Page 9 of Mountain Daddy
My hesitation is that I am seconds away from imagining what he looks like wearing those gray sweatpants and nothing else.
“I can’t take those,” I say weakly.
“You can, and you will.”
The snow roars against the windows. The lights flicker overhead.
I reach for the clothes, fingertips brushing his.
The touch is small. Barely anything.
But it’s enough.
It feels like we’re the only two people left in the world.
He inhales sharply.
Everything in me goes molten. My heart trips. My thoughts scatter.
“Wells…” I whisper.
He steps closer. Just an inch. But it’s everything.
“Celia.”
My name in his voice is wrecking. Deep. Gravelly. Pulled from somewhere low in his chest.
My hand is still half-wrapped around the flannel. His fingers linger over mine. The space between us dissolves.
And then?—
We’re leaning in.
Both of us.
So slowly.
Like two magnets easing toward the point of no return.
His breath brushes my mouth.
His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups the side of my neck with the gentlest heat I’ve ever felt.
I close my eyes.
And then his lips touch mine.
Just barely.
A kiss that’s more like a promise. A question. A confession neither of us meant to say out loud.
Heat shoots through me. Slow and devastating. My free hand fists in the hem of his shirt. His thumb strokes the back of my neck and I swear I could melt into his palm.
Then he pulls back.
Too fast.
Too soon.
