Page 9 of Harvest Moon Mountain Man

“Look at you,” I murmur against her. “Already this ready for me.”

When I finally put my mouth on her she makes a soft, broken sound—my name, quiet instead of gasping it. I stay there longer than either of us expected, slow and thorough, tongue flat and steady, then circling, then sliding lower to taste how wet she is. Her thighs tremble against my shoulders.

“Rourke—”

“I’ve got you,” I say again, voice rough. “Just feel it.”

I keep going until she’s tugging at my hair, trying to pull me back up, hips restless under my mouth.

When I finally push inside her we both go still a beat. Foreheads together. She’s so warm, so soft around me, taking every inch like she was made for it. Her hand finds mine on the pillow beside her head and laces our fingers tight, like she needs the anchor of it as much as I do.

I can feel her pulse where we’re joined. I can feel the way she flutters around me when I roll my hips just once, testing.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” I tell her, quiet. “Every single time.”

We move slow. Her hips meet mine unhurried, deliberate, every shift measured and deep. Sunlight slides warmer across the bed with every minute that passes. I keep my free hand under her thigh, holding her open so I can feel every drag of my body into hers.

She’s wet enough that the slide is effortless, but she’s still tight—still gripping me like she doesn’t want to let go even for a second. I watch her face the whole time. The way her eyes go half-lidded. The soft parting of her mouth every time I sink all the way in. The flush that spreads down her throat and across her chest.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “Take all of me. Just like that.”

I can feel her getting closer in the way her breathing changes, in the way her fingers tighten around mine. I don’t speed up. I just keep the same deep, steady rhythm until she comes with my name breaking soft against my shoulder, her whole body drawing tight and shuddering under mine.

The way she pulses around me pulls the last of my control right out of me.

“Coming for me already,” I say against her skin. “Good girl.”

I follow right after, burying my face against her throat, hips pressed flush as everything in me finally, fully, lets go. I stay buried deep while I come, feeling every wave of it, feeling her still fluttering around me like she wants to keep me there.

She curls into my side after, hand flat over my heart again. We’re both breathing hard. The sheets are a mess. The sun has moved far enough that it’s painting a warm stripe across both of us.

“That felt different,” she says, voice still rough.

“Yeah.” I press my mouth into her hair, still catching my breath. “Nothing left hanging over it this time.”

We lie there a long while, coffee going cold on the nightstand, sun climbing higher over the trees outside the window. She traces the line of my collarbone with one finger, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else on earth she’d rather be.

I keep my arm around her and let myself believe, for once, that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be too.

"What happens now?" she asks eventually.

"You keep the piece you already wrote. I’ll make some calls about the cider." I say it plain, because plain is the only way I know how to say anything that matters. "And I figure out how to ask you to stay without sounding like a man who's known you a week and already lost his mind over you."

"You could just ask."

"I know." I kiss her forehead this time. "Give me till the market. I want to do it right."

She doesn't push for more than that. Just settles back against me, quiet, morning light spilling gold across both of us, and neither one of us says what we're already certain of: that this was never going to end with her getting on a plane.

seven

Zara

Closing weekend of the market, and Rourke Harding sets up a stall for the first time in six years.

I know this because half the vendors tell me so, unprompted, the way news travels through Silver Ridge like water finding the low ground without anyone having to push it there. Apples stacked in crates in careful pyramids, a chalkboard sign in his own blocky handwriting listing varietals I now know by heart, and beside the apples, a row of small unlabeled bottles that draws more attention from passersby than the fruit does by a wide margin.

"That's not for sale," he tells anyone who reaches for one before he's poured it. "That's for tasting."