Page 7 of Love Me In Misty Mountain
While Scott was still outside on the porch, probably brooding or whatever it was he did to avoid feelings, I decided to explore his kitchen. It was exactly what I expected, functional, no-frills, and stocked with the basics. Tucked away in the back of a cabinet, I found a dusty bottle of scotch.
I wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight called for exceptions.
I poured myself a tumbler. A big one. The first sip burned, but it was warm, and the heat curled through me and before I knew it, the glass was empty. So, I poured another.
The door creaked open behind me, and I turned to see Scott stepping back inside. His eyes immediately found the glass in my hand, then the bottle on the counter.
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for a scotch drinker.”
I shrugged, feeling the pleasant fuzz of the alcohol settling into my limbs. “Desperate times.”
He grunted, that signature sound of his, and stepped closer. His gaze lingered on my face for a moment, before he grabbed another glass and poured himself a drink.
We stood there for a few seconds, sipping and not talking. The fire crackled behind us, casting a warm glow over the room. The tension was still there, let’s face it, it had been growing steadily since I moved back to Misty, but the scotch took the edge off.
“Guess it’s official,” I said. “I’m homeless.”
Scott frowned, his jaw tightening. “It’s temporary. We’ll fix the place up. You’ll be back in there soon.”
“We?” I teased, smirking over the rim of my glass. “You’re really committing to this whole ‘take care of Bree’ thing, huh?”
He didn’t smile. “I promised Jake.”
Of course. Jake. Always Jake. I grabbed the bottle and moved to the couch. “Come on, mountain man. Sit and drink with me.”
He hesitated but eventually joined me. His weight made the cushions dip, and for a few moments, we drank in comfortable silence. Unfortunately, I kept drinking, and maybe it was the scotch, or maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or maybe it was the fact that Scott Fergus had always been the man I wasn’t supposed to want, but I started to feel bold.
The more I drank, the closer I shifted toward him. Until at some point, my head rested on his shoulder, and his arm was draped along the back of the couch, fingers brushing against me lightly.
I don’t know when it happened, but my eyelids got heavy, and the last thing I remember was nuzzling into his side, breathing in his scent that was just... Scott.
Safe.
Warm.
Mine, if I let myself dream for just a little while.
Chapter 8: Scott
Fuck.
She was asleep, snoring softly, her head resting dangerously close to my dick, which was hard as fucking steel and twitching like it had a mind of its own. Every breath she took made her lips brush against my thigh through my jeans. I gritted my teeth, trying not to think about how easy it would be to shift her just a little, let her mouth slide over my zipper—
Jesus Christ, get it together.
The hoodie she was wearing had ridden up, exposing the soft curve of her stomach, and I could just make out the fullness of her breasts beneath the material. They shifted with each breath, heavy and perfect. I had always been a sucker for a full bodied woman, and Bree?
She was made for me. Curves in all the right places. A body that begged to be worshipped.
I dragged a hand over my face, trying to will my dick into submission and not fantasize about bending over every surface in this goddamn cabin.
But fuck me, it was getting hard.
Carefully, I started to detangle myself from her. Her arm had slid around my waist at some point, her fingers gripping the hem of my shirt. As I shifted, she murmured something in her sleep and snuggled closer, pressing those soft curves against my side.
I nearly groaned out loud.
Worse, the scent of her arousal drifted up, faint but unmistakable. That warm, sweet smell that made my blood rush south. My dick throbbed, and I had to close my eyes, grit my teeth against the need clawing at me.
