Page 13 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
“Better?” I ask.
She tilts her head to look up at me. “Better. You?”
“Not even close.” I give a short laugh and kiss her forehead.
I’m pretty sure falling for her is way scarier than plunging after her in ice water.
I kiss her nose and her cheek.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. “Thatcher…”
“Yeah. I know. Bad idea. Complicated. Still true.”
Something softens in her face—fear, maybe, melting into something else. “You don’t make it easy to stay mad.”
“Good thing I’m not aiming for easy.”
Later, when we’re in dry clothes and the shakes have passed, I suggest the hot tub. She stares like I’ve grown another head. “You can’t possibly want to spend more water.”
“It’s therapy,” I argue. “Besides, the jets might convince my heart to start beating normally again.”
She sighs, but ten minutes later we’re sunk into the steaming water, snow drifting down around us. The night has gone still, only the faint hiss of falling flakes and the low hum of the heater breaking the quiet.
We share a bottle of wine from the pantry, passing it back and forth. Her hair curls damp against her cheeks, and when she laughs, it fills the space between us like light.
“To not dying,” she toasts.
“To second chances,” I answer.
Our fingers brush as I hand her the bottle. The contact sends a spark straight through me. She must feel it too; her breath catches, eyes lifting to mine. The heat isn’t from the tub anymore.
I reach out, trace a drop of water down her shoulder. “You really okay?”
“I will be,” she says softly. “You were… kind of heroic out there.”
“Kind of?”
She smiles, teasing. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
When she leans in this time, I meet her halfway. The kiss starts slow, exploratory, but the moment her lips part under mine, everything else disappears—the cold, the fear, the noise in my head. All that’s left is her taste, her warmth, the sound she makes when my hand slides into her hair.
The world narrows to heartbeats and breath. She pulls back only long enough to whisper, “Take me to bed, Thatcher.”
I rest my forehead against hers, trying to catch my breath, to slow the rush of wanting her and protecting her and not screwing this up.
“Are you sure,” I say finally, voice rough.
“Please.”
There’s only one thing left to do. And it’s definitely on the list.
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Cradling my face in his palms, Thatcher’s thumbs stroke my cheeks.
