Page 18 of Healing with the Mountain Man
Dean’s hands are relentless in their search, mapping every inch of me with rough, possessive strokes.
The blanket slips from my shoulders as he tugs me closer, slipping his hand beneath my sweater. His fingers skate up my ribs, brushing against the curve of my breasts. He must know he’s making my nipples pebble, because he doesn’t linger. Instead, he goes back down, tracing the dip of my belly button before he palms my stomach.
“This it?” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough with amusement as he continues to play my game.
I arch into him, my nails scraping lightly over the back of his neck. “Getting there.”
His low laugh vibrates against my throat as he nips at the sensitive skin there. “Then I’d better keep looking a little lower.”
The firelight flickers gold over us, casting long shadows as the storm rages beyond the windows, but in this moment, there’s nothing but the heat of his body, the scrape of his stubble, the way his touch burns through every last lingering chill.
“Dean—” My breath hitches as his fingers tease lower, his name dissolving into a gasp when he tucks his hand between my jean-clad thighs.
He hums in approval, his lips curving against my shoulder. “Yeah, sweetness. Right here. Must really be fucking freezing, I can feel you shivering against my fingertips.”
No kidding. My thighs are trembling from the way he cups my sex so confidently.
As I feel the stroke of his fingers tracing the seam of my jeans, I already know this game is no longer mine. He’s going to turn it around and take claim, making me tell him what my body needs.
It’s him. It’s always him.
I don’t answer—not with words, anyway. My hips lift, and my thighs part. Words aren’t needed. My body is giving away all the telltale signs.
The blizzard outside fades to nothing. The fire burns low, and the only warmth that matters now is the one he brings with his fingers.
