Page 8 of Romancing the Mountain Man
This could be a bad idea.
Something about a beautiful woman in a rainstorm turns me on and my mind has already thrown out a number of possibilities of things I’d like to do to her.
“Why don’t you go on to bed? The sooner you sleep, the sooner the storm will be over.”
“No.”
I raise one eyebrow at her backtalk. “Quinn.”
“Luke.”
I let out a breath. I shouldn't be surprised. “You’re stubborn.”
“I prefer ‘persistent.’ The couch is fine. It’s not fair for me to sleep in a nice bed while you’re out here.”
We stare each other down until I finally throw my hands up in defeat. She smiles to herself as she pads to the bedroom, only to emerge with pillows and a blanket, like we're having a slumber party. We lay all the blankets but one down on the floor, and then she puts the other on the couch and climbs underneath.
I lay on top of the blankets, propped on my side with my elbow, eyes trying to stay focused on the fire but still checking her out at every turn. “You said you were a romance writer?” I ask, trying to keep her mind off the weather.
“Mhmm. For about four years now. It started as a hobby. I loved to write and dreamed about finding a forever love as a kid. I almost felt like I could manifest it for myself if I continued to write the stories. But all it’s brought me is unrealistic goals.”
“Can you read me something of yours?”
She giggles, and I don't know if it’s out of nervousness or sarcasm. “You really want to hear what I write?”
“Why not?”
I hear the couch creak, and when I look over at her, she’s sitting up with her phone in hand, blanket wrapped around herwaist. The shadows dance over her full tits in that tank, and I swallow hard. “Do you know what smut is, Luke?”
I roll my eyes in the dark, knowing she can’t see me. “Yes, Quinn. I know what smut is. I find it on PornHub.”
She laughs out loud at my dry tone, and the sound fills the room.
“You’re such a mountain man,” she teases. “PornHub. You probably still think Fifty Shades is edgy.”
“Fifty what?” I shake my head. “I don’t read romance,” I grunt, shifting on top of the blankets. “I live in a cabin and chop wood. What kind of material do you expect me to be consuming out here?”
She snickers again. “That’s a shame. You’d probably make a great book boyfriend.”
“Book boyfriend?” I question, already regretting asking.
“Tall, broody, emotionally unavailable until the right woman stumbles into your life in the middle of a storm.” Her voice is playful as she teases me.
“You’re not subtle.”
“Neither are your arms,” she fires back.
I laugh, and the realness of it surprises me. I don’t know what fun is, not having had any in quite some time, but this feels like it. She giggles in response, and the thought I had when we met about her feeling like a friend already resurfaces and rings true this time.
“You still haven’t read me anything,” I say after a pause.
Quinn goes quiet. I see her fidget with the blanket, and then she sighs. “Okay, but you asked for this.”
The light on her phone shines, illuminating her face. Her lips are full, and she brushes that red hair of hers back off her shoulder. “I’m not getting my laptop out, but I’ll pull up some notes I wrote on my phone from earlier today.” I hear her clear her throat, then she speaks.
“His hands were rough, calloused from years of building, but when he touched me, it was soft, and he was taking his time like I was his most prized piece of work. He treated me like I was special, and with a protectiveness I hadn’t found from anyone else, but he still allowed me to be myself—talkative, smart-ass tone and all.”
She pauses, and our eyes meet as she looks up from her phone. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the feelings washing over me.
