re going to be too busy, you know, picking apples and pears,” I tell him. Goodness, he’s harder to keep in line than all the rest of them put together.

But he gives me a piggyback ride out to the orchard, which is appreciated, because I’ve been putting a lot of weight on my ankle and it’s a little sore again. Not as sore as my pussy or my jaw, but definitely a little sore.

“Where’s the ladder?” I ask when he puts me down.

Clay laughs, a deep, resonant rumble of a laugh. “With me around? You don’t need a ladder, sweetheart. You’ve got me. We’ll get ’er done faster than a jackrabbit with its tail on fire headed toward the nearest water source. And it’ll be fun, I promise.”

His confidence is infectious, and I don’t doubt for a minute that Clay could make anything fun. Well, maybe not heading to the nearest water source with your tail on fire. But just about everything else.

The apple trees are heavy with fruit, the branches bending under the weight of them. Clay stoops slightly to grip me by the hips, and suddenly I’m soaring up, the world tilting a bit as he hoists me higher and higher until I can actually grasp an apple, so big it takes two hands to hold, and red and shiny as Dorothy’s ruby slippers inThe Wizard of Oz.

“Got one!” I exclaim, a little thrill of victory running through me.

“Chuck her in the basket over there,” Clay says, his voice rich with rumbly laughter. I hurl it down and grab a couple more, repeating the process. Then his grip loosens and I feel myself slipping. A scream slips from my lips and he’s got me again, secure around the waist with both arms. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, it’s okay. I was just playing.”

“Oh fucking shit. I thought you were going to drop me.”

My heart is racing as he sets me down. His hands linger on my waist just a moment too long, and our eyes meet—his usual joking manner fades, and something serious, intense, replaces it.

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