Page 8 of Cracking with the Mountain Man

She tastes like mango pickle and mint. Her lips are soft and her body arches into mine when my free hand finds her waist, pulling her close. She makes a sound against my mouth. Small. Surprised. Then her hands fist in the front of my flannel, pulling me down to her, and the kiss goes from careful to desperate in the space of a breath.

Three years. Three years of nothing. Silence and woodsmoke and the sound of my own footsteps on an empty porch. And now this woman's mouth is open under mine and her tongue slides against my lower lip and my hands are on her hips pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me.

She feels it. Her hips press forward. A moan hums through the kiss that I swallow whole.

"Tell me to stop," I say against her mouth. Half prayer. Half dare.

"Do I look like I want you to stop?"

She doesn't. She looks like she wants to climb me. Her eyes are dark and blown wide, her breathing ragged, and both hands have migrated from my chest to my shoulders, gripping hard.

My hands slide down to the backs of her thighs. She jumps when I lift her. Legs wrapping around my waist, arms around my neck, mouth finding mine again as I carry her through the only doorway in this cabin that matters.

Her bedroom is small. Bed against the wall, quilt bunched at the foot, afternoon light pouring through a window that faces the mountain. She lands on the mattress with her hair spreading dark against white sheets, and I stand at the edge of the bed looking down at her like I'm trying to memorize something I don't deserve.

"Off," she says. Tugging at my flannel. "All of it."

The shirt goes first. Then the undershirt. Cool air hits my chest but her eyes on me are warm enough to compensate. She sits up, runs her palms flat across my stomach, up through the hair on my chest. Her fingers trace a scar below my collarbone from a branch that caught me during the Wheeler Ridge fire. She doesn't ask about it. Just touches it. Gentle. Then pulls her sweater over her head.

Brown skin. Full breasts in a simple cotton bra. Soft stomach. My hands shake when I reach for her. Actually shake. She notices. Takes my hands in hers and puts them on her waist.

"I've got you," she whispers.

The bra unclasps and falls away. Her nipples are dark, pebbled in the cool air. My mouth finds one while my thumb rolls the other, and the sound she makes bows her back off the mattress. Sweet. Responsive. Every touch gets a reaction.

Leggings come down her hips. No underwear. Just Priya, bare on white sheets with her thighs falling open, and my brain goes blank.

"You're so fucking beautiful."

She pulls me down by the belt. My jeans are too tight and have been since the kitchen. Getting them off takes longer than it should because her hands are helping, which means they keep brushing against my cock through the denim, and every accidental touch makes my vision narrow.

Naked against her. Skin to skin. Her body is warm and soft, every curve pressing into me. My mouth drags down her throat, between her breasts, across her stomach. She squirms when my beard scrapes her hip bone.

"Owen. God."

"I've been thinking about this since you brought me that pie." Lips against her inner thigh. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about your mouth."

"My mouth?"

"And your hands in that dough." Breath against her pussy. She shudders. "The way your hips moved when you hummed. Everything."

My tongue finds her clit and her whole body jerks. She's wet. Swollen. I work her slow, flat tongue strokes from her entrance to her clit, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her grab the sheets. Two fingers press inside, curving up, finding the spot that makes her thighs lock around my head.

"Right there. Fuck, right there, don't stop."

I don't stop. Her hips roll against my mouth. My free hand spreads flat on her stomach, holding her down while I suck her clit between my lips and pulse my fingers. She comes with both hands in my hair, pulling hard, back arched, a sound torn from her throat that I'm going to hear every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life.

Before she's finished shaking, I'm reaching for my jeans on the floor. Condom from the wallet I had the foresight to restock in town this morning, which tells me everything about how much I was lying to myself about this being just an oven repair.

She watches me roll it on. Dark eyes half lidded. Chest heaving. Her legs spread wider. "Come here."

I settle between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance and we both go still. Eye contact. Her hand on my jaw. Her thumb tracing my bottom lip.

Then I push inside her and the world narrows to this.

Tight. Wet. Her walls grip me as I sink in slow, inch by inch, giving her time to adjust. Her mouth opens on a silent moan. Nails bite into my shoulders.

"More."