Page 8 of Moody Mountain Man
I shoot her a look.
She blinks, all fake innocence. “What?”
“Annie.”
“What?”
“You’re flirting.”
“I am.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile as I dig through a drawer and toss her an old Henley. “Bathroom’s through there.”
She disappears, and when she comes back…
Fuck.
She’s wearing nothing but my shirt. It hits her mid-thigh, sleeves pushed up, collar askew. Her legs are bare. Her hair’s a mess. And she looks like every dream I’ve had for the last damn year.
“You okay?” she asks, pretending not to notice the way I’m staring.
“Not even a little.”
She steps barefoot over to the fire and drops onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her.
“You’re torturing me.”
“I’m getting comfortable.”
“You’re pushing limits.”
She smiles slowly. “Good.”
I sit beside her, and for a moment, we watch the flames dance.
“I thought about that kiss for months,” she says quietly.
My throat tightens. “Me too.”
“I wanted to hate you for walking away.”
“I wanted to stay.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because you deserve more than a man who doesn’t know how to be around people anymore.”
She turns toward me. “You’re around me.”
“Barely.”
“Cal…”
I reach for her. I don’t think. I move.
She’s already there.
Mouth on mine, hands in my hair, legs sliding over my lap as she straddles me on the couch. The fire crackles behind her, casting shadows across her bare thighs, her flushed cheeks.
