Page 3 of Mountain Man's Longing
I’m still reeling when her voice hits me like warm whiskey. Smooth. Cultured. A refined city accent that screams family money and prestigious boarding schools. I should have expected it from the Range Rover and the way she’s not dressed for the weather. No matter. Hearing that refined tone makes my cock twitch.
“Power’s out.” I step back, desperate to put space between me and this temptation with pouty pink lips. “Tree took down the line.”
There’s a smudge of mud on her cheek, and her chest rises and falls with quick breaths. Diamond studs in her ears catch the lantern light. Manicured nails. Expensive watch. Everything about her screams privilege and city polish.
But she’s shivering, and something protective and primal, that has nothing to do with logic, unfurls in my gut.
“Graham Hughes. This is my property.”
“Brenna.” She looks up at me through long, wet lashes. Light green eyes sprinkled with gold flecks.
“I’ll fix the power tomorrow.” I gesture toward my cabin, warm light spilling from the windows. “You can stay at my place tonight.”
She stills. A hard swallow rolls down her throat as her gaze rakes over me, lingering on my beard, then dropping to my chest. She’s aware of me. How big I am. The knowledge she’s affected sends adrenaline rushing through my veins.
“I don’t want to…impose.” Her teeth chatter.
“Not a problem.”
That’s that. I invite no more conversation. Rather, I hand her the umbrella and turn back toward the house. She follows without argument.
Good girl.
The storm’s not letting up, and the wind howls through the pines like incoming artillery. Plus, hypothermia doesn’t give a damn about propriety.
Halfway to the porch, she stumbles on uneven ground. I spin and catch her around the waist. Pull her against me. I don’t let go as fast as I should after she finds her footing. She’s soft and warm against my side, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Finally, I step back, though every fiber in my body screams to keep her close. By the time we reach my front door, we’re both drenched. I hold it open for her, taking the umbrella and trying not to notice the way her jeans hug the luscious swell of her hips. How petite she looks against my doorframe.
She steps inside. My living room lamp illuminates her face, and my heart damn near stops. I knew she was young, but hell, the girl is barely legal. Mid-twenties at most. Soft in all the ways I’ve forgotten women can be. And I’m pushing forty with too many scars and zero patience for complications.
The gorgeous brunette gravitates toward the fireplace, humming as she holds her hands out to the flames. A puddle forms at her feet on the hardwood. Firelight dances across features that belong in a painting at a museum. The scent of her perfume fills the room. Something floral and expensive that has no business smelling so good.
When she glances back at me over her shoulder, those green eyes reflecting the flames, every rational thought I have goes up in smoke.
“Let me get you a towel,” I say gruffly. “Then I’ll grab your bag from the car.”
“Th-thank you.”
I head to the linen closet, pull out a clean towel, and hand it to her. Our fingers brush when she takes it.
“Keys?” I manage.
She pulls a Range Rover fob from her pocket.
I pluck it out of her open palm. “Be right back.”
A second later, I’m stepping back into the darkness and sucking in a lungful of frigid air. Rain pelts my face, but it’s a welcome pain. I need the shock to clear my head. This girl’s a guest. A paying customer. And she’s too damn innocent for the dirty thoughts running through my mind. Even if she doesn’t have a ring on her finger.
This was supposed to be simple. She’d dry off. I’d put fresh sheets on my bed and leave her be. In the morning, I’d fix the power, so she could move into the rental where she belongs and I could go back to my quiet life of solitude.
But when I close my eyes, I picture her by my fireplace, humming under her breath. It’s been forever since I’ve had a woman here. Longer since I’ve wanted one to stay.
I head down the hill toward her vehicle. Every instinct I’ve honed over my thirty-nine years tells me to keep my distance. This girl’s trouble wrapped in designer denim.
But there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in that cold cabin tonight. Not when she’s here. Not when every protective instinct I have is roaring to life.
Chapter three
