Page 65 of Snowed In with her Mountain Men
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CAMRYN
“Shouldn’t you be writing instead of reading?”
The question came as I perused the library’s computer lookup, letting my fingers fly. Only a few decades old, the system was already antiquated. But thankfully, it wasn’t one of those Dewey Decimal card catalogs.
“I am writing,” I said casually, to the two hot boys over my shoulder. “But as an author, nothing gets you inspired like reading.”
It was a truth I’d learned early, whenever I got stuck in the middle of writing a short story. Reading works by similar authors gave me ideas and inspiration. It expanded your thinking, and even pushed you straight out the other end of a tough writer’s block.
“Can’t you just download books?” Ryder asked.
“I can, but there’s something about holding a book in your hand,” I replied. “Being able to take it into a cozy chair with you, or curl up next to a scenic window. Especially during a snowfall.”
Thatpart I’d learned once I’d gotten to the Rockies. Even in my crappy little cabin, I’d enjoyed the warm feeling of total ensconcement that came with reading or writing, while the snow piled up outside.
Ryder was still looking around in wonder, his hands on his hips.
“I gotta be honest,” he mused. “I didn’t even know wehada library.”
“I did,” said Oakley. “Got a call here once because someone was threatening the librarian with a spoon; over not paying late fees.”
I chuckled merrily. “A spoon?”
“Hey, it was a really big spoon,” Oakley smiled. “More of a ladle, really.”
I finished jotting down the list of books I wanted, then hurried toward the fiction section with the guys in tow. We passed the librarian — a gaunt, worried-looking man who’d told us twice already they were closing in ten minutes. A handful of other people with the same idea I had were still there, but finishing up. They moved with purpose, books tucked under their arms as they hurried to check out and get home.
Down the stairs we flew, into the basement stacks made up of worn, wooden shelves that had been in use since the middle of last century. Dim overhead fluorescents provided a yellowish, diffused light that lent a magical aura to everything. Best of all, the air had that musty, almondy smell to it that only a librarian or true reader could love.
I reached up to grab one of my target books, just as two possessive hands slid to my hips. Oakley pressed into me, his body hard and lean. His lips brushed my ear in a way that sent electric shivers down that whole side of my body.
“If you need helpreachinganything,” he whispered, squeezing my ass, “just let us know.”
I chuckled, handed him the book, and scurried off to find the next one. Two rows later I encountered Ryder, already holding it.
“Looking for something?”
I smiled and reached for it, to make sure he had the right one. He held it back though, forcing me to come closer.
“Whaddya give me for it?”
I stood on my toes and kissed him. It was a great kiss, full of tongue and tease and tantalizing promise. But he only shook his sandy blond head.
“Gonna need a little more than that.”
Before I could reply he grabbed me by the side of my face and kissed me again. He did it roughly, forcefully, in just the way he knew I liked. Instantly I melted, as his mouth closed over mine. A moment later, I was moaning softly, our tongues dancing, as every nerve ending in my body responded to his touch.
“You’d better stop,” I breathed. “We don’t have ti—”
He reached down and cupped me, slipping a hand between my thighs. My legs somehow parted for him, against my will.
“Ryder…”
His fingers began lightly drumming, exploring against the tight fabric of my jeans. Soon they were pressing me in all the right places, and all thoughts of books began slipping away.
Sighing into his mouth, I lost my balance and almost slipped backward. Luckily, I didn’t have far to fall. Oakley was right there, pressing into me from behind, his big hands takinghold of my hips again. When he dragged his lips over my exposed neck, I totally lost it.
