Page 12 of Runaway for the Mountain Man
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” My voice is rough, barely more than a growl against her ear, but I feel the way her body clenches around my fingers the second the words leave my mouth. Fuck. She’s so goddamn responsive—like every word that leaves my lips just winds her tighter.
I’ve never felt the need to speak during times like these, but at the shake of her breath, they keep coming.
“Do you have any idea how pretty you look when sitting on my lap?” Groaning low, I curl my fingers just right. “So fucking pretty.”
Her breath hitches, hips rolling against my hand, greedy. I press deeper, curl my fingers again just to watch her back arch.
“Yeah, just like that. Take what you need. I’ve got you.” I’m panting like I’m the one moving. Shit, at this rate, I don’t even have to worry about pulling out my cock to get myself off.
She whimpers, and I grin wolfishly, dragging my teeth over her shoulder. She’s close—I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble, the way her nails dig into my skin like she’s afraid I’ll stop.
As if I would.
“Come on, Josie. Let go. I wanna feel you come on my fingers. Wanna hear you.” The words keep coming like I’ve been waiting all this time to say them.
When she does—when she shatters with a broken cry, my name spilling from her lips like a plea for more—I kiss her hard, swallowing every sound.
Parting ways, she collapses against my front, panting hard while she tries to collect herself.
Ever so slowly, I adjust her underwear, my fingers lingering a second too long before I pull back. She sighs as I wrap my arms around her, her breath warm against my throat.
“You don’t want…?” Her voice is heavy with exhaustion, raw from the hellish day she’s endured, the brief nap doing little to mend her weariness.
I want to. Of course, I want to. But not like this. Not when the clock is ticking down to morning, when she’ll slip away like smoke, back to a life I have no claim over.
“I want to stay like this.” My lips brush the soft strands of red as I speak, memorizing the way her body molds against mine—soft where I’m hard, yielding where I’m rigid. As if she was made to fit right here.
The arousal coiled low in my gut is a living thing, demanding, relentless. However, I refuse to let my last memory of her be just lust. Not when she’s given me this—quiet, warmth, a peace I’ve never known before her.
So I hold her tighter, breathing her in. When she yawns, I don’t dare to move. Not to kick on the generator, not to jerk myself off for some relief. Instead, I let her exhaustion swallow her whole, all while watching the fire like I’ll suddenly get all the answers I need to my questions.
By the time the sun lifts and the storm has passed over, I’ll have to know a way to keep her in my life.
* * *
I wake to the weight of her still in my arms.
Josie isn’t straddling me anymore—somewhere in the night, she’d curled herself against my lap, her side pressed to my chest, my arm draped loosely around her waist. She has the most peaceful expression on her face; it looks unreal.
I don’t move. Don’t dare to breathe too deeply without risking breaking the spell.
The morning light slips through the curtains, painting gold across the living room, and over the rise and fall of her breathing, steady against me. I let my fingers trace idle circles over her hip, slow, savoring the warmth of her.
Then she stirs. A soft sigh, the shift of her body as she stretches, then stills, realizing where she is. I feel the exactmoment she wakes fully, the little hitch in her breath before she turns her head to look at me.
Our eyes meet.
She’s sleep-soft, her lips parted, lashes still heavy with dreams. There’s no hesitation in me—I lean in, brushing my mouth against hers, gentle, coaxing. A kiss good morning, unhurried, just the two of us in this quiet space.
For a brief moment, her body relaxes enough that I could deepen it if I wanted. But then she makes a muffled sound against my lips, pulling back just enough to blink up at me.
“Morning breath,” she mumbles, nose scrunching. “I’m gross.”
I chuckle, thumb tracing her jaw. “Don’t care.”
She does, though. Her cheeks go pink, and with a wriggle, she’s slipping free of my hold, twisting out of my lap with a half-laugh, half-groan. “Nope. Not romantic at all. Coffee first. Please tell me you have a pot.”
I let her go so she can discover what I have lying around, smile softening as she pads toward the kitchen, but not before catching the way she glances back at me—just once—like she’s already thinking of returning.
