Page 37 of Ten Mountain Men

Part of me wants to go with him, to his bed. Part of me wants to stay on this couch alone and rub one out underneath all these covers, hoping to get some of this pent-up desire out before I do or say something I can’t take back.

But I’ve already woken up one brother, and I can never make myself come when I’m worried about someone else hearing my sounds…and even if I could get myself there, when I fall back asleep, I might fall back into that nightmare. I shudder.

“I would love to sleep in your bed,” I say impulsively. I’ve never done anything impulsive in my life and it hurts a little, not gonna lie.

“But first…” I add, because without Grumpy Luke to interfere, why not? Even in Buck’s bed, I’m not ready to go back to sleep, to risk seeing the lifeless eyes of Clive, to feel the weight of all my mother’s ex-husbands pressing down on me again. “Would you let me give you a tiny little makeover before we go to sleep?”

I’m about to gently state my reasons, making sure to focus on how nice it will feel to have his beard softened and sculpted, and even throwing in the idea of a scalp massage as I shampoo, but before I can utter another persuasive word, Buck scoops me up against his chest, rumbling out a silent laugh that feels like a seismic event. He heads for the bathroom, and just like Rusty did, he deposits me with the utmost care on the closed toilet seat.

“I would love for you to make me a lumbersexual, Gold,” he says. “I mean, if you think I could lookgo-oodlike Rusty.”

“Of course you will,” I assure him, because he sounds uncertain.

He meets my eyes, and his mouth melts into his easygoing, laid-back grin, but I still catch some nervousness in his eyes.

“You’re going to be a hottie,” I say with a definitive nod. “And,” I add because it feels uber-important, “it’s not going to take much at all!”

Like I did with Rusty, I pull out all the supplies and explain what everything is.

“That itty-bitty bottle of shampoo’s supposed to wash all my hair?” he asks, unruly eyebrows high. God, once I have all the stray hairs plucked and shape those brows up just a little, his kind brown eyes are really gonna pop.

“Yes,” I tell him, though honestly I’m hoping that itty-bitty bottle of shampoo will wash all his hair and all the others’ too, once I have their consent. But it’s gonna be a stretch. “It doesn’t take much.”

Despite talking and laughing with Buck through the makeover, almost like we’re old friends, we’re quiet enough that the rest of the household sleeps soundly, and by the time I have his curls trimmed and his beard sculpted, we’re both yawning.

“You think it looks nice?” he asks me earnestly as he glances at himself in an old mirror that’s been kept at the back of the bathroom cabinet, a layer of dust on top. He turns his head this way and that, and his neat, strong brows furrow, as if he can’t quite reconcile that it’s his own reflection he’s peering at. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Buck Björnsson looks gorgeous, enough to give me flutters in my stomach—and those flutters slip deliciously lower too—as he scoops me into his arms again.

“You look amazing, Buck,” I tell him. “And it really, truly didn’t take very much. I can show you how to maintain the look before I leave, if you’d like.”

“Mmm, well. To be honest, I don’t really want to think about you leavin’ just yet. Are you ready for bed, Gold?”

I yawn, and nod against his chest. He carries me to his bed. He has one of the singles. Gently, he lays me down and then climbs in next to me.

“Can we cuddle?” I whisper. He envelops me. I feel so small against him. So right. Safe, even.

I don’t want to think about leaving just yet, either.

I press my head against his chest and feel it rise and fall. His breathing evens out. I close my eyes and feel myself relax, and then I drift off too. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so secure and protected in my whole entire life. There’s a very stable, very dependable vibe I get from the Björnssons. And I like it.

When I wake up again, it’s not morning yet, or what I would call morning, anyway, but it’s getting lighter out.

I gasp when I realize I’ve somehow wound up on top of Buck. Like, not just an arm or a leg draped over his body, but my entire body on top of his.

Holy fuck.

We’re both still clothed, but his hand is on my butt. Or rather, my butt is in his hand. I have some serious junk in the trunk, and yet one of my ass cheeks fits perfectly in his palm, as if his palm were made to hold it. Just like Rusty was holding my boob in my fantasy. A perfect fit.

Beneath me, there’s a serious case of morning wood happening.

No way is my palm big enough to hold that, but damn if I wouldn’t give it a go, given the opportunity.

Maybe.

No, not maybe, I realize.

Definitely.

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