Page 12 of Moody Mountain Man
He presses his forehead to mine. “I’m not letting you go, Annie.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Because I’m not letting you, either.”
And this time, I believe it.
Chapter six
Cal
The bonfire roars high in the middle of Pine Hollow’s field, sparks flying into the night. Music drifts from the bandstand, cider cups clink, and the whole town looks like a postcard.
I don’t belong here, but Annie does. She’s easy in the crowd—hugging neighbors, teasing kids, passing out donut holes she “just happened” to bring in a basket. Everyone gravitates toward her. She shines.
Every man here notices. One steps up, not to flirt this time, but to ask if she’d judge the pie contest. “You’re the expert,” he says, grinning widely. “No one bakes better than Annie Monroe.”
She laughs, cheeks pink, modest as always. But when she says yes, he claps her on the shoulder like they’ve got some inside joke.
That’s all it takes.
I’m behind her in a second, not touching, but close enough she can feel the heat off me. I bend, lips at her ear. “You’re too nice.”
She startles. “What?”
“You let every man in this town think they’ve got a chance.”
She turns, eyes sharp, mouth twitching like she’s holding back a smile. “You think I’m encouraging this? The only man I’ve ever encouraged is you. Are you looking for a reason to run from me?”
I growl low in my chest, knowing that she’s partially correct. I won’t be admitting that to her though. “Keep smiling at them like that, and I’ll drag you off before the first pie even hits the table.”
Her breath catches. She sways closer. “You wouldn’t.”
I let her see it in my face, the truth that I absolutely would. “Try me.”
Her pupils go wide, lips parting. She covers it with a laugh for the benefit of the crowd, then grabs my hand. “We’re leaving.”
The bakery is empty when we slip inside, with only the glow of the streetlamp spilling across the counters. The scent of cinnamon and sugar clings to the air. It’s her place. Her world.
She leans against the prep table, arms crossed, chin high, daring me. “You glared at half the festival.”
“They were staring at you.”
“They weretalkingto me.”
“They were staring,” I growl, stepping closer.
Her mouth twitches. “And what are you going to do about it?”
I crowd between her thighs, lift her onto the counter. “This.”
I strip her slowly, tugging at her boots, dragging her jeans down her legs. She squirms, impatient, trying to work my belt open while I’m still undressing her.
“Not yet.” I pin her wrists to the counter.
“Cal—”
“Patience.” My voice is gravelly.
Her panties are damp, lace clinging to her skin. I hook them aside and slide a finger over her, slick and hot. She gasps, hips jerking.
