Page 6 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
His palm is warm against my temple, his thumb brushing just barely along my skin. My breath stalls. We’re inches apart. His eyes—those stormy gray ones that always seem to see too much—are locked on mine, scanning my face for signs of pain.
I nod, but I don’t move. Neither does he.
“I think we hit each other pretty hard,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady. My heart is pounding. I don’t know if it’s from the collision or the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he’s not sure he deserves to touch but can’t stop himself from wanting.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice quiet. “Harder than I expected.”
His hand stays on my face, just for a moment too long. Long enough for me to feel it everywhere. My skin burns beneath his fingertips. I can smell cedar and soap and the faintest trace of paint on his clothes. I wonder if he can feel how fast I’m breathing. I wonder if he knows that every part of me is begging him not to step away.
But he does. Slowly, reluctantly, his hand falls from my cheek, and the cold rushes in.
“I, uh… I’ll get Pickles,” he says, blinking like he’s trying to shake something off.
Pickles is already curled smugly at his feet like this was his plan all along.
As Hudson bends to scoop him up, I press my fingers to the spot on my forehead where his skin touched mine. It tingles. I swear I can still feel him there. So much for not falling in love.
CHAPTER
THREE
HUDSON
I swearI was ready to tell her to turn right around and go back where she came from. I was literally practicing the words I would say.
I had the speech rehearsed in my head. Something firm but not cruel. Something that got the point across—I live alone for a reason. I don't need anyone, especially not a stranger showing up with a contract.
But then I opened the door.
And now?
Now I can’t even remember how that speech started. Hell—the cat wasn’t even a deal breaker. He’s actually kind of cute.
She’s standing in my living room like some kind of wildflower—untamed and delicate all at once. Big eyes, sunlit hair, flushed cheeks from the cold. That smile—shy, uncertain, but real—slipped under my ribs and lodged itself there before I even knew what hit me.
And don’t even get me started on the dress. She looks like spring wandered into my mountain home and decided to stay a while. And I’m a sucker for spring.
I’m going to have a unicorn lump on the front of my forehead for about a week, but I don’t even care because I love the sound of her laugh. The edges of everything inside me start to blur.
I don’t even know what the hell we’re talking about now. Something about the cat? Her name? I’m nodding, pretending to listen, but all I can do is stare at her mouth when she talks. It's soft and pink and just a little bit nervous. Like she’s bracing for rejection but hoping she’s wrong. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like wrapped tightly around my cock and then I hate myself for thinking anything unpure about this gorgeous woman. Shit—she’s probably half my age. I push every dirty thought down trying to prevent her from thinking I’m perverted.
Jesus.
I haven’t felt this way in years.
Haven’t feltanythingin years compared to what’s happening now.
She can’t be older than twenty five. And she’s supposed to be my wife? This was a joke five minutes ago. Now it feels like the damn universe just sucker punched me and whispered,Surprise. She's real.
I should send her away. I should say,This was a mistake. I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work.
But the words won’t come.
However, the hard-on is here, and it’s not going anywhere. I try to hide behind the furniture and adjust myself, but I just met her and I don’t want to seem creepy. My thighs are burning, my balls are moving closer to my body, my cock is throbbing, and I’m toast.
I drag a hand over my face and mutter something about coffee, motioning toward the kitchen just so I can get a few steps away and breathe. If I said something about baseball it might tip her off that I’m trying to avoid cumming in my pants right here and now. My heart's beating like I just chopped firewood for anhour. My hands are twitching, itching to paint for the first time in… hell, how long?
I glance back at her—Daisy. That’s her name.
