My throat closes.
"I had Ezra Redwood make it." Owen's voice is quiet. Steady. "Figured the front sign could use an update."
Running my thumb over the engraving, I trace the letters of my name next to his. Carmen McCall. Not Reyes. McCall. Which means...
"Owen."
"Before you say anything." He pulls something else from his back pocket. A folded piece of paper, worn soft from being carried. Opening it, he holds it up.
The Mountain Match profile. The ad that brought me here. Printed out, creased from folding, clearly read more than once.
"I found it the day you showed it to me on your phone. Printed it that night. Been carrying it ever since." His hand isn't steady when he sets it on the counter. "Whoever wrote this knew something I didn't. That I needed a partner. That I couldn't do this alone. That the right woman wasn't gonna compete with the mountain. She was gonna make it bigger by being in it."
Tears blur the nameplate. My fingers tighten around the box.
"So this is me asking." Closing the distance between us, he takes the box from my hands. Sets it on the counter. Takes my face in both palms, rough calluses on my cheeks, thumbs wiping the tears I can't stop. "Will you be a McCall? Officially. Permanently. On the sign, on the deed, on everything."
"Yes." The word comes out broken. Wet. "Yes, you ridiculous man."
His mouth finds mine. Warm, firm, tasting like coffee and the apple cider Mabel spiked when she sent it up yesterday. Kissing Owen McCall still makes my knees weak six months in. Probably always will.
"Bedroom," I mumble against his lips.
"Guests arrive tomorrow morning."
"Then we've got tonight."
He lifts me onto the counter. My legs wrap around his waist. His hands slide under my shirt, palms flat on my bare back, pulling me against his chest. My fingers work the buttons on his flannel. Push it off his shoulders. The thermal follows.
Bare-chested Owen in the kitchen light makes my mouth water every time. Broad, solid, dusted with hair that trails from his chest down his stomach into his jeans. Leaning forward, I press my mouth to his collarbone. His breath hitches.
"Off." His fingers hook the hem of my shirt. Pull it over my head. No bra tonight because I'd been getting ready for bed when he pulled out the nameplate. His hands cup my breasts immediately, thumbs circling my nipples until they peak against his palms.
"Carmen." Rough. Low. My name in his mouth is its own kind of foreplay.
Scooping me off the counter, he carries me down the hallway. My back hits the mattress. He strips my sleep shorts down my legs, tosses them. Kneels at the edge of the bed. Pulls me toward him by my hips until my ass is right at the edge, legs over his shoulders.
The first lick is slow. Flat tongue, base to tip, ending on my clit with the kind of focused pressure that makes my hips buck. His hands pin my thighs open. Hold me there while his mouth works.
"You taste so good." Murmured against my pussy, his breath hot on sensitive skin. Two fingers slide inside me, curling forward. "So fucking good, Carmen."
The orgasm builds fast. His tongue circling my clit, his fingers thrusting deep, the obscene wet sounds filling the bedroom. When I come, it's with my hand in his hair pulling hard enough to make him groan.
"Get up here."
Rising, he unbuttons his jeans. Pushes them down with his boxers. His cock springs free, thick, hard, a bead of moisture at the head. Grabbing a condom from the nightstand, he rolls it on while I watch from the pillows. The visual never gets old. Owen's hands on his own cock, his jaw tight, his eyes on my body spread across his bed.
"Turn over."
A thrill shoots through me. Rolling onto my stomach, I push up on my hands and knees. His hand runs down my spine. Over my ass. Grips my hip. The head of his cock presses against me, slides through the wetness, finds my entrance.
He pushes in from behind in one long stroke. Deep. Full. My arms give out, dropping me to my elbows, and the angle shifts to something that makes me cry out into the pillow.
"Right there?" His voice is wrecked. Both hands on my hips, pulling me back onto him with every thrust.
"Don't stop. God, don't stop."
His pace builds. Hard, deep strokes that rock me forward on the bed. One hand slides between my legs from behind, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. My face presses into the pillow. His name comes out muffled against the cotton.
