Page 79 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Garrett turned slightly, catching me in profile. His eyes were darker than I remembered. “You sure?”

I nodded.

And then Beckett pulled the car into the parking spot.

The forest pressed in around us, quiet and heavy and draped in white, as if the whole world was holding its breath, too.

Asher shifted beside me, his thigh pressing into mine.

I felt the warmth of him through the layers of my coat, an anchor in the silence. Beckett’s knuckles flexed on the wheel. Garrett’s stare stayed glued to the road, but every part of the car felt alive with electricity.

Like they were all waiting for a signal. Or maybe I was the signal.

I turned, slowly, and met Asher’s eyes.

Dark. Hungry.

I couldn’t get enough ofthatlook.

“I can’t breathe,” I whispered. Not because of the cold.

Asher didn’t ask for permission. He reached over and unfastened my seatbelt in one fluid motion. Then he tugged me into his lap, bold, rough, a flame catching dry wood.

The cabin of the SUV went quiet in a new way. Not silent, but still. Like everything paused to watch.

My knees straddled him awkwardly, but I didn’t care. His hands found my hips, pulling me flush against him until I could feel every sharp edge of tension he’d been holding back.

“You good?” he asked again, his voice lower now.

I nodded. “Better than ever.”

His mouth was on mine in an instant.

Hot, possessive. No teasing. No slow build. This wasn’t playful.

It was weeks of friction snapping all at once.

Asher kissed like a storm breaking—wild and hard and unapologetic. His tongue swept into my mouth as if he owned it. He’d waited long enough and wasn’t asking anymore.

Behind me, I heard Garrett’s breath hitch. Beckett’s quiet, low curse.

Asher’s hands slid under my coat, fingers skating over the hem of my sweater like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strip me bare or press me closer. I rocked into him, instinct and heat pushing me forward, chasing that friction.

The windows fogged over.

Asher’s breath was ragged against my mouth now, his hands moving with more urgency, sliding up beneath my sweater, dragging over bare skin.

I gasped into the kiss, every nerve lighting up as his thumbs brushed the sides of my ribs, just below my bra.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered against my lips.

“You started it.”

A low laugh from the front seat. Beckett.

But it wasn’t amusement. It was strained. Tense.

Asher didn’t stop kissing me, but I could feel his control hanging by a thread. And when I looked over his shoulder, Beckett had turned in his seat, one arm slung over the back of it, his eyes locked on mine.

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