Page 33 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

The cool morning air struck my bare skin like a bucket of ice water.

“Sweet mercy,” I gasped.

Before I could cover myself, Ford’s huge arm shot out, wrapping around my waist and hauling me right back against his burning chest. “Slow down, Bennett.”

“I need my clothes,” I shuddered, though being pressed against his hot body felt incredible.

“They’re still soaked.”

“My jeans?”

“Wet.”

“My sweater?”

“Damp.”

I looked at him, my breasts resting against his stomach. “Can I wear yours?”

His dark, heavy gaze dragged down my bare body, lingering on the pink marks his stubble had left on my breasts, before tracking back to my eyes. “Yeah.”

I reached into the corner for the bundle of dry clothing we’d never gotten around to sharing last night. Ford didn’t even pretend to look away. He leaned back on his elbow and watched me dress, his dark eyes trailing every curve as I pulled his oversized shirt over my head and stepped into his huge pants.

The shirt fit almost perfectly. Tight across my chest, a little loose around my middle. The pants were problematic because he was freaking tall. They fit me in the hips and thighs but I had to pull them almost up to my breasts to make them fit me in the stride. Thankfully there was elastic at the end of the legs.

They were dry. At the moment, that was all that mattered.

At least, it should have been. But standing in his clothes with the soreness between my legs and the faint, intimate weight of him lingering in my body reminding me of every intimate thing he’d done to me felt terrifyingly intimate.

Ford sat up and dragged his damp, cold jeans back on without so much as a flinch, pulling his black shirt over his head.

“You’re going to freeze in those,” I said softly.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I usually am.”

“Usually?”

He ignored the question, turning his back to pack up the gear.

We moved fast. I grabbed my clothes and pushed them into my pack. Ford took down the tent, repacking his pack with military precision. I checked my camera and sighed in relief. I should have done that last night once we were inside the tent but I’d been too distracted. Thankfully, not a single drop of water had gotten inside my bag.

My heart began to hammer in my chest as we hiked up the steep, damp ridge toward the grove. The storm had washed the sky clean, leaving it a blinding, brilliant blue overhead.

The second we stepped into the hidden grove, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The early sunlight was just cresting the eastern ridge, striking the canopy at a sharp, dramatic angle. The red and gold leaves burned like live embers overhead. Millions of lingering rain droplets clung to the branches, glittering like scattered diamonds in the crisp air.

Because of the heavy rain, glassy pools of standing water had formed around the roots of the ancient maples.

Each pool was a perfect, crystal-clear mirror, reflecting the explosion of crimson and gold above it.

It was ten times more breathtaking than the image I’d spent months planning in my head.

“Oh, Ford...” I whispered.