Page 25 of Haunting the Mountain Man
By the time we reach my apartment, my nerves are jangling again. The courthouse was all adrenaline and vows, but here, home, with Cole’s hand heavy on mine, it feels real in a different way. Later we’ll need to start packing his stuff and move him in, but his clothes can wait.
The cats greet us at once, Oswald darting between Cole’s boots like he’s inspecting the new tenant. Onyx and Obsidian perch on the counter, tails flicking, eyes narrowed as if to saywe didn’t approve this arrangement.
Cole ducks through the doorway and immediately clips his shoulder against the doorframe.
“Shit.”
He winces, rubbing it, then nearly knocks over the stack of books teetering beside the couch. I rush forward, scooping them up in a flurry.
“Careful! Those are first editions. Well, some of them. Sort of. Okay, they’re dusty hardbacks, but still—”
He laughs, low and warm, and catches my wrist before I can scramble to put them away.
“Sabrina. It can wait.”
I blink up at him, breathless, half buried under my own clutter.
“But—”
“Enough,” he growls. “Leave it.”
He leans down, brushing his mouth over my mine, voice rough with something that makes my stomach flip.
“I don’t give a damn about the clutter. It’s you. That’s all I see.”
The words steal the air right out of my lungs.
He straightens, taking in the cramped apartment, the mismatched shelves, the clutter, and instead of seeming out of place, he looks…settled. Like this is exactly where he belongs.
Cole
She’s mine.
It’s been hammering in my skull since the judge said the words, but standing here in her little apartment, cats peering up at me in silent judgement, it echoes louder than ever. Sabrina Blackwell is my wife. No. Sabrina Opolski.
I crowd her back against the wall, pinning her with my stare and then my oversized frame.
“All I see is my bride. My pretty little witch. The woman who promised me forever.”
Her breath hitches, lips parting.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is.” I bend, mouth brushing hers. Soft, at first. Testing. Then deeper, hotter, until she’s clutching my shirt in both fists.
She tastes like cinnamon tea and trouble. Like the only thing I’ll ever want again. When I finally tear my mouth away, her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, lips swollen. She looks wrecked already, and I haven’t even begun.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” I rasp, dragging my thumb over her lower lip.
“Oh, I know.” Her smile is pure sin. “That’s half the fun.”
Brat. God, she’s a brat. And I want every inch of her.
“Careful,” I warn, voice dropping low. “Keep pushing, and you’ll find out exactly what kind of husband you married.”
She cocks her head, tilting her chin up in defiance.
“Daddy?”
