Page 23 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Skye

B uck stands up and comes around the table. When he reaches me, he doesn't hesitate. He lifts me to my feet and his hand cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my knees weak.

"I've been wanting to do this since you walked into my kitchen this morning," he murmurs.

Then his mouth is on mine, and the kiss is tender at first. But when I press myself against him, sliding my hands up his broad chest, something breaks loose in both of us.

The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate.

His tongue slides against mine, and I moan into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He walks me backward until I feel the wall behind me, his body hot against mine. His hands roam my sides, up to cup my breasts through my sweater, down to grip my hips. When we break apart to breathe, his eyes are dark with desire.

"Sure you want this?" he asks, voice rough.

I nod quickly, unable to form words. For a split second, Griff's face flashes in my mind—his dimpled smile, the way he looked at me by the waterfall.

But I push the thought away. I can't have that conversation with Buck right now.

I can't think about what this means or doesn't mean. I just need him.

"Yes," I finally manage. "I'm sure."

He kisses me again—deeper this time—and starts backing toward the hallway, pulling me with him, our mouths tangled. We bump into a wall, laugh against each other’s lips, and keep going, neither of us wanting to let go.

By the time we reach his bedroom, I’m so wrapped up in the feel of his body against mine. He presses me against the wall, not roughly, but with a force that says mine . His body surrounds me—solid and warm.

“You’re incredible,” he says low against my ear, fingers brushing the hem of my sweater. “Can I see more?”

I raise my arms immediately, and he strips the sweater from my body in one smooth motion. His eyes sweep over my white lace bra and he makes a low groan. He leans in, kissing along my collarbone, taking his time.

His hands move to the button of my jeans, easily unhooking it.

I reach for his shirt, tugging it up his chest, and he lets me peel it off.

My fingers splay across his torso—broad, inked, warm under a trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband.

He shudders slightly when I touch him, a quiet inhale that sends heat rushing through me.

“I need you,” he says, voice gravelly.

Before I can answer, he scoops me up with startling ease, carrying me like I weigh nothing. The bed is massive, the navy comforter rumpled and soft. He sets me down like I’m fragile, though the look in his eyes says he wants to ruin me.

He steps back, undoes his jeans, and pushes them down along with his boxers. My mouth drops at the sight of him—thick, hard, already weeping precum. I shimmy out of my jeans, nerves flaring and fading all at once under the heat of his gaze.

He climbs onto the bed, straddling my thighs, and unclasps my bra with one quick flick. It falls away, and he pauses for a second—just looking. Like he needs to take it all in before touching me.

“I want all of you,” he murmurs. “Slow, fast. Soft, rough. Every way you’ll let me.”

A nod is all I can manage. “I’ll let you have me any way you want me.”

He leans in and starts with my neck, kissing and nipping lightly. His hands slowly explore my body—palms over my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, fingers teasing my nipples until they ache. When his mouth replaces his hands, I almost lose it.

I reach for him, threading my fingers into his hair, holding him there as he sucks harder, tongue flicking, one hand sliding down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath my panties.

He looks up at me as he slides two fingers through me, circling gently, deliberately. “Tell me, Skye. What do you want right now?”

“Your hands. Your mouth. All of you.”

He grins before his mouth claims my breast again while his fingers find their rhythm between my legs—pressing, stroking, sliding inside me with a slowness that feels more like torture. The stretch of two fingers makes my hips jerk. His thumb teases my clit in slow circles.

“You’re already so close,” he mutters against my skin.

And he’s right. It’s unbearable—in the best possible way. My body winds tight, the pressure building fast.

“Come for me,” he says. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

I break with a cry, thighs shaking, back arching off the bed. His fingers slow only after the tremors fade. He moves down my body, kissing the inside of my knee, the curve of my hip, then slides my panties down and off.

I watch, still breathless, as he rolls on a condom. Then he’s over me, between my legs, his cock heavy against my inner thigh.

“Still good?” he asks, looking down at me.

“God, yes,” I whisper, eyes locked with his. “I need you inside me.”

He pushes in slowly, deliberately. The stretch feels so fucking good, and I moan as he fills me completely. He stays there, buried deep, while both of us tremble from the intensity.

“You feel…” he breathes, jaw clenched. “I can hardly stand how good you feel.”

He starts to move, slow and deep, each thrust dragging across every sensitive spot inside me. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, grounding myself in the overwhelming feeling of him—his weight, his breath, the raw focus in his eyes.

Then he shifts his angle, and somehow it feels even better.

“There,” I gasp. “Oh my god—there.”

He keeps hitting that spot, perfectly. Relentlessly. I claw at his back, chasing the edge. Then his fingers find my clit again—just the right pressure—and the second orgasm crashes through me, even stronger than the first.

“God, yes,” I cry out as I shatter around him.

He groans, hips slamming into mine with final, desperate thrusts, before he falls over the edge with me.

He lowers himself gently, head buried in my neck, arms braced around me like I’m breakable. We lie there, his heartbeat pounding against my chest.

His hand slides up my side, slow and lazy. “You’re not what I expected, Skye McMillan,” he says into my skin. “You’re even better.”

I smile, burying my face in his shoulder.

I slide a beer across the bar to a customer, avoiding Griff's eyes as he works beside me. My body still hums from Buck's touch earlier today, and being near Griff now feels like some kind of betrayal.

It's stupid—we never established exclusivity, never had "the talk"—but the guilt gnaws at me anyway. I’ve just never been in this situation before. Until recently, I’ve always thought of myself as a one-guy-at-a-time kind of girl.

Every time Griff's arm brushes mine as we pass each other behind the bar, I tense up, wondering if he somehow knows, if he can smell Buck on me despite the shower I took before coming to work.

