Page 7 of One-Click Christmas
Lord, the man is attractive!
I mean, it’s everything about him. His looks, his presence, the way his voice resonates so deep and calm. I’m soaking wet just standing here.
I’m guessing the sixty other women currently hypnotized are rocking the same soaking cotton… but he’s looking atme.
Why is he looking at me?
My cheeks pink as he clears his throatand opens the book, creasing the edge with his massive hand. “If you can’t tell from my writing, I love the mountains. Whenever I get a chance, I’m tucked away in some cabin in the middle of nowhere writing. I have to say, Rugged Mountain is truly special, and I’m honored to be here today with all of you.” He brushes his hand down over his beard. “Today I’m reading a few paragraphs from my most recent book. I hope you enjoy.”
I swear the crowd is more silent than any I’ve ever heard, like every woman in the room is waiting with bated breath for him to speak.
I’m one of them.
‘Her breath hitched as he traced the line of her collarbone, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing her in pieces, every part of her a story he couldn’t wait to read.
He pressed her back against the cabin wall, the wood cool against her spine, her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. Soon, there was no space left between them. Only skin, breath, and the ache of desire they’ve had for far too long.
“Say it. Say you want this,” he whispered, mouth grazing her jaw.’
Hunter’s voice rumbles impossibly deep as he speaks and a shiver runs through me. I might die here and now.
‘She sighed and arched into him, her breath catching as his lips traced the curve of her neck. “I want this.” The touch of his mouth felt like a secret only her skin could read, and this moment was being held in time for the two of them alone.
If magic were to exist, this was it.
The cabin was dim, lit only by the flicker of firelight and the storm’s pulse outside, but he saw her clearly. Every shiver, every silent plea as his hands slid beneath the hem of her sweater, rough palms meeting soft skin. The instant desperation meets reality.
She gasped with recognition. This was the moment she’d imagined and feared. The one where wanting became need, and need became surrender. The moment where she’d finally have the man she’d been longing for.
She didn’t speak, but her body answered, arching into him, fingers threading through his hair, mouth parted in a silent invitation. He kissed her like he’d been waiting years, like every second without her had been a slow unravelingof his very being.’
Hunter turns the page slowly, voice dipping lower.
‘Her sweater slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet as his hands followed the curve of her waist, reverent and rough.She gasped when his lips found the hollow of her throat, and he smiled against her skin, knowing he’d found the place where her pulse betrayed her.’
A few people in the crowd shift, breath caught, eyes wide.
Hunter glances up briefly, and I swear his gaze is on me again.
My heart stiffens.
‘She wasn’t fragile. She was fire, and he wanted to watch her burn.’
He nods toward the crowd and closes the book. “You’ll have to finish the rest on your own and let me know your thoughts. I am open to questions if anyone has any.”
The room exhales at once as a woman in the front row raises her hand enthusiastically. She’s pretty with long dark hair and big brown eyes. For some reason, I’m a bit jealous of the moment of attention he shows her. “Do you write from imagination or experience?”
His gaze wanders toward me again for a fraction of a second. It’s noticeable enough that I wonder whether it was intentional. “A little of both,” he says, readjusting his watch. “Imagination gives me the freedom to go anywhere. Experience gives me a reason to go.”
Another hand goes up, another gorgeous woman with eyes on him like she’d devour whatever he’s serving. “You say you write from experience but you’re single. How does that work?”
I see now why he hates public events. People don’t understand when they’ve crossed a line.
There’s a subtle shift in his posture. “I start with something real. A memory, a feeling, a person I can’t forget. Fiction allows me to reshape it, create the what if’s.” He laughs. “The job is a lot easier when I have a muse.”
Wait…how many muses has he had?Maybe he does this all the time. Maybe he has a muse in every little mountain town he visits.
My stomach twists as I think about the trail of women who probably think they’re the reason for the ache behind his prose. I mean, his words feel lived because they have been.
