Page 14 of Mountain Protector

The storage room is barely bigger than a closet, with shelves lining both walls and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. When I flip the switch, everything is bathed in dim yellow light. The space feels impossibly smaller with Clay’s frame filling the doorway behind me.

“I just need to grab some white ink from the top shelf,” I explain, trying to ignore how my skin prickles with awareness of him standing so close. His presence seems to suck all the oxygen from the room.

I drag the ancient wooden ladder from the corner, positioning it beneath the shelf I need to reach. It wobbles ominously on the uneven concrete floor.

“Let me get that for you,” Clay says, stepping forward.

“I’ve got it,” I insist, already placing my foot on the bottom rung. “I do this all the time.”

His frown deepens. “That ladder looks like a death trap.”

“Yet I’m still alive,” I quip, climbing higher. Each step creaks under my weight, but I’m focused on the black case of specialized inks just beyond my reach. “Almost there...”

I stretch up on my tiptoes, fingers just brushing the edge of the case. The ladder shifts beneath me, and suddenly I’m falling backward, a startled gasp escaping my lips as I brace for impact.

It never comes.

Instead, strong arms catch me mid-air. I find myself cradled against Clay’s chest, my heart hammering wildly as I look up into his intense blue eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice deeper than usual.

I can only nod, suddenly breathless. My arms have instinctively wrapped around his neck, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch—his arms supporting my back and legs, my chest pressed against his, the warmth of his skin seeping through our clothes.

He doesn’t set me down. We stay suspended in this moment, my breathing quickening as his eyes drop to my lips. The air between us feels electric, charged with something that’s been building since the moment he walked into my shop.

“Clay,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.

His grip tightens slightly. “Tell me to put you down,” he says, his voice rough. “Tell me to step back.”

I should. I know I should. But instead, I tighten my arms around his neck, my fingers sliding into the short hair at his nape. “I don’t want you to.”

Something flashes in his eyes.

He shifts me in his arms, pressing me against the wall, my feet still off the ground. The solid surface at my back and his firm body at my front create a delicious pressure that makes my breath catch.

And then his mouth is on mine, and everything else disappears.

The kiss is nothing like I expected. It’s better, deeper, more consuming. His lips are firm but surprisingly soft, moving against mine with a confidence that makes my toes curl. I respond immediately, parting my lips as his tongue slides against mine. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him, and I’m instantly addicted.

Clay presses closer, his body pinning mine to the wall as one hand moves to cradle my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone with surprising gentleness despite the intensity of his kiss. I arch into him, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything he’s giving me.

He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, and I tilt my head to give him better access.

“Your skin,” he murmurs against my throat, “I’ve been wondering if the ink makes it taste different.”

The words send a shiver through me. “And does it?”

His tongue traces the colorful pattern on my neck. “Better than I imagined.”

I gasp as his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot below my ear. My hands slide under his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. The muscles of his back flex under my touch, and he makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through me.

“Put me down,” I whisper, and for a second, disappointment flashes in his eyes before I add, “I want to feel all of you.”

He lowers me slowly, letting my body slide against his until my feet touch the ground. But he doesn’t step back. Instead, he keeps me pinned between his body and the wall, one hand beside my head, the other at my waist.

“Better?” he asks, his voice rough with desire.

In answer, I pull his mouth back to mine, kissing him with all the pent-up attraction I’ve been fighting. His thigh slips between mine, creating pressure exactly where I need it, and I can’t help the soft moan that escapes me.

---