Page 28 of Mountain Man's Longing
A few more spanks and I’m crying out, not from pain but from the unexpected pleasure.
When his fingers finally slide between my legs, exploring my wetness, we both groan. “Christ, Brenna,” he breathes. “You’re soaked.”
His touch is gentle at first, fingers gliding through my folds before finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes me cry out. The combination of the lingering sting from his hand and the soft circles he draws has me panting, my head falling forward as the pleasure grows.
“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.
But he knows. One finger slides into me, then two, stretching me carefully while his thumb continues its maddening circles. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Fullness and friction and the steady pump of his hand have me riding the edge of something explosive that curls my toes.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “Ride my hand. Show me how much you want it.”
When, only seconds later, as he’s pumping, my climax hits, it’s with a force that surprises me. I cry out, my body convulsing around his fingers while waves of pleasure crash through me. He doesn’t stop, drawing out every tremor until I’m boneless and limp.
Only then does he withdraw his hand. When I glance up, over my shoulder, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them. The sight sends fresh heat spiraling through me.
“Please, Graham,” I manage, scrambling to my knees in front of him as I reach for his belt. “I need you. All of you.”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, but then he’s pushing me away. “The sight of you on your knees when I’m barely holding it together? Hell, Brenna, you’re killing me.”
Satisfaction like I’ve never experienced ripples through me, and I file away the thought for later as Graham strips off his shirt and jeans with efficient movements that speak of barely leashed control. I enjoy the view, his generous cock jutting out, the tip dripping, until he sits back down and pulls me up onto his lap. I straddle him, holding on to his shoulders, his rock-hard thickness sliding against me.
“Easy,” he whispers as I wiggle against him, his hands steady on my hips. “We need to go slow.”
But when he guides me down, filling me completely, slow is the last thing on my mind. The stretch is overwhelming, perfect, and I can’t help the soft cry that escapes my lips.
“Okay?” His voice is strained, every muscle in his body tense with the effort of holding still.
I nod, experimenting with small movements that make us both groan.
“Move,” I whisper against his neck. “Please.”
The rhythm we find is slow and deep, his hips rising to meet mine in a way that feels like we’ve been made for this. His hands roam my body, slipping under my shirt, memorizing every curve, while his mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the sensitive spot behind my ear.
This isn’t just physical. It’s something deeper, more profound. His fingers skim down my back as if I’m everything he never knew he needed. He murmurs my name like a prayer. In hisarms, surrounded by the scent of pine and the whisper of wind through leaves, I finally understand what home feels like.
When release claims us both, it’s with an intensity that leaves us clinging to each other, hearts racing. As we catch our breath, Graham’s arms tighten around me, and I know with absolute certainty this—he—is worth every risk I’ve taken to get here.
“Stay,” he whispers against my hair, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Forever,” I whisper back.
Epilogue | Graham | Two and a half years later
The box of mugs is heavy in my hands as I push backwards through the door of the Sugar Plum Cafe, the familiar chime announcing Brenna's and my arrival. The rich scent of coffee and fresh apple turnovers fills the air, mixing with the sound of easy conversation and clinking dishes. This place has become as much a part of our Saturday morning routine as the Farmers Market on Wednesday afternoons and evening fires at home.
“Brenna!” Mia’s face lights up from behind the counter where she’s arranging pastries. “Perfect timing. I was just telling Mrs. Henderson about those beautiful mugs you made for the book club.”
I set the box carefully on the counter, each piece wrapped in tissue paper. Twenty mugs, each one thrown by Brenna’s skilled hands and finished with the Sugar Plum Cafe logo kiln fired into the clay. The hobby she learned for fun has grown into a thriving artisan business neither of us expected.
Brenna appears at my elbow, her hand finding the small of my back as she peers into the box. Even at twenty weeks pregnant, she moves with the same grace that caught my attention thatfirst stormy night. Though, now, there’s an easy confidence in her movements, a certainty that comes from being exactly where she belongs.
“I can’t believe you finished them so quickly,” Mia says, carefully lifting one mug to examine it. “Especially knowing how many orders you must have backed up. The magazine feature really put you two on the map.”
“Having my pottery wheel up in Graham’s workshop now has its benefits,” Brenna says, shooting me a look that makes heat coil low in my belly.
Christ. Two years of marriage and my gorgeous young wife still makes me crave her with a single glance.
“Brenna!”
