Page 22 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
We break apart only when breathing becomes necessary, both of us slightly dazed.
"Your coat," I manage, helping her slip off the winter layers. My fingers brush against her neck as I unwrap her borrowed scarf, feeling her shiver at the contact.
"Yours too," she insists, reaching for the buttons of my sheriff's jacket.
There's something intensely intimate about watching her undress me, even just my outerwear. Her expression is focused, almost reverent, as if each layer revealed is a discovery worth savoring. When she pushes the jacket from my shoulders, her hands linger, tracing the breadth before sliding down my arms.
"You're so sexy," she says softly, her eyes meeting mine with disarming honesty.
The compliment catches me off guard. Sexy is not a word I've ever associated with myself. Functional, maybe. Intimidating when necessary. But sexy? The sincerity in her gaze makes it impossible to dismiss.
"I was just thinking the same about you," I tell her, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
Her laugh is self conscious. "I'm a mess. My hair's probably frizzing from the snow, and I'm pretty sure my mascara is halfway down my face."
"Perfect," I correct her, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers. "You're perfect."
The vulnerability that flashes across her features makes my chest ache. How long has it been since someone looked at her and truly saw her? Since someone valued her for exactly who she is rather than who they wanted her to be?
I bend to kiss her again, pouring every ounce of my appreciation into the contact. Her response is immediate and eager, her body pressing against mine as if seeking maximum connection. The feel of her curves against me sends blood rushing south, my body responding with an intensity that would be embarrassing if she weren't moving her hips in small, maddening circles that tell me she's affected too.
"Upstairs?" I ask against her lips, unwilling to assume.
She nods, eyes dark with desire behind her glasses. "Please."
I lead her up the stairs, our fingers interlaced, each step building anticipation. At the door to my bedroom, I pause, suddenly aware that no woman has crossed this threshold in sixteen years. But, it feels right that Kelsie is the one to end the drought.
The room is spartan but neat, a king sized bed dominating the space. I've never been one for unnecessary furnishings, but seeing it through her eyes, I'm aware of how impersonal it feels. No photographs, no mementos, nothing that truly marks it as mine beyond the uniform hanging in the open closet door.
"I haven't brought anyone here since Caroline," I admit, needing her to understand the significance.
She turns to me, her expression softening. "Thank you for letting me in."
Those simple words carry weight far beyond the physical space we're occupying. She understands what this means.
Her hands find the buttons of my shirt, each one undone with careful precision. "May I?"
I nod, unable to speak past the emotion clogging my throat. When she pushes the shirt from my shoulders, her fingers tracethe scar that runs across my collarbone, a souvenir from a bar fight in my twenties.
"Tell me someday," she murmurs, pressing her lips to the raised tissue.
The promise of future conversations and discoveries, sends a wave of tenderness through me. I cup her face in my hands, kissing her deeply before reaching for the hem of her sweater.
"Your turn," I whisper.
She raises her arms, allowing me to pull the garment over her head. The sight of her in a simple black bra, her skin pale and perfect in the soft lamplight, nearly stops my heart. I've imagined this moment more times than I care to admit over the past week, but reality surpasses fantasy in every way.
"You can touch me," she says, her voice carrying a hint of nervousness. "Please."
The slight tremble in her request reminds me of what she's shared about her ex-husband. How he criticized more than he appreciated. How he took without giving. The thought of anyone treating her as less than the treasure she is fills me with a protective fury I channel into worship instead.
My hands slide around her waist, mapping the dip and flare of her shape before moving upward. When I cup her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra, her breath catches, eyes fluttering closed. I watch her reactions carefully, learning what makes her gasp, what draws those small sounds of pleasure from deep in her throat.
"Ready?" I ask, fingers finding the clasp between her shoulder blades.
"Yes," she breathes, and the garment joins her sweater on the floor.
The sight of her bare breasts sends desire coursing through me with renewed intensity. They're perfect, fuller than her clothes had suggested, tipped with dusky rose nipples alreadytightened with arousal. I bend to take one in my mouth, and her gasp turns into a moan that vibrates through both our bodies.
