Page 17 of Owned In Misty Mountain

—-

He doesn’t say a word when he lifts me.

Just slips his arms under my knees and back, and carries me out of the library like I weigh nothing. Like this happens all the time.Like he’s not walking around with my slick still on his mouth and a look in his eyes that saysmine.

The truck door slams shut and my brain finally catches up.

We’re really doing this.

No going back.

No pretending we don’t want it.

I glance over, and he’s gripping the wheel so tight I swear it might break.

“Mike.”

He looks at me. And that’s all it takes.

“Where are we—”

“My house,” he growls. “Unless you want me to take you right here in this fucking truck.”

I go silent.

Because either option sounds perfect.

—-

The second we’re inside, he pins me against the door and kisses me like he’s starved for it—hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me until my back hits the wall and my legs wrap around his waist.

“I should go slow,” he breathes into my mouth. “Make it special. Make it soft.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He stills. Smiles.

Then bites my bottom lip, hard.

“But I’ve been hard for you for days, baby. You know what that does to a man like me?”

“No?” I whisper.

“You’re about to.”

He carries me to the bedroom like he’s on a mission.

Tosses me on the bed, stands back, and…

Holy. Shit.

His chest is carved, dusted with hair, thick arms rippling with every breath.

He’s big. Everywhere.

And when he strips off his jeans and boxers in one move and that cock springs free?

I forget how to breathe.

---