Page 17 of Wild for the Mountain Man
Does he want me … want us? Is he just a man trying to remember his own rules? I know one thing for sure … I want him.
Sneaking into the bath without those awkward crutches, I relieve myself, brush my teeth, and wash up a bit. Then I make it back to the bed, making sure I have those crutches within easy reach for morning if I’m going to continue playing like I’m injured. I really need to confess this to him and be done with it. I don’t like lying, but I also want his attention … and more.
Lying back against his pillow, I pull the blanket higher and close my eyes. The flannel still carries a trace of his scent, even though it’s laundered. The feel and smell make me feel something intense in my lower torso.
It’s maddening, this nearness — the sense that a few steps down the hallway is everything I want and everything I shouldn’t touch or can’t have. It’s the whole age thing … and the fact that he’s been around in my life with dad and the family we have at the fire station. It definitely feels a little complicated. It’s people and their perceived rules. I’m sick of the rules. I only want Wade … and in a way that others might not approve of.
I turn toward the door and watch the light flicker along the floorboards. His shadow moves once, pauses, then fades. Maybe he’s checking to be sure I’m settled. Maybe he’s standing there fighting the same storm that’s been unraveling me since the moment he caught me on that trail. I don’t call out. I just listen until the cabin grows still again.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. When I finally drift under, the last thing I hear is the slow crackle of the fire and the quiet rhythm of his footsteps. I wonder if he’s pacing the room, trying to find the distance that used to keep us safe.
Chapter 10
Wade
Ilie awake on the couch, counting the seconds between the creaks and snaps of settling logs in the wood stove, the wind’s intermittent hard rattle against the glass. I can’t get comfortable. My legs don’t fit this old leather any better than my conscience fits things I wish I could do with Lilah.
I’ve never in my life wanted someone so badly and denied myself so hard. For years, I kept a list of lines I wouldn’t cross — most of them drawn for other people’s sake, not my own. I used to believe that made me a good man. Tonight, I’m not sure that’s true.
I picture Lilah in my bed, her injured ankle propped on a pillow. I see her in my shirt, her bare legs tucked up, the line of her jaw soft as she turns onto her side. I imagine the way her hair would look in the morning, pale gold and wild. My body betrays me instantly, stiff and hot. I try to adjust, but the couch springs creak and I just end up angrier at myself, hornier, more restless.
Lilah is under my roof, trusting me to keep her safe and help her heal from her fall. But I am the danger.
Finally, I drift to sleep only to be awoken what feels like five minutes later by moans and groans. They’re coming from Lilah. I throw off the blanket and sprint to my bedroom door peeking inside … wondering if she’s in pain.
Lilah is writhing in my bed, back half-arched, one hand knotted in the blanket, the other pressed between her thighs. Her breath pours out in quick, desperate streaks. The flannel shirt I gave her is pushed up revealing her breasts. She is panting my name. She must be dreaming and touching herself without knowing it.
I step back, hand braced on the doorframe, the sight of her hitting me like a gut punch — sharp, then electric. I should leave. I should close the door and pace the length of the house until my body calms down, but I can’t. The images and sounds won’t disappear, and my cock is throbbing so hard it hurts.
I stand in the cold dark hall, watching her for a moment too long. “Wade,” she says in a guttural moan, all heat and ache. The sound nearly undoes me. I have one hand against the doorframe, and the other pressed hard into my thigh, because if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll go to her. I’ll give her what she’s begging for.
Finally, I make myself turn away, walking on legs that feel drunk and brittle, back to the living room. I sit down on the couch, sweating then stare at the orange eye of the fire’s glow until my eyes burn. Breath comes in tight, shallow bursts. My fists are clenched.
I want her. Not just the easy way — not just the get-off-and-get-over-it way — but the full, unfiltered, wreck-everything-and-start-over way. The kind that will stain my hands, my soul, my fucking friendship with Dave.
When the noises finally subside, I wait another three minutes, just to be sure, then stalk outside onto the porch. The snow is coming down heavy and accumulating fast. But I welcome the cold on my face. It’s the only thing that might keep me from doing something even more reckless than what I just witnessed.
God, I want her.
♥♥♥
The storm worked overtime in the night. When I glance outside, the world’s gone white. The truck is half-buried, trees bowed under new weight, sky still thick with lazy flakes that refuse to quit. Colorado storms never last forever, but they always make a point before they’re done.
Coffee’s ready. I pour a mug and check my phone.
Caleb:Roads still iced. Staying at Ryan’s again. Starving (grouchy face)
I shake my head, half-smiling. Another message blinks in from Dave.
Dave:Highway closed both ways. I’m at the station for a double shift. You two good up there?
Me:She’s resting. Ankle’s stable. She’s staying off of it. Found some old crutches. We’re fine. Stay safe.
Dave:Copy that. Keep the kid out of trouble.
Kid. If he only knew.
When I turn, Lilah’s standing on the crutches in the hallway, wearing my flannel and yesterday’s determination. “Everything okay?” she asks.
