Page 3

Brittany

He’d made oatmeal. Real oatmeal. Not the cinnamon swirl packets I kept in my desk drawer at work.

Nope, this was the kind your grandma made on a cold winter morning.

I was calling it the mountain man version.

No sugar. No fruit. Just oats, water, and a sprinkle of healthy eating.

Just what you’d expect from a mountain man.

I watched him stir it like he was crafting a spell, and maybe he was. On me.

His arms flexed under his t-shirt—I guess it was too hot for flannel, which was a huge disappointment. Didn’t mountain men and flannel just seem to go together in every fantasy?

I studied him as I would an actuary table. His jaw was clenched as if talking might actually kill him. Which made sense—I got the feeling conversation wasn’t this man’s love language.

Unfortunately for both of us, rambling while nervous was apparently mine.

“So...” I started, adjusting my seat on the one stool at his kitchen counter. “Do you live out here full-time? Like, is this seasonal, or do you just really hate neighbors?”

He spared me a glance. “Full-time.”

Two words. That was it. I figured I might need to change his name to Mr. Chatty.

“Interesting. So... why Lone Mountain? Was there a flyer? A recommendation? Did you see a ‘Brooding Men Wanted’ ad and think this was your moment?”

“I was born here.” He didn’t look up from the pot.

“Oh. That’s way less dramatic than I was hoping for.”

That earned me a full glance—and a look that said you’re exhausting, followed by the faintest twitch of his mouth that said but I don’t actually mind it.

“Coffee or milk?” He dished up the oatmeal, handing me a bowl and spoon. And a jar of brown sugar, which felt like a peace offering.

“Could I have both? I think I’ll need caffeine to survive whatever this day brings.

” He handed them to me, and I stirred the milk and sugar into my oatmeal, watching the steam curl up like I could read my future in it.

I felt like I’d entered a parallel dimension and didn’t know if I wanted to return to mine or not.

Today felt like a step out of time, something to savor and enjoy.

Heck, who was I trying to fool? Myself? Him? I wanted very badly to simply stay here in his cabin. Stay with him.

Why? Well, for the obvious reason—he was hot as hell and I would not mind giving him something to remember me by.

I’d never felt this instant attraction to a man.

He made me all tingly and aware at the same time.

And somehow I knew he wouldn’t disappoint me.

But then reality intruded—I would most certainly disappoint him.

I was too curvy, too outspoken, too ordinary.

Definitely not the type of women I’m sure he carried to his bed.

I took a bite of oatmeal, surprised it actually tasted good. Breakfast for me was usually a handful of nuts or whatever pastry was left in the office break room.

“So what’s your plan?” His voice cut through my thoughts. He was standing by the counter eating standing up since there was only one bar stool and no kitchen table. I had the distinct impression he did that most days, with or without an unexpected houseguest.

“My plan?”

“For today.”

Right. Reality. “I guess I should try to find the camp site. Let them know I’m not bear food.”

He grunted. Not exactly encouraging.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sat down his bowl and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “You want to go back?”

The question was simple, but something in his tone made my stomach flutter. “I—of course. I can’t just disappear.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have responsibilities. A life.”

“What kind of life?” His eyes were sharp, studying.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Normal stuff. Job, apartment, you know.”

“You happy with it?”

The question caught me off guard. “That’s not really the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

I stared at him, thrown by how direct he was. Most people didn’t ask questions like that. “I—it’s fine. It pays the bills.”

Something flickered in his expression—as if these were questions he’d asked himself. “Fine’s not the same as happy.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else.” The admission was torn from somewhere deep inside.

Something shifted in his expression. Softened.

“Yeah, you do.” He moved closer, close enough that I could smell the soap I’d used last night on his skin. “You were yourself last night. Real. No pretending.”

My breath caught. Because he was right about that too. I’d felt more like myself than I had in years. “What if that’s not enough?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

“Enough for what?”

“For anything. For anyone.” I looked down at my hands, wrapped around the warm mug. “My ex used to say I wasn’t exciting enough. That I was too... ordinary.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Your ex was a fucking idiot.” His voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous underneath it.

I looked up, startled by the vehemence in his tone.

“Any man who made you feel like you weren’t enough doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “What else did he say?”

“Elias—”

“What else?” The words came out like a growl.

I swallowed hard, something fluttering in my chest at the protective fury in his voice. “That I was too soft. Too comfortable. That I never took risks or did anything exciting.” I gave a bitter laugh. “Guess he was right about that last part.”

“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, and I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

“You’re here, aren’t you? You signed up for an outdoor retreat that put you outside your comfort zone.

You followed a stranger into the woods. You spent the night in a cabin with a man you’d never met. That’s not safe or comfortable.”

“That’s not brave. Some would say it was stupid.”

“No,” he shook his head. “You trusted your instincts. Trusted yourself. That’s being brave.” His hand came up, cupping my cheek, thumb stroking across my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were intense, like he could see straight through me.

“What do you want, Brittany?” His voice was rough.

