Page 103 of Boulder's Weight

I'm hyper aware of how close she is, kneeling between my legs, her hand still on my arm, her lips slightly parted.

Without thinking, I lean forward and capture her mouth with mine.

She responds instantly, rising up on her knees to press closer, her hands coming to rest on my thighs for balance.

The kiss deepens, any gentleness quickly giving way to hunger.

My hands find her waist, lifting her effortlessly until she's straddling my lap on the edge of the tub, her body pressed against mine.

"I thought about you tonight," I murmur against her neck as my lips trail down the column of her throat. "During the run. Kept thinking about getting back to you."

She pulls back slightly, searching my face. "Really?"

I don't understand the surprise in her voice. "Really. Why is that so hard to believe?"

She shrugs, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. "I'm not used to being someone's reason to come home."

The simple honesty of her words hits me like a punch to the gut.

I capture her face between my hands, looking directly into her eyes. "Well, get used to it, Montana."

Before she can respond, I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into it.

My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she opens to me willingly, a small moan escaping her as our tongues slide against each other.

My hands find the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it up and over her head, breaking our kiss only as long as I have to.

The sight of her in just a simple black bra makes my mouth go dry.

No matter how many times I see her like this, the effect is always the same—pure, overwhelming need.

I stand, lifting her with me, and carry her to the bedroom.

Her legs wrap around my waist, her arms around my neck, her mouth never leaving mine.

When I lay her on the bed, I pause to look at her—hair spread across the pillow, eyes dark with desire, lips swollen from my kisses.

Mine.

The thought hits me with startling clarity and possessiveness.

At this moment, she is completely, utterly mine.

She’s self-conscious under my stare. "What?"

"Just looking at you," I say, my voice rough. "You're fuckin’ beautiful, Montana."

A blush creeps up her neck, and she reaches for me, pulling me down to her. "Less looking, more touching," she demands against my lips.

I comply eagerly, my hands tracing the curves of her body, memorizing every dip and swell.

I unhook her bra like the professional I am, tossing it aside and replacing the fabric with my palms, feeling her nipples harden against my touch.

Her hands aren't idle either, tugging at my shirt, pushing my cut from my shoulders.

I help her, stripping away layers until we're skin to skin, her softness against my hardness.

"I need you," she whispers, her hands working at the button of my jeans. "Now."

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