Page 24 of Forever with the Mountain Man

“You like that?” he asks, noting how my body reacts to his every touch.

“I like everything you do to me. The way you spoil and caress me. Your big, rough hands. Your hot, tender lips. Your hard, huge cock.”

“And I like all of your silky, soft parts that you let me play with and invade.” He stops, warmth pooling in his eyes as he says, “You know, with you by my side, I have the courage to stand up to my parents and forge my own way, professionally and privately. Because you make me feel stronger, smarter, and better than I am. And you make me want to become my best self.”

“Stronger, smarter, better than the rest. You are already all those things to me,” I say softly, palming his bearded cheek. Ineed to tell him about the article. It gnaws at the back of my mind. But nothing could make me mess up this moment or the new intimacy I’ve found with Fierce.

He props himself up on one arm, bringing his other hand to my cleft chin and stroking it gently before covering it in tender kisses and tracing it with his tongue. “I’ve dreamed about doing this for awhile now,” he says bashfully.

“And I want to look more closely at the back tattoo you told me about.”

He grins, flashing hisadorable dimples at me before rolling over onto his stomach. “What do you think?” He asks, eyeing me over his shoulder.

I lean forward, lightly tracing the ink on his back with my fingers. The hyperrealistic tattoo covers his entire back, a mural swirling with skulls, roses, bullets, and mist. “Why this design? It has very little to do with being a sheepherder.”

He gazes at me warmly over his shoulder. “It draws on the three things that hem in our lives: death as represented by the skulls, love by the roses, and violence by the bullets. As a shepherd, I live constantly with life and death among the herd. I am their guardian against violence from predators. And without a certain amount of love and tenderness, the herd would not thrive.”

I draw closer, kissing the muscles of his back and tracing their angular lines with my tongue until he purrs with pleasure like a well-loved cat. Turning suddenly, he seizes me, wrapping his arms around me. “Admit that you love me, Firefly, or I cannot make love to you.”

He kisses me, his eyes sparkling with the happy assurance of what he already knows. Something I’ve felt for weeks if only I would let myself admit it. Palming his cheek, I gaze intently into his eyes. “I love you, Fierce.”

Chapter Eight

FIERCE

When my ama and aunts arrive at the door, Felicity and I are dressed and happy, pink-cheeked, and casting glances of love in each other’s direction. Ama bustles in with her sisters and sisters-in-law behind, staring long at Felicity before exclaiming in Basque, “She is beautiful, my son. Healthy, robust, and with good childbearing hips.”

I roll my eyes, thanking my lucky stars that Felicity doesn’t understand.

“She is perfect,” I agree in Basque, winking in her direction as Felicity’s face flushes and her eyes flood with confusion.

My aunts giggle, gossiping among themselves as they bustle around the room, their arms laden with casserole dishes and cookware filled with mouthwatering treats. Felicity offers to help several times, even in French, but my aunts shoo her away, determined to spoil her, it seems.

The smell of tomatoes and garlic fills the air as I spy casserole containers filled with Pintxos, Red Tuna, Fish Stew, and Bayonne Ham. There’s a jar of my aunts’ prized Itaxassou black cherry jam, Rough & Ready Country sheep cheese, freshly baked bread, still steaming through the cloth, and a couple ofbottles of Irouléguy wine. But what makes my head spin is the Basque Cake placed at the head of the table.

“This is a step below a wedding feast,” I exclaim, my stomach rumbling after all the calories my beauty and I burned this afternoon.

Ama stretches up on her tiptoes, grabbing both my cheeks. “If you have any sense or propriety, you’ll send her to the house to sleep tonight.”

I shake my head firmly. There’s no way I would send my girl into the midst of that drama. Instead, I turn one of my mother’s proverbs back on her. “Ezkondu baino lehen, ezagutzea lehenago.”Before you get married, get to know your partner.

“Just like your aita.” She shakes her head, raising her brows as she warns, “Do not get to know her too well, or your aita and I will never hear the end of it.”

I scrunch my face. From whom? Is there no better gossip to be had? I don’t begin to pretend to understand Ama sometimes.

“Gâteau Basque,” Felicity exclaims, pointing at the dessert, and Ama and my aunts laugh and talk a mile a minute in Basque. Before leaving, each one stops in front of Felicity, holding her hands and blessing her. The San Francisco beauty nods politely, her face still aglow from lovemaking and her mouth quirked in puzzlement.

As the women bustle out, Felicity calls, “Merci, mesdames. Bonsoir!”Thank you, ladies. Good evening!They giggle as I escort them outside.

“At least her French is good, but we’d like to hear more Basque,” Ama says with a smile.

I frown. How could they expect anything more from her? It is a language spoken by less than a million people. It’s a downright miracle that an American with no family ties to the region would speak any words of it at all.

My aunts joke, “We know what Bixintxo has to say. ‘She is perfect.’” They mock my deep voice, turning their heads to the sides and fluttering their eyelashes like lovesick ewes.

“Well, she is!” I exclaim.

Ama palms my cheeks, smiling from ear to ear. “Are you happy, my son?”

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