Page 23 of Connecting with the Mountain Man

Now.

Chapter 8

Silas

I press her back against the wall, my palm splayed flat beside her head.

Her breath hitches, chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. I can see everything—the hard points of her nipples straining against the lace beneath, the way her pulse flutters at the base of her neck.

I dip my head lower, dragging my lips along the soft curve of her throat, letting my teeth scrape just enough to feel the shiver roll through her.

“You’ve wrecked me, Eden,” I growl against her skin, voice rough and raw.

My hand catches hers, and I guide it between us, pressing her palm right over the thick bulge behind my jeans.

“Feel that?” I murmur, brushing my lips over her jaw. “Feel what you do to me?”

Her fingers tremble but don’t pull away. If anything, they tighten, nails scraping lightly over the denim, and I bite back a groan.

“It’s…” Her voice is breathless, unsure, but her hand? Bold as hell. “You’re—big.”

I choke out a rough laugh, thrusting into her hold, dragging her palm along the thick length of me.

“I can stop,” I rasp, nipping the soft skin below her ear. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“No.” Her answer is instant, her grip tightening over my cock like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.

Fuck.

I drag my lips down the side of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark— because she’s mine. Only mine now. A reminder. She will have a new mark every week from now on.

She gasps, arching into me, and my other hand slides lower, over the curve of her ass, gripping and kneading.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits, voice soft but steady.

“That makes two of us,” I growl, dropping my forehead to hers, trying to catch my breath. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, bright and wide, and she smiles—just barely.

“Bullshit,” she whispers, dragging her hand down my length one more time.

I press a little harder against her, grinding slowly, letting her feel exactly how much I want her.

“Move back,” I tell her, voice husky and low.

Eden lets me guide her, step by step, until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of the couch. She sits without breaking eye contact, legs parting just enough to pull me between them. The room is silent except for the sound of our breathing, shallow and quick, and the faint rustle of fabric as I push her hair back from her face.

“You can still stop me,” I say, trailing my fingers over her jaw, down the curve of her throat.

She leans into my touch, lashes fluttering.

“I’m not stopping.”

I cup her face, tilting her head up as I kiss her again—slower this time, but just as deep. Her hands slide up my sides, fingers curling into the waistband of my jeans, tugging.

“Take these off,” she murmurs against my mouth.

I pull back just enough to pop the button, dragging the zipper down with a slow, deliberate tug. She watches, lips parted, as I shove them down my hips, letting them pool around my ankles. I take off my shirt. Eden’s gaze drops lower, and she bites her lip, cheeks flushed pink. I fist the hem of her shirt, tugging it over her head in one smooth motion. The second it’s gone, my eyes lock on the soft swell of her breasts, the hard peaks straining against delicate lace. I press my palm flat against her chest, fingers trailing down until I reach the clasp between her breasts.

“Can I?” I rasp, barely hanging on.

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