Page 57 of Grumpy on the Mountain
His cock is thick and heavy, the head flushed dark with arousal, and I can see the vein that runs along the underside even from here.
It's the kind of equipment that should come with a warning label, and the fact that it's currently pointing in my direction makes something hot and desperate unfurl in my belly.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I breathe, not caring that I sound like a woman who's never seen a naked man before.
Because I've never seen a naked man likethisbefore.
He slides into the water across from me, and the way his triceps flex and bunch with the movement makes my mouth water. The hot tub suddenly feels like it's shrinking.
Every bubble that pops against my skin feels like a tiny explosion, and I'm suddenly aware of exactly how naked we both are beneath the churning water.
The mountain view that had me in awe just moments ago might as well have disappeared. Because now the only landscape worth studying is sitting directly across from me, watching me with eyes that promise dirty, filthy things that I suddenlycrave.
"Better?" he asks, settling back against the jets with a low groan that goes straight to my core.
"Better," I manage, though I'm pretty sure my voice comes out as a squeak.
We sit in silence for a moment, the awkwardness of new intimacy settling between us like steam.
I can't stop staring at him—the way the water beads on his chest, how his tattoos seem to come alive in the shifting light of the sunset, the fact that his cock is still hard beneath the surface.
I need to focus. Change the subject. Say… saysomething.
"I-I can't believe I'm here," I say, my voice softer, more wondering. "A week ago I was... God, I was so lost. And now I'm looking at this incredible view, in this amazing hot tub, with the most incredible man I've ever met."
Beau goes very still beside me, his jaw tightening at the clear compliment. "Molly, you shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't what?"
"Put me on some pedestal." His voice is strained and he swallows his wine in one go. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying—"
"No, you don't." He turns to face me, and there's something almost desperate in his eyes. "You might see this place, what I've built, and you think... how wonderful. But you don't know who I really am. What I've done."
The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. "Beau..."
"I'm not worth all this attention, Molly," he says quietly, looking down at the water between us. "I'm not the man you think I am."
The words hit me like a slap because, where the hell did that come from?!
"Don't you dare," I say, moving through the water toward him. "Don't you dare say that."
I settle beside him, close enough that our legs brush underwater, and the contact sends sparks shooting up my spine.
"You built this place with your own hands. You saved a family last night. You bought me a phone just because you remembered I threw mine away. You are absolutely worth attention."
He's looking at me like I'm speaking a foreign language, and something fierce and protective rises in my chest. How long has he been hiding up here, telling himself he doesn't matter? The thought of that breaks my heart in pieces.
I reach out, my fingers finding his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. His skin is warm, slick from the water, and I can feel the slight ridge of an old scar beneath my fingertips.
"What happened here?" I ask softly, tracing a thin scar across his collarbone with my fingertip.
His jaw ticks. "Shrapnel hit. Afghanistan."
I press my lips to the mark, tasting salt and chlorine. "And this?"
My fingers find the thick scar on his shoulder, and his breath hitches as I explore its length.
