Page 7 of Sugar-Shacked with the Mountain Man
"Kane," I start, then stop. How do I tell him that understanding what this place means to him only makes my job harder?
"What?"
"Nothing. Show me more."
We spend the morning touring the operation—the network of tubing that carries sap from trees to collection tanks, the storage facilities, the equipment barn where he maintains the machinery that keeps everything running.
"It's bigger than I expected," I admit as we trudge back toward the sugar shack. "More complex."
"Most people think maple syrup just magically appears in bottles. They don't understand the infrastructure, the timing, the skill involved." He opens the sugar shack door, stomping snow off his boots. "Or the passion required to make it profitable."
Inside, I peel off the oversized winter gear, suddenly aware of how the morning's exertion has left me flushed and breathless. When I look up, Kane is staring at me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"What?" I ask.
"You have snow in your hair," he says, stepping closer.
"Oh." I reach up to brush it away, but he's already there, his fingers gentle as they comb through the dark strands.
"There," he says softly, but he doesn't pull his hand away.
We're standing close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, can feel the warmth of his breath against my face. The air between us crackles with tension.
"Kane," I whisper.
"Sophie." My name sounds like a prayer on his lips.
"I thought you wanted to go slow."
"I do." But even as he says it, his thumb traces across my cheekbone. "But you make it damn hard to stick to good intentions."
"What if I don't want you to stick to good intentions?"
His control wavers, and I can see the moment he decides to give in. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up toward his.
"You sure about this?"
Instead of answering, I rise on my toes and kiss him.
This time, there's no hesitation, no pulling back. Kane kisses me like he's been thinking about it all morning, deep and thorough and hungry. I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pull him closer.
"Sophie," he groans against my mouth, his hands roaming over my back, pulling me flush against his body.
I can feel every hard plane of his chest through our clothes, can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against my hip. It sends heat shooting straight to my core.
"I want you," I breathe against his lips. "I know it's crazy, but I want you so much I can barely think straight."
His eyes darken, and his hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me slightly. "Christ, the things you do to me."
"Show me," I challenge.
That's all it takes. He lifts me easily, carrying me to the small back room where he's been sleeping. The space is cozy and masculine—a narrow bed covered with thick quilts, a kerosene lamp casting warm light over everything.
"You sure?" he asks one more time as he sets me on my feet beside the bed.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kisses me again, softer this time, more reverent. His hands work at the buttons of my flannel shirt with careful fingers, and when it falls open, revealing my bare breasts, he sucks in a sharp breath.
