Page 22 of Connecting with the Mountain Man

“I thought it was dangerous,” he growls. His eyes lock on mine, dark and intense. “Because I already wanted you, Eden. And not knowing you wanted me too?” His gaze flicks to my mouth, lingering. “That was something I wasn’t sure I could handle.”

My heart slams against my ribs, traitor that it is. I lick my lips, and his eyes track the movement. Damn him. Damn me. I should stay mad. I want to stay mad. But standing this close, with his body practically vibrating with tension, all I feel is heat and that unbearable ache in my chest. I grip the edge of the door behind me like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

“You could’ve said something,” I whisper.

His gaze lifts to mine, and I swear—I forget how to breathe.

“I was scared,” he says, voice scraping low and rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “If you found out it was me… and you were disappointed—”

“Silas.” I breathe his name, cutting him off. But he shakes his head, fingers curling tighter against the doorframe, knuckles flexing under the strain.

I stop. Because now I get it. That mood he was in when he came to fix the leak. The way he brushed me off like I wasn’t worth his time. It wasn’t me. It was him.

Silas Matthews—Mr. Grumpy, Growly, and Unshakable—was scared.

Of me.

The realization floors me. The same man who’s stared down wild animals, thrown his body into the middle of bar fights, and single-handedly rebuilt half the town… was scared of disappointing me.

“And then,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, the muscles in his arm flexing as his eyes meet mine again. “Then you sent that message. The one where you said how much you wanted me. Where you…”

I swallow hard.

Oh, God. He read that message. Every dirty word. My fingers tighten against the wood, my whole body heating from the inside out.

“I should’ve told you then,” he says, eyes trailing over my face, down to my mouth. “But I kept thinking about Luke. How this might—”

“Luke?” I cut in, something sharp twisting in my chest. “That’s what stopped you?”

Silas flinches, just barely. His hand drops from the frame, knuckles brushing against my bare skin where my shirt has ridden up. I feel it everywhere.

“I thought it might screw things up,” he admits, his voice thick and rough. “With him. With you. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

I stare up at him, lips parting as I try to find something—anything—to say. But nothing feels big enough to match the weight in his gaze. And words? Right now, they’re useless. I feel too much—everything all at once. The frustration, the heat, the ache I’ve been swallowing down for years.

So instead, I surge up on my toes and crush my mouth to his. His groan vibrates right through me, his hands landing hard on my waist, pulling me in until there’s nothing between us butheat. Silas kisses me like he’s starving—like he’s been craving this for years, and hehas. His tongue slides against mine, rough and insistent, and I whimper when his hands cup my ass, lifting me clean off the ground as he backs us into the entryway. He slams the door shut with his foot.

My back hits the wall, and I feel it everywhere—his weight, his heat, the thick, rigid length pressing right between my thighs. Am I causing that?

“Jesus, Eden,” he growls against my mouth, nipping at my bottom lip. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

I do. Because I’ve wanted it just as long.

My hands dive under his flannel, tugging at it until I can feel him—reallyfeel him. The broad expanse of his chest, the ridges of muscle that flex beneath my touch. He’s hard everywhere. Solid. And when his hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb swiping over my nipple right through the thin cotton of my shirt— I moan, arching into him, craving more.

He’s relentless.

One hand stays at my breast, squeezing and teasing, while the other grips my hip, grinding me down against him like he’s trying to brand me with his cock.

It’s desperate. Messy. And I don’t care. I rake my nails down his back, his flannel dragging up higher until I feel skin—hot and rough.

“Fuck, Eden,” he groans, sucking my earlobe into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make me squirm. “I can feel how wet you are. You’re drenching my jeans.”

My face flames, but I don’t stop. Because he’s not wrong. Every grind of his hips, every swipe of his tongue against my neck makes me slicker, needier.

I want him.

I need him.

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