Page 14 of Mistletoed with the Mountain Man
"Shit, I'm sorry—" Kade starts.
"No, it's..." I wave a hand. "It's good. Thank you. I just..."
I turn too quickly, reaching for a napkin, and my elbow catches his mug. Hot chocolate sloshes everywhere—mostly all over Kade's shirt.
"Oh my god!" I grab napkins, pressing them uselessly against his soaked chest. "I'm so sorry, I'm such a klutz, I?—"
"Nia, it's fine." He says, pulling the Henley over his head in one smooth motion.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
Tattoos cover hisentiretorso. Continuations of the mountains and constellations over the one side of his ribs. A compass rose spreads across his sternum. More dates andcoordinates wind around his sides, and designs that disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.
And then I see the piercings.
Barbells through both nipples, glinting in the light.
I feel like I’m drooling.
"Your nipples are pierced," I say, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has ceased functioning.
Kade glances down like he forgot about them. “Oh, yeah. Got them done a while ago."
"They're..." I swallow hard. "Unexpected."
"Most things about me are, apparently." There's something challenging in his tone. He reaches for paper towels, giving me an unobstructed view of his ink and metal and muscled abdomen. "Let’s clean up this mess."
The way he says "mess" sends heat pooling low in my belly. This feels like a test. Like he's waiting to see if I'll run or rise to the challenge.
I've never backed down from a challenge in my life.
"Yes, Officer." I grab a towel and step closer—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
His eyes go dark, pupils dilating.
I gulp and press the towel against his chest, ostensibly cleaning but really just wanting to touch him. My fingers trace the edge of a mountain peak on his ribs.
"Nia." My name sounds like a warning. "You can't—we can't?—"
"Can't what?" I look up at him through my lashes, emboldened by the way his jaw is clenched tight, the tension vibrating through him. "Clean up hot chocolate?"
"You know what I mean."
My hand drifts lower, following the path of ink across his abs.
Something flashes in his eyes—heat and want. For one perfect second, I think he might close that distance, pin me against the counter, and kiss me until I forget who I am.
Instead, he catches my wrist, his grip firm, but gentle. "I'm thirty-six. You just graduated college. And I'm paying you to decorate my cabin."
He releases me, stepping back and putting crucial distance between us. "I should go get another shirt."
He grabs the stained Henley and heads upstairs.
The rest of the afternoon is torture of the most exquisite kind. We decorate in charged silence. Every time our hands brush passing ornaments, every time I catch him watching me, every time he steadies the ladder with his hands bracketing my hips—it all builds and builds until I feel like I might combust.
By the time the sun starts setting, the great room tree is halfway done and we're both exhausted. I sink onto the sofa, pulling my knees up to my chest.
"I should probably go," I say, but don't make a move.
