Page 8 of Chosen for the Mountain Man

The water swirls around us, but all I can focus on is him— and his arms around me.

“It really is,” I sigh, listening to the water lap with the breeze.

We stay like that for a while, until I feel Max pull back. “We should probably head back,” Max says, his eyes searching mine.

“Probably.” I don't know what he's looking for, but I hope he finds it in me. Because, in all honesty, I want to give him everything.

He runs a finger under my chin and chuckles. “Alright, let's get out of here before we turn into prunes.”

We wade back to the shore, and I get out first to dress. Then he gets out and I can't help but steal glances at him as he’s pulling his shirt over his head. He's just...wow. I've never seen anyone so comfortable in their own skin, so unashamedly themselves.

It's sexy as hell.

As we pack up, I feel the familiar ache starting in my legs. I push through it, thinking it might dissipate as I move. But as we hike back, my body protests more and more.

When I stumble over some loose rocks, my legs give out on me, but Max is by my side in an instant, his strong arms catching me before I hit the ground.

“You alright?” he asks, hauling me up against him.

“Yeah, I um...must have sprained my ankle or something,” I lie, hating that I have to. But I can't tell him the truth. Not yet.

He frowns, looking at my ankle. “It doesn't look swollen. But let's not take any chances.”

Before I can protest, he squats down, his back to me, and pulls my arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Hop on and hold on,” he orders.

“Max, you don’t have to give me a piggyback ride all the way to the cabin.”

“Nonsense,” he says, his voice firm. “You barely weigh anything, and I don’t want your ankle swelling up.”

I melt a little at that, but I can't help the guilt gnawing at me. He thinks he's saving me from a sprained ankle, not my chronic condition.

“It’s nothing,” I insist, edging away. “I’ll just walk it off.”

He grabs my arm gently. “Ciara, don’t pull this bullshit with me.”

I freeze. Does he know? No way.

He takes one of my hands in both of his, still with one knee on the ground. “I’m not about to let you walk all the way back hurt. Get on. Please.”

Reluctantly, I do, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck. He carries me the rest of the way, his strong arms holding me securely. My breasts are crushed against his broad, muscled back, and I can feel his heartbeat—hard, steady, and reassuring.

When we get back to the cabin, he sets me down on the couch, then kneels in front of me. “Let's look at that ankle,” he says, his hands softly probing it.

I wince, not from pain, but from my stupid lie. He glances up at me, concern in his eyes. “I’ll get you some ice.”

He disappears into the kitchen, returning a moment later with an ice pack. He sits down next to me, propping my foot up on his lap. The cold is a shock at first, but then it starts to feel good, numbing the ache.

Max starts to massage my calves, his strong hands working out the tension.

“This okay?” he asks, as I lean back, letting out a soft moan. It feels incredible, and not just physically. The care, the tenderness…

“Very. You’re really good with your hands.”

He chuckles and our eyes meet. There's heat in his gaze, a hunger that seeps into my bones. I can't help it—I clutch at his arm, and pull him to me, pressing my lips to his.

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