Page 35 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
"Scarlett," I warned, my control already fraying. "You might be sore—"
"Then we'll go slow," she whispered, rising up slightly to position herself. "Or you'll just have to let me set the pace."
She sank down on me with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving mine as she took me inside her. The sensation of her tight heat engulfing me again almost ended things embarrassingly quickly. I gripped the sheets to keep from grabbing her hips and driving upward.
"Still okay?" I asked through gritted teeth once she'd taken all of me.
Her answer was to begin moving, finding a rhythm that had both of us panting within moments. She planted her hands on my chest for balance, her confidence growing with each roll of her hips. The sight of her above me, taking her pleasure so openly, was the most erotic thing I'd ever witnessed.
"You're incredible," I told her, unable to keep the reverence from my voice.
She laughed breathlessly. "Far from it. But this—" she rotated her hips in a way that made us both gasp, "—this feels right."
I reached up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened to tight peaks. Her movementsbecame more urgent, less coordinated. When I slid a hand between us to circle her clit, she threw her head back with a cry that probably startled Colonel halfway across the property.
Her enthusiasm increased as she chased her pleasure, rocking against me with abandon. In her exuberance, she shifted backward, knocking into the bedside table. The lamp wobbled precariously before crashing to the floor with a sound that would have had me reaching for my rifle any other morning.
Neither of us paused. If anything, the minor destruction spurred her on. I sat up to meet her, changing the angle and drawing a string of curses from her that would make even Mabel blush. With newfound leverage, I drove upward, meeting her thrust for thrust.
"Bodhi," she gasped, her inner walls beginning to tighten around me. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me baby," I urged, echoing my words from last night. "Come all over my hard cock."
She shattered with a cry of my name, her entire body trembling. The sight of her coming undone pushed me over the edge, my release hitting with an intensity that left me seeing stars. We clung to each other through the aftershocks, her forehead pressed against mine, our breathing gradually slowing in tandem.
"I think I broke your lamp," she finally murmured, glancing at the wreckage beside the bed.
"Worth it," I replied without hesitation.
She laughed, sliding off me and stretching luxuriously. As she stood, her foot caught the corner of an old wooden chair, sending it toppling to join the lamp on the floor.
"Are you trying to destroy my cabin from the inside out?" I asked, propping myself up on my elbows to watch her move through the morning light.
She flashed me a wicked grin over her shoulder. "Consider it renovation by motivation. Fix this table, get rewarded with what happens on top of it." She paused in the doorway. "I'm going to shower. Join me if you want... or I can leave you some hot water for once."
She disappeared down the hall, and a moment later I heard the water start. I stared at the ceiling, a ridiculous smile spreading across my face. This woman was going to be the death of me, and I couldn't bring myself to care.
By the time we finally emerged from a shower that had involved significantly more activity than just getting clean, the morning was well advanced. I walked into the kitchen to find Scarlett already there, wearing a silky emerald camisole and matching shorts from one of her designer suitcases—the expensive loungewear looking amusingly out of place against my rustic kitchen backdrop.
"I want to help with breakfast," she announced, eyeing the kitchen with determination. "Nothing complicated. I'm not trying to burn down your cabin twice."
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, pulling out a cast iron skillet for the venison sausage I'd been saving.
She spotted the loaf of bread on the counter and brightened. "I can make cinnamon toast. My grandmother used to make it for me when I was little—it's the only thing I've ever been able to replicate without disaster. Even I can't mess up butter, cinnamon, and sugar on bread."
I smiled at her enthusiasm. "Toast it is. The toaster's temperamental, though. You have to press the lever down twice to get it to stay."
While I browned the sausage and fried some eggs from yesterday's collection, Scarlett battled with the ancient toaster, cursing under her breath when it rejected her first two attempts. Her look of triumph when she finally managed to get it working was worth every bit of the struggle.
She buttered the toast with intense concentration, then carefully sprinkled the cinnamon-sugar mixture she'd found in my spice cabinet. "My grandmother used to say cinnamon toast could cure anything from a cold to a broken heart," she explained, arranging the slices on plates with surprising care. "It was our special breakfast whenever I stayed with her. She said every woman should know how to make at least one thing that brings comfort." She smiled, a softer expression than her usual confident grin. "It's my one culinary achievement."
The simple breakfast was perfect—the sweet cinnamon toast balancing the savory sausage and eggs. We sat on the porch steps to eat, watching the morning sun climb over the mountains.
"So," she said between bites, "what happens now?"
The question settled between us. Last night had been about need, about connection that couldn't be denied. This morning was about choice.
"Honestly? I don't know," I admitted, setting my plate aside. "I've never done this before."
