Page 7 of Bonfire with the Mountain Man

His hands come up, warm and sure, and touch them almost worshipfully—palms cupping, thumbs brushing the undersides like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he’s careless. Then he lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, warm and unhurried, and the sound that leaves me is half sob. He switches to the other breast, sucking gently, and I arch into him, hands fisting in his hair, holding on while the residual fire-heat of his skin presses against the cold of the room at my back.

When he finally steps back enough to undo his own jeans, shoving them and his underwear down together, I can’t look away. He’s hard, thick, and flushed. My mouth goes dry.

“Can I…touch?”

“God, yes.”

I reach. My fingers close around him and he groans, low and rough, the sound vibrating through the quiet of the barrel room. I slide my hand down his length, then up again, learning the weight and heat of him—the way he jerks under my palm when I twist slightly at the head. He lets me do it over and over, head tipped back, breathing hard, until suddenly his hand covers mine and stills it.

“Maggie—stop. I’m too close. You feel too good.”

He steps in closer, the head of him nudging against my entrance. The oak is fully warm under me now. He looks at me, waiting.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He pushes in the first inch and the stretch burns—pain so sharp, I flinch. He freezes.

“Hold onto me,” he says, voice strained. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good.”

I lock my arms around his neck. He brings his thumb between us, finding my clit again, massaging in slow, deliberate circles while he works himself deeper by degrees.

The burn eases into something fuller, heavier—an ache that borders on pleasure, stretching me open around the thick heat of him. Every time I tighten, a wet sound answers, soft and slick between us, and he makes a low, ragged groan.

His jaw is clenched so tight, a muscle jumps along the side. His stare locks on mine, dark and intent, and I can see exactly how hard he’s holding back—the tremor in his thighs, the way his breath punches out between his teeth, the rigid set of his shoulders. He’s devastating like this—flushed, sweating faintly at the temples, eyes never leaving mine while he forces himself to move slowly.

“Christ, Maggie—your pussy feels so fucking good around my cock. So tight. You’re so damn wet.” His voice is rough, fraying at the edges. “Feel how you take me. Listen to that.”

Another careful push, and the wet sound grows louder—a soft filthy slide that makes my face burn. I can’t help the small, high noise that leaves me. He answers it with a deeper groan, still watching me like he’ll stop the second I ask.

He keeps talking, low and filthy and steady, telling me how perfect I feel, how he’s been wanting this—wanting me—while his thumb works and his hips ease forward in small increments. The cold air kisses my spine, but his heat keeps me warm. Smoke and oak and spirit fill every breath.

When he’s finally seated all the way, the stretch is almost too much, and I can only cling to him and breathe. I’m overwhelmed by the solid weight of the cask under me, the fullness of him inside me, and the impossible fact that I chose every single step of this.

He waits, buried deep, jaw still tight, gaze still fixed on mine. I feel the hard pulse of him, his whole body taut with the effort of staying still.

I move first—just a small rock of my hips. He follows at once, matching me.

We find a rhythm that’s mine to set. Slow at first, the wet glide of him filling the quiet with soft, rhythmic sounds—skin and slick and the faint creak of the barrel under us. Then deeper. Then the kind of pace that makes the oak complain and pulls real noise from both of us—my broken gasps, his low, strained curses, the wet slap of his body meeting mine.

His hands stay rough and careful on my hips, my waist, my breasts. He never stops checking. Never stops saying my name like it matters.

“That’s it, Maggie. Take what you need. Fuck—look at you.”

The second orgasm starts low—a slow gathering heat behind my clit where his thumb never stops moving. It builds in waves, each one stronger, coiling tighter in my belly until my thighs start to shake against his hips. The pleasure sharpens, bright and a little frightening, climbing higher with every thrust.

I hear myself make a helpless, open-mouthed sound. His eyes hold mine, jaw clenched so hard I can see the strain, the desperate control written all over his face as he holds himself back for me.

It breaks.

The climax rolls through me in hard, pulsing waves—tight, rhythmic clenches around him that make him curse low and broken against my mouth. Pleasure floods every nerve, white-hot and endless, my body gripping him in helpless spasms while I cry out, clinging to his neck, shaking apart on the warm oak.

He keeps moving through it, thumb still working, voice in my ear telling me how beautiful I am like this—choosing him, taking him—until the last aftershock leaves me limp and trembling.

A few deep thrusts later, he follows, burying the sound of it against my neck—a raw, wrecked groan that vibrates through both of us—holding me so tightly the cold can’t reach either of us for a long moment.

And in the quiet afterward, still joined, still trembling, the recognition lands fully.