Page 9 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Interesting.

Everything about this man was incredibly interesting. He wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met in my life.

The Medford Inn was quiet when we slipped in through the side entrance, his hand grazing the small of my back like it belonged there.

I didn’t remember the walk from Lucky’s… only the buzz in my blood and the steady rhythm of his voice as we moved through the crisp November air.

I fumbled with the keycard outside my room, nerves tripping over want. Asher leaned against the doorframe, watching me with that maddening, effortless calm.

“You always this clumsy?” he asked, low and teasing.

“Only when I’m doing something I probably shouldn’t,” I muttered.

The lock clicked. The door opened. And then we were inside.

No more small talk.

No more careful smiles.

His mouth was on mine before the door even shut, and I kissed him, desperately trying to forget the last few weeks. Hell, the last few years. I tasted whiskey and heat and a sharpness I couldn’t get enough of.

He lifted me easily, backing me against the wall, and I let my head fall back with a gasp. His hands were firm, callused.

The kind of hands that knew how to hold on. Or how to let go.

His mouth was hot and demanding, crashing into mine like he didn’t care who I was or what I was running from, only that I washere, wrapped in his arms, needing something real.

His tongue slid against mine, and I kissed him back, trying to burn the rest of my life down.

He shoved my coat off with a rough tug, fingers already sliding under my sweater, pushing it up over my head. My bare skin hit the cold air, nipples tightening instantly, and then his hands were on me.

Big, warm, rough palms cupping my breasts as if heownedthem, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I arched into him with a gasp.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re unreal.”

I reached for his belt, my fingers trembling but greedy, tugging it loose as he nipped down the side of my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark I knew I wouldn’t regret.

As he stripped off his shirt, I caught sight of the ink across his chest and bicep… bold strokes in black and dark blue, almost abstract at first, until I realized it was a storm.

Not the cheesy kind, but a real storm: jagged lightning branching across his collarbone, dark clouds curling over his shoulder blade like they were still moving, and tucked just beneath it, a single line of script in delicate lettering.

The wreckage is part of the story.

My breath caught.

That was truly beautiful. Painful, too.

I’d seen a thousand tattoos, most of them designed for attention or aesthetics. This one felt more like a scar someone had chosen to make visible.

But something about it snagged in my brain, a flash of something almostfamiliar. Like I’d seen it before. Or him. That face, that jawline, that particular rough-around-the-edges confidence.

I frowned for half a second.Where…?

He caught me staring and gave me a half-smile, all sex and shadows. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly, shaking it off. “You just look familiar.”

He quirked a brow, stepping closer. “Maybe I have one of those faces.”

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