Page 111 of Ten Mountain Men

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I was playing. I didn’t mean to scare you. You know you can always count on me to take care of you, right?” His tone is earnest, a rarity for him.

I nod, touched by the sincerity, the gravity in his usually jovial voice. “Let’s just…not do that again, okay? I have no doubt you’ll catch me, but the feeling of free-falling is not something I’m going to ever enjoy.”

“Got it. Ready to go up again?”

“Well, there are still apples up there, and pears after that, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” he says.

I laugh, the sound light and free, but as we continue picking apples, Clay lifting me up and down…each touch, each moment shared, it’s almost as if I can feel the connection between us growing. The feelings inside me growing.

Sex and friendship, Goldie. Sex and friendship. I don’t know why the hell my heart seems to be malfunctioning, but if I can’t keep it to sex and friendship, I need to leave right now. No heartbreak. No one gets hurt.

I made the rules. I have to obey them.

After a while, when we have baskets full of apples and pears, he spreads a blanket on the grass and lowers me very gently onto it. Then he pulls out a pocketknife and flips out the blade.

“Uh, I’m getting some mixed signals here. Are we going to have a romantic moment or are you going to carve me like a pumpkin?” I ask.

He doesn’t just laugh—he chortles.

Plucking an apple from the basket, he wipes it off on his shirt, then slices into it. Kneeling next to me, he offers the chunk he’s just cut out to me.

“Taste. It’ll be the best apple you’ve ever had, I swear,” he says.

There is something really fucking intimate about the moment as I take a bite out of the fruit he’s holding, my lips grazing his fingers. Sure, it’s not as sexy as being fed a strawberry would be, but the apple is…so juicy, so full of sweet, crisp flavor…I let out a moan.

“That,” I say, after I finish chewing, “is orgasmic. What kind of apple is that? Did I taste a hint of cinnamon?”

“You certainly did. It’s called a Moonspice,” he says.

I take another bite. Oh my soul. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Probably because it doesn’t exist anywhere outside these trees. We cultivated this variety ourselves.”

I shake my head. I need to dislodge some wax from my ears or something, because did he just say… “Did you…are you saying you and your brothers created your own apple?”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Well, we created a few, but this was the first winner.”

He tosses the apple into the air and catches it, turning it so I can see the side he didn’t cut into. “We named it Moonspice, because see, the velvety crimson skin with streaks of shimmering gold…makes it look like it’s glowing under the light of the moon. And the cinnamon undertones give it a little bit of a spice, right?”

I’m too awestruck to say anything. They make their own apples.

“But,” he says. “I want to see if it tastes as good as you say it does.”

He puts away the knife and presses gently down on my shoulders until I lie back. Then, maneuvering himself so his body is hovering over mine, not putting his weight on me but allowing his muscles to skim my curves, that Rapunzel hair curtaining us from the world, he puts all jokes aside and kisses me with a tenderness that I feel in my soul. In my clit too, but definitely in my soul. In my heart. In my…oh, shit. In my heart.

“Mmm, my, my, yes,” he whispers, pulling away just for a moment, his crystal-blue eyes staring into mine. “Delicious. So goddamn delicious.”

Then he dives back in, his lips capturing mine with a heat and fervor that nearly sets my body on fire. This isn’t just a kiss. It’s molten lava, a supernova explosion, the big bang recreated between our mouths.

As our tongues tangle, I’m aware of nothing except his body and mine and every point where they connect. His chest brushes against my erect nipples with each breath. One of his hands cradles my face, thumb stroking my cheek with a gentleness that contrasts deliciously—yes, delicious will be the word of the day—with the passion of his kiss.

I rake my fingers through his silky hair, reveling in its softness, as Clay’s other hand skims down my side, making me quiver. When he reaches my hip, he gives it a squeeze that makes me gasp into his mouth. I swear I can feel his heartbeat thundering in time with mine. I arch myself up against him, parting my thighs, pressing myself into his erection.

The kiss deepens, grows even more urgent. It’s like he’s trying to devour me, to crawl inside my skin and make a home there. And you know what? I’d let him. I’d roll out the welcome mat, bake him a casserole, and hand over the keys to my heart.

Wait. What?

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