Page 16 of Pucked Mountain Man
He slides his fingers to the apex of my thighs. He groans. “You’re so wet.”
“I’ve been wet for days.”
“Thinking about me?” He finds my clit.
Nodding, I gasp as he applies pressure.
“Is this what you want?” He teases it. Strokes it. Makes me wild with need.
My hips move back against him, and I croon with my growing need.
“You’re so fucking sexy.” He nuzzles my neck. “I want…”
“What do you want?”
“I want to feel all of you.”
“I want that too.” Moving back, it’s my turn to slide my hand between his thighs.
His cock his long. Impossibly hard. And oh so thick. I press my free fist to my lips. God he’s going to feel so good.
I give him a squeeze and take delight in watching his eyes roll back.
Fumbling for a condom which—thank God, the cabin owner seems to have stashed everywhere—I slide it over his thick cock.
He grips my hips and lifts me up. Our gazes meet as I slide down onto him. Groaning as I stretch to meet his gaze.
What happens next is heat and rhythm and the kind of closeness that makes conversation unnecessary. I keep it gentle on his knee and greedy everywhere else, and he lets me set every rule, then breaks all of them with the way he says my name.
We collapse into each other and the couch, breathing like we just outran weather. The fire’s a bed of coals. The storm’s a lullaby. His hand is heavy and warm over my ribs, thumb idly stroking along the notes like he’s still reading them.
“Hey,” he says, low. “You okay?”
“Better than,” I say honestly, and then, because bravery is a muscle and mine needs work: “I want this to be more than just cabin weather, Grady.”
His chest rises under my palm. “I know.” Then, quieter: “I want that too.”
I could cry with the relief of it. Instead I let my fingers wander his chest ink, teasing. “I’m pretty sure this one’s misspelled.”
He groans, laughing. “Don’t ruin the mood, Rockstar.”
“Impossible,” I say, and tuck myself closer, listening to his heart even while mine climbs the walls of my throat.
He kisses my hairline, a soft, unguarded thing that makes me ache. “You make me forget it hurts,” he murmurs.
“You make me feel seen,” I confess, so quiet I barely hear it myself.
The wind keens once, distant, then settles back into its steady hush. We lie there, warm and bare and a little undone, and I try not to count the hours until roads clear and the world intrudes. I try not to tally all the ways I could lose this.
Am I enough for him beyond this cabin? The question flickers and fades with the embers. I press my palm over the tiny notes on my skin, feel his hand cover mine, and decide—for tonight—to begin.
SIX
GRADY
The storm breaks two days later. Not gone—Alaska doesn’t do gone—but softer. Gray sky instead of whiteout, a thin ribbon of road visible when I risk the back porch. The cabin sighs like it’s remembering there’s a world outside its walls.
I should be relieved. I’m not.
