Page 19 of Claimed by the Ex-Military Mountain Man

Joel's smile is all heat and promise. "Maybe I do."

The words send liquid fire straight to my core. He leans down to brush his lips against my neck, just below my ear, and I have to grip his shoulders to stay steady.

"The prints," I protest weakly. "I should finish—"

"The prints will be there later." His mouth finds that spot that always makes me melt, teeth scraping gently against sensitive skin. "But you're here now. In my shirt, looking like every fantasy I've ever had."

"Joel," I breathe, but it comes out more like a plea than a protest.

His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me easily. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and the position brings me into perfect alignment with the hard length of him beneath his pajamas.

"Rain's not stopping anytime soon," he murmurs against my throat, his voice dropping to that low, rough tone that makes my toes curl. "Seems like a perfect day to stay in bed."

"What about breakfast?" But I'm already arching into him, my body betraying my half-hearted attempts at responsibility.

"I'm looking at breakfast," Joel says, carrying me toward the bedroom. "And lunch. And dinner."

The rain pounds harder against the cabin roof as he kicks the bedroom door shut behind us, wrapping us in warmth and shadow and the promise of how we'll spend this gray, perfect morning.

Outside, the storm rages on. Inside, Joel's hands are already working at the buttons of his flannel shirt, his eyes dark with intent and affection and the kind of hunger that still takes my breath away after all this time.

"Come here, sweetheart," he says, voice rough with want. "Let me show you exactly how much I've missed you."

As if eight hours of sleep could make him miss me. As if we haven't been inseparable for two years. But I go to him anyway, because this is Joel, and when he reaches for me with that particular look in his eyes, I will always, always come.