Page 15 of Admiring the Mountain Man
We’ve kissed so many times I lost count. It shouldn’t be possible for something as simple as her palm against mine to kick my pulse into overdrive. And yet, my heart is out of my control.
“Not what you expected?” she asks, voice low, like she’s bracing for me to wrinkle my nose at the waterlogged welcome mat.
I squeeze her hand instead. “Expected?” I huff a laugh. “After last night, I stopped expecting anything. Just happy to be where you are.”
Her shoulders relax, just a fraction, and she leads me inside.
The inside of her apartment smells much better than the outside—like vanilla and fresh linen, with the faintest hint of coffee grounds lingering beneath.
It’s tidy, lived-in but deliberate, the kind of space where every throw pillow and stacked book feels like a choice. A half-read novel rests facedown on the arm of the couch, a pair of sneakers kicked off near the door but lined up neatly.
“Make yourself at home,” she says, slipping her hand from mine to take off her own shoes. “I’ll put on coffee.”
I follow her into the small kitchen, leaning against the doorway as she fills the pot with water, her movements a smooth blur. The morning light through the window catches the few silver strands in her hair, the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.
Last night flashes in fragments—her mouth on mine, the way she gasped when I nipped at her bottom lip—and my hands flex at my sides like they’re already missing the weight of her.
She glances over, catching me staring, and smirks. “What is it?”
“Just thinking how pretty you are.” Gaze softening, the truth rolls off my tongue easily now that I’ve crossed the line holding me back.
Staring at me with wide eyes, her lips part, and her skin grows red at a record-breaking speed. The flush crawls down her throat, and I watch the way she swallows.
The machine gurgles to life, and she turns, her hands fumbling as she makes two cups of coffee. Barely being able to ask me how I take mine, she’s quick to take a big gulp of hers like she needs a shock to her system.
Setting my cane down, I’m careful to eliminate the space between us as only one thought circles through my head.
As soon as I’m close enough, she’s pressing a mug into my hands. Like she’s ready to busy me with my own drink, her plan fails the moment our hands make contact.
Our fingers brush, and neither of us pulls away. The steam curls between us, fragrant and warm, but all I can focus on is the way her breath hitches when I step closer.
“Hayes—”
I don’t let her finish. The mug thunks onto the counter as I cup her face, tilting her mouth up to meet mine. She tastes like sleep and sugar, and when her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me in, it’s everything.
The coffee can wait. Right now, the only thing I can think about tasting is her.
I walk her backward until the edge of the counter presses into the small of her back, my body caging hers in. Her mug is still clutched in her hand, forgotten, so I take it from her and set it down beside mine.
Her lips are parted, her eyes hazy with the same want that’s been burning through me since last night. But this isn’t like last night. No storm rattling the windows, no worry of anyone catching us in the act.
This is her space. Her walls, her air, her scent wrapped around me. Can’t get more personal than that.
I drag my thumb along her bottom lip, watching the way her breath shudders before her tongue slips out to trace where my touch trailed.
“This okay?” My voice is rough, barely recognizable.
Last night, she’d drawn a line, and I’d honored it, even when every brush of her mouth threatened to wreck me. But now? Now her hips tilt toward mine, and the heat of her is undeniable.
She nods, slowly, like she’s savoring the decision.
Last night wasn’t enough for either of us. It could never be enough. The way she’s looking at me now, like she wants to devour me just as bad as I want her? It’s torture.
The second she tilts her head back, lips parted and eyes dark, it hits me like a live wire—that sharp, sweet ache, the rush of blood so sudden it’s dizzying. My cock stiffens in my jeans, thick and heavy, pulse pounding in every inch of me.
“Yeah.”
Fuck.
