Page 9 of Glacial Mountain Man
Tank wanted me. I turned him on.
No thought in my entire life had been more powerful than that one. The evidence was right in front of me, in the thick, straining length of him now sheathed in a condom. Before he’d slid it on, I’d noticed the head was damp with precum.
But this all seemed too good to be true. And at the end of it, I was fairly sure I’d end up heartbroken.
That didn’t matter, though. All we had was now. The two of us, snowed in for at least another day or two. We’d make love, celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow with some turkey, and when it was time to go, I’d have plenty of good memories to last the rest of my life.
So until then, I’d live in the moment. I’d make those memories, and never look back.
His hands—rough from work but gentle with me—trailed up my thighs, spreading me wider. The air between us was thick with our scent, musk and salt and the faint sweetness of my arousal.
“I’ll go slowly,” he said, his voice gravel-rough, eyes locked on mine.
He meant it. I could see the restraint in the way his muscles tensed, the way his jaw clenched as he held himself back. His cock nudged against my entrance, hot and heavy, but he didn’t push forward. He was waiting—for me, for permission, for any sign that I was ready.
And God, I was ready.
But the moment I felt his tip, a flicker of uncertainty shot through me. I’d never done this before. What if it hurt too much? What if I was too small for him? Was that a thing?
Tank must have sensed my hesitation because he stilled, his fingers brushing my cheek. “Hey. We don’t have to do this. Not if you aren’t sure.”
I swallowed hard. “I want to. I just…I don’t know what to expect.”
His thumb traced my lower lip, his gaze softening. “Then we’ll take it as slow as you need. I won’t hurt you.”
The promise in his voice steadied me. With a shaky breath, I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer.
The first press of him was a shock—a slow, burning stretch that made my breath hitch. I tensed instinctively, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
Tank froze. “Okay?”
I nodded, though my body was still adjusting. “Just…give me a second.”
He exhaled sharply but didn’t move, letting me grow accustomed to the feel of him. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, but beneath the discomfort was something else—a deep, throbbing pleasure that grew with every passing second.
“Breathe,” he said, his lips brushing my temple. “Just breathe through it.”
I did, and as I relaxed, the pain began to fade, replaced by a warmth that spread through me. Encouraged, Tank rocked forward, sinking deeper. Inch by inch, he filled me, his movements slow and deliberate.
A whimper escaped me, but this time, it wasn’t from pain. It was from the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him—the way my body stretched to accommodate him, the way every nerve seemed to spark at the contact.
“Fuck,” Tank groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. “Jesus, sweetheart—you’re so tight.”
His voice was ragged, wrecked already. I clenched around him instinctively, and his hips jerked in response, driving him deeper. A broken sound escaped his throat, his breath hot and uneven against my neck.
“You feel—” His words dissolved into a growl as he rolled his hips, grinding against me in slow, deliberate circles. “—so damn good.”
The friction was maddening. Every drag of him inside me sent sparks skittering up my spine. I arched, desperate for more.
“Tank, please…”
But he didn’t rush. Even as his control frayed, he kept his movements measured, his thrusts shallow at first, letting me adjust. Only when my nails scraped down his back, when my hips lifted to meet his, did he dare push deeper.
And then—oh, God—then he found a rhythm that made my vision blur. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me slightly, angling me so that every stroke brushed against something inside me that made my toes curl. A gasp tore from my lips, my back arching off the table.
“There?” he rasped, his voice rough with need.
“Yes, right there?—”
