Page 18 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
"Anyone would have done the same."
"No, they wouldn't." I take our plates to the sink. "Most people would've blocked my number after that first text."
He follows me to the kitchen. "I'm not most people."
"No." I turn to face him, aware we're standing close enough for his body heat to radiate toward me. "You're not."
His eyes drop to my lips, then travel lower, taking in how his oversized shirt hangs on my frame. The look sends fire racing through my veins.
"Sunny—"
My hand finds his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath my palm. "I've been wanting to do this since the first week of texts."
I rise on tiptoes, giving him time to back away. He doesn't. Our lips meet, and that first contact sends electricity shooting through every nerve ending.
His calloused hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. Heat pools low in my belly at the gentle touch that contrasts with the hunger in his kiss. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens.
When we break apart, his eyes have darkened to storm-cloud gray. "This isn't a good idea."
"Why not?" I press closer, feeling his hard length against my hip.
"You've had a day from hell. You're vulnerable."
"I know what I'm doing." I pull him back to me, my body fitting against his like we were made for this. "I've been imagining your hands on me since you sent the fence repair photo. Wondering if they'd feel as rough against my bare skin as they look."
The confession breaks something loose in him. This time, there's nothing gentle about our kiss. My ass hits the counter as his arms wrap around me, caging me in. My hands tangle in his hair, softer than I expected.
His mouth moves to my neck, finding the sensitive spot where it meets my shoulder. His beard scratches my skin, making me arch into him, wanting more contact, more pressure, more everything.
"Beck," I gasp as his hands slide down to grip my hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there.
"You taste better than I imagined," he murmurs against my throat, his hot breath making me shiver.
His hands find the hem of the oversized shirt, calloused fingers brushing the bare skin of my thighs. The touch burns, and I can't stop the soft moan that escapes.
"We should slow down," he says, but his hands don't move away from where they're tracing patterns on my skin.
"Probably," I agree, even as my body screams in protest. I can feel how much he wants this, can see it in the way his chest rises and falls, the tension in his shoulders. The heavy bulge pressed against my stomach.
He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. "I want this. Want you. But not when you're dealing with everything else."
The consideration only makes me want him more. Most men would take what's being offered without a second thought. But Beck cares about my emotional state, about doing this right.
"Rain check?" I ask, my voice breathier than I intended.
"Absolutely." He brushes hair from my face with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. "When you're ready. Really ready."
His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I have to resist the urge to draw it into my mouth.
He insists on taking the couch despite my protests.
"Goodnight, Sunny." His gaze lingers on me, making my skin tingle. "I'm glad you texted the wrong number that night."
"Me too."
The door closes, and I sink onto his bed, surrounded by his scent. My fingers touch my lips, still feeling the pressure of his kiss, the scratch of his beard. The day's disasters seem distant now, pushed aside by the memory of his hands on my waist, his mouth on my neck, the evidence of his desire pressed against me.
My body hums with unfulfilled need. The phantom touch of him caressing my thighs, and how hot it’d be if he'd let them wander higher plays over in my mind.
