Page 20 of Wild for the Mountain Man
The heat from his hands is electric, grounding and untethering me in the same second. He looks up at me, blue eyes fierce and gentle, and I can’t decide if I want to pull him to me or let him devour me slowly.
Wade’s hands slide up, spreading my knees apart, and I’m suddenly aware of just how little there is between us. The shirt falls open and I feel my nipples tighten in the cold air, but his gaze is the only thing that matters. He traces his thumbs just above my kneecaps, circling and waiting for me to tell him to stop … or to keep going.
I don’t want him to stop. I want everything.
“Are you sure,” he says, voice so rough it’s barely a question.
I nod, breathless, and he leans forward and presses his mouth gently to my inner knee, a soft, deliberate kiss that makes me shiver from the inside out. His hands are so big, so careful, fingers braced on my thighs as if steadying himself against whatever comes next. He kisses a trail up my leg, pausing to flick his tongue over the skin in a way that’s feels thrilling, yet almost indecent. Wade reaches the edge of my panties and he looks up—just a flash, dark-lashed and still silently asking permission.
I want to tell him it’s okay, but the words stick in my throat, replaced by a sound I don’t recognize. He slides his palms under my ass, lifting me closer, and I feel myself tipping back, the flannel shirt riding up my hips. I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my panties.
“Okay?” he whispers, voice raw.
I nod, and then I’m suddenly bare to the cold and to him, the last scrap of fabric gone. He doesn’t look away—not for a second. Wade kisses up my thigh, across my hip, and then his mouth is—oh, fuck—his tongue flicks over my clit, so soft at first I almost miss it. Then he does it again, firmer, and my head snaps back. I grab the sheets in both fists, half-expecting my body to fly apart from the shock of it.
I’ve never been touched this way, never been wanted this way. Wade anchors me with his strong hands. The little soundsI’m making are nothing like the ones I’ve ever made before, but I can’t help it.
He eats me like he’s hungry, like he loves it, like he wants to memorize every second. His tongue is magic, cruel and kind all at once, and I can’t stop the shaking in my legs as he devours me.
“Wade …” I choke out his name, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning. I’ve never done this, never even come close to letting someone see me like this, but with him I don’t care about being seen. I want to be seen, all of me. I want him to know how badly I want him back.
Wade groans into me. It’s a rough, primal sound. He’s relentless, tongue and lips and those gorgeous hands pinning me down, stroking in slow, patient circles until my entire world is reduced to the place where his mouth meets my body. I feel myself unraveling, hips bucking into his face, and I can’t help the way I cry out … loud, desperate and stupid with need.
I beg him for more, for everything, for that impossible feeling that’s building and building … I come apart, hard. The pleasure rips through me before I can even brace for it. I make a sound I’ve never made before, so loud I’m sure it would echo off the mountains if we were outdoors. My whole body arches, legs locking around his shoulders, hands buried so tight in the sheets my fingers ache.
He doesn’t stop. He holds me through it, mouth never leaving me, tongue coaxing every aftershock until I’m limp and trembling, chest heaving so hard I see stars.
I don’t know how long I lay there, eyes squeezed shut, riding out the waves as they knock me sideways. When I finally look down, he’s watching me with a look so loving and hungry it almost makes me cry.
Wade stands slowly and starts pulling off his shirt. I watch him, the way the fabric clings to his broad muscular shouldersbefore he peels it away. The sight of him—bigger and more beautiful than I could have ever imagined—makes my heart kick hard against my ribs. His chest is dusted with hair, his arms sculpted in ways that make me want to run my mouth over every inch. He’s breathing hard, fighting not to rush.
He drops his shirt to the floor, then reaches to unbutton his jeans. I want to help, but I’m almost stunned, watching him. Wade shucks his jeans and boxers together, and I see him—thick and ready, the proof of his need for me impossible to miss. I’ve seen naked men before, on screens and in art, but this is different. This is Wade, and it is real and right in front of me, and it makes me feel wild and powerful and—god—so fucking wanted.
He climbs onto the bed beside me, careful not to jostle my ankle, but his hands are less careful everywhere else. He pulls me up, arranges the pillows so I’m half-sitting, and then kneels above me, his knees on either side of my hips. His cock is right there, heavy and flushed, resting against my thigh, and the urge to touch him is overwhelming. I reach for him, wrap my hand around his length. He hisses in a breath, eyes shuttering. His hips jerk forward, just slightly, and I feel a pulse of pride at the way I can make him lose his composure.
His head dips low; he kisses me, and I taste myself on his mouth. It’s filthy and intimate at the same time. He kisses me sideways, down my neck, biting gently at my collarbone, and when his mouth finds my nipple I gasp, a high, shocked whine. Wade sucks it in, tongue teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch up into him. His hand finds the other breast, kneading, thumb rolling over the tip until both of them ache and strain for him. He lavishes each in turn, worshiping the soft fullness of my chest, letting the heat of his mouth melt away the nervous tremors running through my body.
I can't stop touching him, mapping the line of his jaw, the hard slab of his back, the fine trail of hair down to his belly. Every inch of him is hard, hot, alive.
Wade looks back at my ankle, hestitating. “Does that hurt?" His voice is so gentle it makes me want to cry.
"No," I breathe. "You could never hurt me." But now, I’m worried. If I tell him I’m a virgin, psychologically that could affect him. We’ve already struggled with him being my dad’s best friend. I don’t want to lie … again. But I also don’t want him to stop.
His eyes search my face, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want him overthinking, holding back. I want him to take me, to make me forget every rule I ever made for myself. I want him to destroy me and rebuild me with nothing but his hands and his mouth and his cock. With the way he’s looking at me right now, I think he wants the same.
Wade lines himself up, brushing the head against my entrance, slick with the mess he’s made of me. I gasp at the first touch. It’s foreign, intense, almost too much. He doesn’t rush. He slides his hands under my hips, lifting me so the angle is perfect, and then pushes in, just the tip, stretching me open inch by inch. He spreads me open with his fingers, eyes coveting me. I feel every pulse of him and it’s almost more than I can take.
Wade is so thick and long. But he’s patient with me, moving so slow I think I might die from wanting him faster. He works in and out, shallow at first, stretching me with careful, measured thrusts. Each one is a shock—the burn, the pressure, the insane pleasure—until my body adjusts and the pain blurs away under the heat.
He moves deeper, and the fullness is so overwhelming I can’t help but moan. He pauses. “Tell me if it hurts.” The words are a growl, but the tenderness and care is totally Wade.
“It’s perfect,” I manage, though my voice is barely a voice at all.
He sets a rhythm, slow and torturous, hips rocking into me with escalating force, but never losing the gentleness—the insane, infuriating patience. Each time he drives forward, I feel my whole body strain to hold him, to keep him, to never let him go. It’s so good my mind blanks out, all the old fears and doubts incinerated by the simple, animal fact of him inside me. Wade moves as if he owns me, as if he wants to. And he does. He tells me so with every wordless thrust, every flex of muscle, and every sound he makes.
It’s bliss, but it’s also war. My body is fighting to keep up, to make room. But I’m not made of glass, and I don’t want to be. I want to be all the things I never was with anyone else. I want to be all the things I never believed I could be … wild, loud, insatiable.
He braces above me, arms over my head, his whole body locked as he buries himself deeper. The way he’s holding back drives me crazy. I want him to lose it, to slam into me with all that gigantic strength, but he keeps throttling down, letting me adjust, letting me tell him with my body what I need.