“I want...” I swallowed hard. “I want to stop being afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of wanting things. Of not being enough. Of—” My voice caught. “Of feeling like I’m missing out on my own life.”

“You’re not missing anything,” he said. “You’re right here.”

And then he kissed me.

Not rough. Not fast. His lips brushed mine like he wasn’t entirely sure I’d let him do it again. Like I was something precious and maybe a little untouchable—and maybe I was.

But the moment his mouth met mine, slow and warm and utterly unhurried, that part of me that had always questioned, hesitated, held back—melted.

And in its place, something bold bloomed.

Something hungry.

His fingers curled around my neck, steady and warm, and he tilted my head with such careful precision that I nearly whimpered at the way he handled me—not like I might break, but like I was already his to shape.

And then he deepened the kiss, his mouth slanting over mine.

His tongue traced the seam of my lips until I opened for him, breath hitching as he tasted me, teased me, took his time.

There was nothing rushed about the way he kissed.

Elias kissed like a man who didn’t have to prove anything—like he’d spent his life saying little and learning exactly how to speak without words.

And oh how he was fluent.

Every slow press, every deliberate stroke of his tongue was layered with purpose.

I felt it in my belly. In my knees. Between my thighs.

Heat flushed through my system so fast it made me dizzy, and I had to reach for him—anchoring my hands in the cotton fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath it.

I shivered when his lips moved from my mouth to my jaw, grazing just beneath my ear.

His breath was warm against my skin when he spoke again.

“Tell me you don’t feel it.” His other hand came up, framing my face. “This thing between us. Tell me you don’t feel it, and I’ll take you back to your group right now.”

“No. That’s not what I want.”

“Tell me.” This time his voice held a note of command I was helpless not to respond to.

“I want you.”

“Good girl.” He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his hand still cupping my face. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

His words hit me harder than I expected.

Not because I thought he was going to push.

But because I realized he meant it. That this man, all strength and silence and raw heat, was willing to wait.

To listen. To let me figure it out without pressure.

I was not a woman who had one-night stands.

Even in a cabin with a hunky mountain man.

But I wasn’t that woman right now. I was the me I wanted to be.

And that meant it was time to take what I wanted.

And I wanted him.

So I tipped my chin up, held his gaze. “What if I don’t want you to hold back?”

That did it.

His hands found my hips, lifting me effortlessly and setting me on the kitchen counter. My legs parted around him on instinct, and he stepped between them, hands settling just above my knees—large, warm, possessive.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes.” And for the first time in my life, I was. Completely, utterly sure.

He kissed me again. And this time, it wasn’t a question.

It was a claim.

He kissed me like he’d already imagined it a thousand times. Not like a man discovering something new—but like one who’d dreamed of this moment, memorized it before he ever touched his lips to mine.

And I kissed him back. With everything inside me. I didn’t want careful. I didn’t want safe.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted without apology—to be touched like I was everything he’d ever wanted. And more.

I so wanted to be more.

His hands gripped my thighs, dragging me to the very edge of the counter, and then his mouth was everywhere.

He kissed down my neck, open-mouthed and rough, scraping his teeth along my pulse before dragging his tongue across the same spot.

His beard left a trail of want in its wake as he brushed across my skin.

I arched into him, shamelessly, gasping when his fingers slipped under the hem of my night shirt.

If I’d known my trip would have included this, I would have packed sexier stuff.

The delicious thought roared through me that it didn’t matter.

That it would soon be discarded. Why? Because his palms, big and calloused, were already pushing the shirt up over my breasts.

He cupped them, kneading the abundant flesh.

And for the very first time, I was glad of my curves because, hell, he seemed to like them a lot.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he muttered seconds before lowering his mouth and taking a nipple inside.

I grasped his hair with my fingers, moaning as he worked my body.

He flattened my nipple between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, sucking hard.

He plucked the other one, firm and intense, pulling and squeezing.

And then, he was touching me between my legs. I cried out, not knowing how to handle all these sensations at once.

“Fuck,” he breathed as he felt the soaked cotton. “You’re already so wet for me.”

Heat flooded my face. “I—”

“Don’t you dare be embarrassed,” he said, voice rough with want. “You think I don’t know what this means? How much you want this?”

I looked up at him, trembling—from nerves and need and the weight of the way he was looking at me. Like he was about to take me apart and put me back together exactly how I was meant to be.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said. “All flushed and wanting, practically shaking for me.”

Heat curled low in my belly, my hips tilting toward him without conscious thought.

He leaned down, brushing his mouth over mine, slow and deliberate. “Tell me what you want.”

Again that thread of command that went straight through me. “You,” I breathed. “I want you.”

He kissed me again, all tongue and teeth and hot possession.

“Then you’re going to get me,” he promised against my mouth. “All of me.”

And as he lifted me from the counter, carrying me to his bedroom, I realized I wasn’t afraid anymore.

I was ready.

Ready for whatever came next.

Ready for him.