Page 16 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
"You're beautiful," I whisper, the words inadequate for the magnificence of him.
A flush of color touches his cheekbones above his beard. "I'm old and weathered, sweetheart."
"You're perfect," I insist, reaching for him.
He comes to me willingly, stretching out beside me on the bed, propped on one elbow as he studies my face. "May I?" he asks, fingers hovering at the hem of my shirt.
I nod, lifting slightly to help as he draws the fabric up and over my head. His sharp intake of breath at the sight of me in my simple cotton bra sends a thrill of feminine power through me.
"Now who's beautiful?" he murmurs, trailing calloused fingertips along my collarbone, down the center of my chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
His touch is exquisitely careful as he explores me, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch into his hands. When he replaces fingers with lips, kissing a path from my neck to the swell of my breasts, I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him close.
The first touch of his mouth against my nipple, even through fabric, pulls a sound from me I've never made before—half gasp,half moan. He looks up at me, eyes dark with desire but still checking, still making sure.
"Don't stop," I whisper, and his answering smile is equal parts tender and wicked.
He takes his time with me, treating my body like a sacred text to be studied, memorized, revered. Each piece of clothing removed is accompanied by kisses and caresses to newly exposed skin, until I'm laid bare before him, trembling with need and want.
"Wyatt," I breathe, reaching for him, needing to feel his weight, his heat.
"Patience, sweetheart," he murmurs against my inner thigh, his beard creating the most exquisite friction against sensitive skin. "We've got all night."
When his mouth finally finds the center of me, the pleasure is so intense I cry out, fingers clutching at the sheets. He holds my hips steady with one large hand as he works me with lips and tongue, building a pressure inside me that feels impossible to contain.
"That's it," he encourages against me, the vibration of his words adding another layer of sensation. "Let go for me, Sophia. I want to see you come apart."
His words, combined with the relentless attention of his mouth, send me spiraling over the edge, pleasure crashing through me in waves that leave me gasping his name like a prayer.
While I'm still trembling with aftershocks, he rises above me, his expression fierce with desire yet achingly tender.
"Still want me?" he asks, voice rough with restraint.
"More than ever," I assure him, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw. "Please, Wyatt."
He nods once, then reaches for protection in his bedside drawer. I watch, fascinated, as he sheathes himself, the action oddly intimate.
When he settles between my thighs, the weight of him both foreign and right, he captures my face between his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"I'll go slow," he promises, pressing his forehead to mine. "But there might be some pain. Tell me if it's too much."
I nod, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, anchoring myself to him.
The first press of him against me, into me, brings a burning stretch that makes me gasp. He freezes immediately.
"Okay?"
"Yes," I breathe, adjusting to the unfamiliar sensation. "Don't stop."
He continues with exquisite care, watching my face for any sign of distress, murmuring encouragement and praise as he slowly, so slowly joins our bodies completely.
There's a brief, sharp pain that makes me tense, my nails digging into his shoulders. He stills immediately, pressing tender kisses to my face, my lips, my eyelids.
"Breathe with me," he whispers, and I follow his lead, matching my breathing to his until the pain subsides, replaced by a fullness that's foreign but not unpleasant.
"Better?" he asks, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding still.
I nod, experimenting with a slight movement of my hips that makes us both gasp. "Move, please."
