Page 10 of Glacial Mountain Man
He groaned, his grip tightening as he focused on that spot, his thrusts still careful but deeper now, more deliberate. Thepleasure built in slow, relentless waves, each one higher than the last.
And then his fingers found my clit.
The touch was electric. My entire body jerked, a cry ripping from my throat. Tank’s lips curved against my shoulder as he circled the sensitive bud, his cock still moving inside me.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with awe. “So fucking beautiful like this.”
I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. All I could do was feel—the rough pads of his fingers on me, the thick stretch of him filling me, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in my belly.
My hips rocked against his hand, chasing the pleasure. “I’m—I’m going to?—”
“Come for me,” he growled.
As if on command, my orgasm crashed over me, violent and sweet, my body clamping around him in helpless pulses. Tank cursed, his rhythm faltering as he felt me tighten around him.
“Fuck—fuck—” His hips stuttered, his cock twitching inside me as he came with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, we stayed like that—breathless, tangled, his weight pressing me into the table. His heartbeat pounded against my chest, his breath hot on my skin.
Slowly, he pulled out, disposing of the condom before turning back to me. His fingers traced my hip, feather-light.
“You okay?”
I nodded, still dazed. “Better than okay.”
His grin was boyish, relieved. Then his gaze flicked to the edge of the table, where the plates of half-eaten food had been shoved aside.
“Guess breakfast got sidelined,” he said.
I giggled, suddenly giddy. “Priorities.”
Tank chuckled, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before straightening. “I’ll warm it up.”
He tugged on his pajama bottoms, his bare chest still glistening in the dim light. I slid off the table, wincing slightly as my legs wobbled, and grabbed the T-shirt, pulling it over my head. The oversized cotton enveloped me like a hug as I padded to the kitchen to help.
As he reheated the food, our elbows brushing, our laughter easy, something warm settled in my chest. This—the quiet, the comfort, the way he nudged me playfully with his hip—felt as intimate as what we’d just shared.
“So,” he said, passing me a plate, “turkey and canned green beans for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Classy, huh?”
I grinned. “Best Thanksgiving ever.”
And for the first time, I let myself believe it might be.
6
TANK
This Thanksgiving wasn’t shaping up at all like I’d planned. I’d bought the smallest turkey at the grocery store, along with some boxed dressing mix and canned green beans, corn, and cranberry sauce. The plan had been to have a solo dinner at the table, slam back a few beers, and watch the game.
Sounded like a perfect Thanksgiving to me. Until, that was, I met Candace.
She stood next to me at the stove, stirring the green beans and corn while I carved the turkey. My mouth was already watering as it hit me that in just a few minutes, we’d dig into this delicious food.
"You know," she said, bumping my arm with hers as she reached for the salt, "I never thought I'd say this, but boxed stuffing might actually be better than homemade."
"Blasphemy," I said, grinning as I arranged turkey slices on the platter. "Next, you'll tell me canned cranberry sauce is gourmet."
"Hey, that ridged cylinder shape is iconic. It's tradition." She laughed, and the sound made something warm settle in mychest. "My grandmother always made everything from scratch. Took her three days to prep for Thanksgiving. This is so much more relaxed."
