Page 3 of Mountain Daddy

But this isn’t the kind of man you do “show and tell” with.

This is the kind of man you never take home to Mom.

The kind who puts his hand around your throat and whispers, “Beg for it.”

He knows it.

I know it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity suspended somewhere between his eye-fucking and mydo I like this, he speaks.

“It’s okay. Mistakes happen.”

That’s… generous. Also, a man that hot shouldn’t be allowed to have a deep, sexy voice.

Abort mission. Abort.

Red flag… Red flag. RUN.

I squeak out, “I’m sooo s-sorry.”

What the actual hell is wrong with me?

Normally, I’m a confident, social butterfly. Right now? I’m a teenage girl crushing on the senior quarterback.

He leans back in his chair like he doesn’t even notice the wine soaking into his pants. His gaze never wavers.

“You always give your guests such… personal service?” he asks, voice like smoke and honey and bad decisions that feel good.

“I—I usually wait until the second drink,” I say, too fast, then catch his meaning and blush. Again.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like power wrapped in amusement.

“Well,” he says, enticing as sin, “if that was foreplay, I’m curious what bottle service looks like.”

My stomach flips.

My thighs… quiver.

Nope. Not okay.

I try to reset. “That’s reserved for men who don’t make me want to crawl into a hole and die.”

“Shame,” he murmurs. “I was hoping to taste something,” his gaze falls to my naked thighs, “special tonight.”

My brain short-circuits.

He has to be kidding.

Or maybe I just haven’t been laid in too long.

“Would you like another drink?” I ask, voice breathy by accident.

His eyes darken. “If it comes with that view again? Absolutely.”

I speak before I think. “Public indecency your thing?”

Given the glimmer in his eyes, I’m guessing that’s a yes.

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