"You okay?" Griff asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. "You seem jumpy."

"Fine," I say too quickly. "Just tired." And that’s the truth. Buck and I had taken a break before starting right back at it again and I’d lost count of how many orgasms I had. Apparently, multiple orgasms make me very tired.

Griff gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. Instead, he reaches around me for a bottle of whiskey, his chest pressing briefly against my back. The contact sends a jolt through me.

"Order up!" Vanna calls from the kitchen window, sliding two plates onto the counter. I grab them, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between myself and Griff.

The evening rush keeps us moving, a blessing that prevents any real conversation.

I deliver food, take orders, wipe down tables—all on autopilot while my mind spins with conflicting thoughts.

What am I doing? I've been in town less than two weeks and already I'm tangled up with two men.

No, if I'm being honest with myself, it's three.

Because every time Ford looks at me with those intense eyes, every time we talk about books or poetry, I feel the same pull.

I glance over at Griff as he mixes a cocktail, his strong hands working with practiced precision.

The same hands that held me at the waterfall.

Then I think of Buck's gentle touch this afternoon, how he took his time with me, how perfect it felt. And how Ford’s mind connects with mine on a level that's equally intoxicating.

I want them all, in different ways. The realization should shock me, but instead it settles in my body like a truth I've known but been afraid to acknowledge.

"Two more beers for table six," Griff says, sliding past me to grab clean glasses.

As I fill the order, I catch him watching me, his expression unreadable. Does he know? Did Buck say something? The thought makes my stomach twist, but I push it down and focus on the task at hand.

The next few hours pass in a blur of customers and orders. Vanna shoots me knowing looks whenever I enter the kitchen, as if she can read the turmoil on my face. Maybe she can—Vanna has an uncanny ability to see through people's bullshit.

"You gonna tell him?" she asks quietly when I come to pick up an order.

"Tell who what?" I play dumb, though my racing heart says I know exactly what she means.

She rolls her eyes. "Buck came in whistling earlier, looking like he won the lottery. And now you're avoiding Griff's eyes like he might see through to your soul if you look at him too long." She flips a burger with expert precision. "You're not doing anything wrong, you know."

"It feels wrong," I admit, keeping my voice low.

"Only because you haven't talked about it." She nods toward the bar. "Communication, honey. It’ll set you free."

I return to the front with her words echoing in my head. She's right, of course. But how do I even start that conversation? 'Hey, Griff, I slept with Buck today but I still want you too, and also maybe Ford’? There's no easy way to say that.

As the night wears on, the crowd thins. By eleven, only a few stragglers remain, finishing their drinks. Vanna has cleaned up the kitchen and left with Loverboy. It's just Griff and me now, the tension between us almost tangible.

"Last call!" Griff announces, his voice carrying across the now-quiet bar.

The remaining customers finish their drinks, pay their tabs, and filter out into the night. When the last one leaves, Griff locks the door behind them.

I busy myself wiping down tables, my heart pounding.

"Skye," he says, and I stop what I'm doing and look at him. "Come sit for a minute."

I set down the cloth and move to the bar, perching on a stool while he pours some whiskey into glasses for each of us. He slides one to me, then leans against the back counter, studying me.

"Something's on your mind," he says. It's not a question.

I take a sip of whiskey, grateful for a moment to think. "Yes."

"Is it about Buck?" he asks, his directness catching me off guard.

My eyes widen. "How did you?—"

"Small town," he says with a small shrug. "And I know Buck. I know how he looks at you." He takes a drink. "Same way I look at you, I imagine."

Heat rises to my cheeks. "Griff, I?—"

"Before you say anything," he interrupts gently, "I want to ask you something." He sets his glass down and looks directly into my eyes. "How do you feel about us? All of us—me, Buck, Ford."

The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie, could try to minimize what I'm feeling, but something in Griff's steady gaze tells me the truth is what he wants. What he deserves.

"I want all of you," I admit, the words coming out in a rush. "In different ways, for different reasons. And I know that's crazy, and complicated, and I have no right to?—"

"You do," he says simply.

I stop, confused. "I do what?"

"Have the right." He moves around the bar to sit on the stool next to mine, turning to face me. "Buck, Ford, and I—we've talked about this. About you."

My mouth goes dry. "You have?"

He nods, taking one of my hands in his. His palm is warm and rough against mine. "We care about you, Skye. All of us. And we agreed that whatever happens between you and any of us is your choice. No jealousy, no pressure."

I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. "So you're okay with... with me and Buck?"

"If that's what you want, yes." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Same goes for Ford, or me, or any combination. Or none of us, if that's what you decide."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely confused by their acceptance of such an unconventional arrangement.

Griff's expression softens. "Because you need to do whatever makes you happy. We're all here for you if you want us..." He pauses, a hint of vulnerability crossing his face.

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. This man—these men—are offering me something I never expected. Freedom to explore my feelings, to follow my heart wherever it leads, without fear of hurting anyone.

"I don't know what to say," I whisper.

"You don't have to say anything," he assures me. "Just know that whatever you decide is okay with all of us."

I look at him and gratitude and desire tangle in my chest. I lean forward and kiss him, pouring everything I can't articulate into the contact.

He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup my face. The kiss is gentle, a reassurance and a promise wrapped in one.

When we part, he smiles—that smile with the dimple that makes my heart flip. "Get some rest," he says.

I nod, sliding off the stool. "Goodnight, Griff."

"Night, Skye."

I climb the stairs to my room, my mind whirling with possibilities.

This whole thing is crazy and unexpected—like everything else that's happened since my car broke down in this little town.

But as I open the door to my room, I realize I'm smiling.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.