Page 11 of Mountain Man's Winter Wonder
Her moans rose in pitch, becoming a breathy melody that harmonized with our ragged breathing and the wet sounds of our joining. Her head lolled back against my shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration and ecstasy.
“Buck…” my name was a prayer on her lips. “I…oh, I can’t…it’s too much…”
“It’s not enough,” I growled, holding her tighter, driving into her a little deeper, my thumb circling relentlessly. “It’s never going to be enough. Let go. Come for me. Now.”
Her body went rigid in my arms. A keening cry was torn from her lips, echoing into the silent trees. Then she shattered around me, her inner muscles milking me, clenching and fluttering ina rhythm that pulled my own release from me with a force that stole my breath.
My own groan was a raw, guttural sound muffled in her hair as I buried myself to the hilt, pulsing inside her, my vision whiting out at the edges. I held her through it, our bodies fused together, shaking as one in the aftermath.
For a long moment, we just sat there in the cold, clinging to each other, our harsh breaths the only sound. Slowly, gently, I slid out of her, and we put ourselves back together, zipping and buttoning with awkward movements. The cold was a brutal shock against our heated skin now.
“Come on,” I said, taking her hand, my voice hoarse. “Let’s get to the truck.”
We ran, laughing breathlessly, through the frost-tipped grass to my pickup. I started the engine and cranked the heat, blasting us with warm air. Then we sat in the cab, holding hands, and looked out at the view we’d mostly ignored. The mountains were vast and deep blue in the moonlight, a silent, majestic audience to what had just transpired.
I turned to her, cupped her cheek, and kissed her one last time—soft, slow, and full of a promise I didn’t know how I’d keep.
As I drove her back to the festival grounds, the truth settled in my chest, as solid and immovable as the mountains around us. My life would never be the same. She had cracked me open and found a part of me I didn’t know existed. Now, I just had to find a way to make her stay in Wildwood Valley forever.
7
SHERATON
Vendors were packing up like a mass retirement—big smiles, brisk folding, and an alarming amount of bubble wrap. They hauled goods from booths to the festival’s glorified dirt parking lot as if there were a prize for the fastest escape.
The weird thing about it was that the festival wasn’t even open yet. They clearly weren’t hoping to sell much today, the final day.
I, for one, wasn’t ready to go home. Every box-toting, grin-bearing passerby made my chest sink a little further into my ribcage.
But go I must. My family depended on me. Dad hadn’t let me forget that for a week—texts arriving like clockwork, each one a reminder to order this, check on that. I’d been making the schedule since I was sixteen because I liked lists—neat columns, checkboxes, and the little triumph of crossing something off. It was my superpower and my prison sentence.
But I wanted to stay. In Wildwood Valley. With Buck. With the man who’d shown up at the inn that morning carrying darkchocolate peppermint pancakes like some breakfast-bearing Cupid.
“I brought you a hot chocolate to warm you up.” His voice cut into my thoughts as I tucked one of my storage bins back under the table at my booth. He handed me a disposable cup. “It’s peppermint. You said you loved that about the pancakes.”
Our fingers brushed—a tiny electric current pulsed through me. Last night and this morning looped behind my eyes like the world’s most forbidden highlight reel. We’d had sex three times—two of them in my warm room at the inn.
“You look like someone stole your last snow globe,” Buck said, settling into the extra seat behind my booth like he belonged there.
I took a sip, stalling. Peppermint? Perfect. Buck? Also perfect.
“Just thinking about going home,” I said.
“And doing that has you looking like you’re headed to your own execution because…?” He raised an eyebrow.
I snorted despite myself. “You don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“Not about important things.” He softened. “Talk to me, Sheraton.”
Hearing my name cross his lips made my heart skip a beat. I looked at the few remaining snow globes—tiny winter worlds trapped in glass—and felt absurdly exposed.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said. “But I have to.”
“Says who?”
My voice thinned into a list of obligations, each item heavy as a stone. “My family. The restaurant. The schedule.”
“What doyouneed?”
