Page 10 of Forever with the Mountain Man

“Salut, mon bébé,” I answer, craning my head around the cafe bustling with activity.

“I hear you are already at Café de la Presse this morning. No doubt, hold up in your little corner typing away.” I chuckle at his words, turning my phone to give him a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the place. He knows me too well despite our never meeting and living four hours apart.

“And this is what my morning looks like,” he replies, panning his phone as I stare at the screen, marveling at the verdant valley where his ranch is located, the fluffy herd of sheep grazing all around him, and the towering, snow-capped Sierra NevadaMountains behind. I can hear the wind on the microphone, and he pulls his scarf tighter around his neck.

“Who are you riding today?” I ask.

He turns the camera towards a lovely, compact Quarter horse, his favorite mount.

“Hi, Gracie,” I exclaim.

The screen returns to his handsome face, cheeks ruddy from the wind and framed by a neatly trimmed black beard. He wears a black beret and a red scarf and looks like something straight out of a Travel Channel documentary, only far sexier. “She loves you already,” he says wistfully. “But not as much as her owner.” The man’s been subtly and not so subtly confessing his feelings to me for weeks now, which has me on the edge of a crisis.

“It is not customary to frown when your man appreciates you. What’s wrong, Firefly?”

I shake my head. “Trouble at work.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, his brow furrowing.

“Maybe another time.”

“This is what pains me about the long distance between us. If you were here, I would buy you a big bouquet of sunflowers to cheer you up.” They’re my favorite flower.

He stares at me, smiling, his eyes raw with emotion, communicating more than words could ever express.

“When, mon amour?” He arches a thick, black brow.

Fierce has offered to drive to San Francisco to meet me. He even suggested meeting my parents first to ask their permission to date me if that helps. I can tell he’s at the end of his rope, and I’ve run out of excuses for not meeting him.

Thanks to my editor, McDuffey, this changes tomorrow. I bite my tongue, tempted to tell Fierce as much. But McDuffey wants it to be a surprise. He’s far too sensational an editor to work at the Chronicle. I half think he expects me to show upin Hollister to find Fierce married with kids or something. He doesn’t know the first thing about this sweet, adorable man.

“Making love with our eyes is not nearly as interesting as what we could be doing. But I don’t want to pressure you.”

“And what could we be doing?” I ask in low, seductive tones.

The screen goes black as he turns off FaceTime, and I follow suit, pressing the phone to my ear for privacy’s sake.

“I dreamt about you again last night,” he says quietly, his voice throbbing with desire.

My heart pounds in my chest. “And what did you dream about me this time?”

He clears his throat, his voice dropping a few steps. “You were sitting on my face, your thick thighs squeezing my head as I undid you with my tongue.” I hear him run his hand over his beard, making a scruffy sound. “You tasted so good. I couldn’t get enough of your delicious honey.”

“Is that what you want to do with me?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing more from him.

“I wish you were at your place,” he growls. “So that you could touch yourself when I tell you about my dream, and I could watch, pretending your fingers were mine.”

My lower core is a tight throb, and my cheeks burn at how far I’ve let things go in recent days.What the hell am I doing?But I’ve never met a sexier guy in my life or one that I want to please and be pleased by more.

“I wish I was, too,” I respond breathlessly.

Fierce insists on phone calls and FaceTiming. He says it’s because he’s old-fashioned. All I know is it’s been the biggest mistake of my life. Because unlike my ex, Tim, who I sometimes sexted when traveling, there’s an intimacy and connection through FaceTime with Fierce that’s undeniable. So undeniable that I’m about to lose my dream job over it.

“Tonight?” He pants.

“Tonight. And I want to see you touch yourself, too,” I add, breathing hard.

He swallows loudly. “Anything for you. I have to go now before I’m unable to think straight and fall out of the saddle with lust. You are a bad influence on me, but one I cannot deny. Salut, ma luciole.”

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