Page 6 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

The movement drew the pack snug against my front, made me stumble into him. I gasped softly as his thick, rock-hard thigh landed right against the seam of my jeans. As he adjusted the upper chest buckle, the side of his hand dragged deliberately across the heavy, sensitive swell of my breast. His calloused fingers brushed hard against the crest, pushing the thin fabric against my skin.

Ford froze. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

His heavy hand remained resting against the side of my chest, his thumb mere millimeters from my hard peak. His breathing grew heavy. I wanted to feel those big, rough hands slide beneath my sweater, rip my bra away, and cup me until I made embarrassing noises in the woods.

“That better?” His voice dropping an octave into a dark, gravelly rasp. His thumb flexed just enough to drag over my hardened nipple. That was not a random touch.

“Yes,” I breathed, the word barely escaping my lips.

Ford released the strap and ripped himself away as if he’d been burned. Maybe he had been. The heat between us felt scorching to me.

Cold mountain air rushed into the space he’d occupied, making me shiver and ache all that much more.

“Stay on the trail,” he grunted, turning his back to me, though I didn’t miss the rigid tension in his broad shoulders, the way his fists clenched at his sides, or the heavy flex of his rear. I was really fascinated by the last one. “Rain last week loosened the ledge above the creek.”

“Anything else?” I forced myself to concentrate on what he was saying, not what my body was telling me to do. Which was, grab him and see exactly how he kissed a woman.

“Don’t go climbing over downed timber without checking it first.”

“Yes, Dad.”

He halted, turning his head just enough to glare at me over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” I smirked, biting my lip. “You just have a very protective, grumpy uncle quality to you.”

“Keep pushing me, Bennett, and I’ll carry you back to your car by your coat collar.”

The image of those big hands grabbing me anywhere made a wicked surge of heat coil right between my thighs, making my panties damp. That was not my usual reaction to men. I tended to stay away from them. They were usually too much trouble. But Ford... “Promises, promises.”

He growled—a low, animalistic sound—and kicked off up the steep trail.

The hike up was quiet, tense in a way that had nothing to do with the incline. He walked ahead of me, and I let him, too aware of how little space there was between us.

By the time we reached the northern slope, the grove opened up—and my heart sank straight into my boots.

A heavy, thick blanket of gray cloud had rolled over the eastern ridge, blocking out the morning sun completely.

“No,” I choked out, stepping into the grove. “No, no, no.”

The maples were breathtaking. A massive, towering cathedral of fiery red, deep crimson, and burning orange leaves. But there was no light. Without the sun breaking through to ignite the canopy, the colors looked flat, dark, and muted.

I pulled off the lens cap anyway, trying to fight the panic rising in my chest.

“The forecast said clear sky until noon,” I said, my voice tight.

Ford stood a few feet back, his heavy arms crossed over his massive chest. “Mountain weather doesn’t read the forecast.”

I walked deeper into the carpet of red leaves, searching desperately for an angle. I crouched near a mossy log. I moved down to the edge of the rushing creek. I changed lenses, adjusted the aperture, and lowered my tripod into the dirt.

Nothing worked.

The photograph I needed—the five-thousand-dollar winning photograph that was supposed to buy my art shop—needed the morning sun burning through the canopy like wildfire.

Instead, I had dull gray skies and no light.

I took twenty shots, but every click of the shutter felt like a door slamming in my face.

“They look like trees,” Ford offered grumpily, but I thought with an edge of sympathy, from behind me.