Page 21 of Snowed in with the Mountain Man

She catches me staring and winks, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. My chest tightens with a now-familiar ache—this overwhelming love that blindsided me in a blizzard and hasn't loosened its grip since.

Mom beams at me. She's been different since Phoebe came into our lives—happier, more at peace. Having a daughter-in-law who genuinely wants to learn her recipes and hear her stories has given her new life. And she’s determined to get the rest of us paired off, too. She says, "Jake was telling me about that nice new kindergarten teacher he met."

Jake flushes slightly. "I was just being neighborly, Mom."

"Very neighborly," Thomas teases. "Considering you offered to help with the classroom renovation. Since when are you a carpenter?"

"Shush," Jake mutters his breath, his ears going red.

The conversation flows on, but I notice Jake's distraction, the way he checks his phone more than usual. Interesting.

Phoebe nudges me under the table, raising an eyebrow in Jake's direction. I nod slightly—she's noticed too. We've gotten good at these silent communications, reading each other with barely a glance.

"Aiden," Mom calls from the kitchen, "can you and Phoebe get the ice cream from the freezer downstairs? I forgot to bring it up earlier."

"Sure, Mom." I stand, offering Phoebe my hand.

"I can manage stairs," she says with mock indignation, but takes my hand anyway.

The basement is Mom's domain—part storage, part cold cellar, part laundry room. The old chest freezer hums in the corner, surrounded by shelves of home-canned vegetables and preserves.

The moment we're alone, Phoebe's demeanor changes. She presses me against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"We have about five minutes before they start wondering where we are," she whispers, her hands sliding down my chest.

"What are you—"

Her fingers find my belt, deftly unbuckling it. "Shh. Let me."

My brain short-circuits as she sinks to her knees, tugging my jeans down just enough to free me. Blood rushes south so fast I feel dizzy.

"Phoebe," I hiss, glancing up the stairs. "My entire family is right above us."

"Then you'd better be quiet," she says, looking up at me with that wicked smile that still makes my heart stutter. "Consider this practice."

Before I can protest further, her warm mouth engulfs my hard cock. My head falls back against the wall with a thud, a groan escaping before I can stop it. My hand instinctively tangles in her hair, not guiding, just needing the connection.

Every coherent thought evaporates as she works me with practiced skill, knowing exactly how to bring me to the edge without pushing me over. A year together has taught her my body as thoroughly as I've learned hers.

The danger of discovery only heightens everything—the wet heat of her mouth, the sight of her on her knees, the gentle swell of her belly visible beneath her sweater. My pregnant wife is sucking my cock, still insatiable, still surprising me when I least expect it.

"God, Phoebe," I whisper, watching as she takes me deeper. "The things you do to me."

She hums in response, the vibration sending shockwaves through my system. Her hands aren't idle—one grips the base of my shaft while the other caresses my thigh, nails lightly scratching sensitive skin.

The pressure builds, my control fracturing. I'm on the verge of coming when footsteps creak on the floor above us.

"You guys find it?" Jake's voice calls down the stairs.

Phoebe pulls back just long enough to call, "Looking for the right flavor! Give us a minute!" Her voice is impressively steady, betraying none of what she's doing.

Then her mouth is on me again, movements more urgent now. The message is clear: time's up. She wants me to finish.

I bite my lip hard, fighting to stay silent as she brings me right to the edge. Her eyes meet mine, dark with desire, and she takes me deep one final time. The sight undoes me completely.

Release hits like an avalanche, white-hot pleasure cascading through me. She swallows everything, maintaining eye contact in a way that's both filthy and unbearably intimate.

When she finally pulls away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, I'm still struggling to remember how to breathe.

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