Page 18 of Arctic Mountain Man
Three months later…
I woke up to the smell of bacon and the sound of Blake cursing in the kitchen.
“Everything okay out there?” I called, stretching languidly in our bed.Our bed.Three months later, and I still got a little thrill every time I thought about it.
“Fine,” came his gruff reply, followed by more creative swearing that would make a sailor blush.
I grinned and slipped on one of his flannel shirts—I’d claimed about half his wardrobe at this point—and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Blake stood at the stove, glowering at a pan of what had probably been eggs before they’d turned into charcoal.
“You know,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind, “for a man who can rebuild a classic car engine blindfolded, you sure have trouble with breakfast.”
“Smart-ass,” he muttered, but I felt him relax against me.
“That’s why you keep me around.” I pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade through his shirt. “Well, one of the reasons.”
He turned in my arms, and the heat in his eyes made my knees weak. Three months of living with this man and he still affected me like this. If anything, it had gotten more intense.
“And what are the other reasons?” he asked, his hands settling on my hips.
“I make better eggs than you do.”
“True.”
“I laugh at your terrible jokes.”
“They’re not terrible.”
“And I look amazing in your clothes.”
His gaze dropped to where his shirt hung on me, barely covering my thighs. “Fuck yes, you do.”
I went up on my toes to kiss him, and he lifted me easily onto the counter, settling between my thighs.
“Good morning,” I murmured against his mouth.
“It is now.”
The timer on the coffee maker beeped, and Blake reluctantly pulled away to pour us both a cup. I watched him move around the kitchen—ourkitchen—and marveled at how perfectly I fit into his life. Into this life.
“What’s the plan today?” I asked, accepting the mug he handed me.
“Depends. You still working on that story?”
I nodded, warmth spreading through my chest. He’d set up a writing space for me in the corner of his workshop, claiming he liked having me close while he worked. I’d been skeptical at first, but there was something about the rhythmic sounds of his restoration work that actually helped me focus.
In three months, I’d written more than I had in the previous three years combined.
“Then I’ll work on the Camaro while you write. Unless...” His eyes darkened. “You want to take a break first.”
The suggestion in his voice sent heat pooling low in my belly. “Mountain man, are you propositioning me?”
“Maybe.” He stepped closer, spreading my legs wide with his hips. “Problem with that?”
“Not even a little bit.” I sat my coffee down.
His mouth was on mine before I could say anything else, and I forgot all about burnt eggs and coffee and everything that wasn’t the taste of him, the feel of his hands sliding under my shirt, the way he made that low growling sound when I bit his bottom lip.
“Bed,” he said roughly against my mouth.
