Page 11 of Craving the Mountain Man
I stretch under the covers and smile as the mattress dips beside me. He's back from the shower, a towel slung low around his hips, hair damp and dark, chest bare and glistening with droplets of water I want to lick off. His eyes rake over me and that ache between my legs flares again.
God, he's beautiful. There's something primal about him, something that calls to a part of me I didn't even know existed.
"Stop staring," I tease.
He grunts, that low rumble that goes straight to my core. "You're naked in my bed. Hard not to."
I sit up slowly, deliberately, letting the sheet slide down to bare my breasts. His jaw tightens, eyes darkening as they trace the curves of my body. The hunger in his gaze makes me feel powerful.
"Tease," he mutters as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to my mouth, one hand curling around my jaw. His lips are warm, his tongue soft and lazy against mine. It's different from last night, from the frantic desperation that consumed us both.
When he pulls back, I run my fingers through his damp hair and rest my forehead against his. "So… breakfast?"
He stands, tossing on a faded T-shirt that stretches across his chest. Even now he's devastating.
I follow him to the kitchen, wrapped in a thin blanket and nothing else, because modesty flew out the window somewhere between orgasm number two and number ten.
He's already at the stove when I settle at the counter, pouring pancake mix into a skillet. His movements are efficient, and I wonder how many mornings he's spent here alone, making breakfast for one.
The thought makes me sad that he lost himself for so many years.
"You ever going to wear pants again?" he asks without turning around, but I catch the hint of amusement in his voice.
"Not if I don't have to."
He grunts, but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
I watch him work. There's something deeply satisfying about this. About being here with him in the quiet morning light, about the domesticity of it all.
"Coffee?" he asks, already reaching for a mug.
"Please."
He pours it black, the way I like it, and slides it across the counter. Our fingers brush when I take it, and even that small contact sends sparks up my arm.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the sound of forks and birds outside the window filling the quiet. It should feel awkward.
But it doesn't.
It feels natural, like this is how mornings are supposed to be.
Okay. That thought there. That's the problem.
I came here to get away. To breathe. To figure out what I wanted from my life without the noise of the city, without David's voice in my head telling me I wasn't enough. To remember who I was and to have some fun again. To write again. To not catch feelings for my brother's best friend.
Yet here I am, half-naked in his blanket, eating pancakes he made, pretending like this isn't the most relaxed and happy I've felt in months. Like this isn't exactly what I've been searching for without even knowing it.
"I was thinking," I say carefully, setting down my fork and watching his reaction, "maybe I stay longer than a few days."
Evan's hand pauses mid-cut, his fork hovering over his plate. The silence stretches between us.
"Wasn't that the whole point of coming here? It was just a reset and you go back to your life in the city?" he asks without looking up, his voice neutral.
"Originally, yeah. But maybe I need more time. Space. Quiet to start writing again." I pause, gathering courage. "You. Maybe I need to figure out what this is with you."
He lifts his eyes to mine. "What this is?"
I hold his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You mean the you part?"
