Page 3 of Claim Me, Colt (The Mountain Code #2)

Colt

She's sitting at my kitchen table in my shirt, and I'm losing my damn mind.

The flannel swallows her whole, hangs off one shoulder to reveal the elegant line of her collarbone. Her legs are bare beneath it, skin still flushed from the hot shower, and every time she shifts in the chair, I catch a glimpse of smooth thigh that makes my jaw clench.

I’ve been here five years, and in that time, there’s never been a woman in my cabin.

After my last deployment—after watching my entire unit get torn apart by an IED outside Kandahar—I came home to nothing. No family left, no girl waiting, no idea what to do with the rage and grief that followed me back from the desert like loyal dogs.

So, I built this place. Taught myself carpentry and plumbing and electrical work. Learned to hunt and fish and grow enough food to survive without depending on anyone. Created a life where the only person who could let me down was myself.

For five years, it worked.

Then she walked out of the woods looking like a fallen angel, and every wall I built started cracking.

"Tell me about your fiancé," I hear myself say.

She looks up from her coffee, eyes widening slightly. "You want to know about Jonathan?"

"I want to know what kind of fool pushes a woman like you away."

She's quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the rim of her mug.

"Jonathan Blackwood," she says finally. "Junior Senator from Virginia.

Harvard Law, old family money, perfect political pedigree.

" Her voice takes on a practiced cadence, like she's recited this biography a thousand times.

"Handsome, charming, ambitious. Everything a senator's daughter should want. "

A senator’s daughter. That explains the car. "But?"

"But he's also a narcissistic sociopath who thinks women exist to make him look good." The practiced tone drops, replaced by something sharp and bitter. "And when I caught him kissing another woman at our engagement party, he acted like it wasn’t a big deal.”

My hands curl into fists. I want to knock the bastard’s teeth out.

"Said it didn't matter because our marriage wasn't about love anyway," she continues. "It was about combining political dynasties. Creating the perfect power couple for his presidential run in twelve years."

"And your father knew this?"

She nods, not meeting my eyes. "Dad orchestrated the whole thing. Jonathan brings youth and charisma; I bring the Morrison legacy and the women's vote. A match made in political heaven."

Senator Morrisson. I met him once, after I was awarded the Bronze Star. I didn’t care for him. He was smug and condescending as he shook my hand and thanked me for my service. But now that I know he’s treated Simone like a political pawn, I loathe him.

"That's why you ran.”

"That's why I ran." She looks up at me then, green eyes blazing. "Because I realized I was about to spend the rest of my life as a prop in someone else's story. Smiling for cameras and giving speeches written by committee and pretending to love a man who only sees me as a stepping stone."

She stands abruptly, pacing to the window to stare out at the storm.

"You know what the worst part is? I almost went through with it. Almost walked down that aisle and said sacred vows to an unworthy man, just because it was expected."

Lightning illuminates her profile, and I see the moment her composure finally cracks.

"I'm twenty-eight years old, and I've never made a single decision for myself. Never chosen my own clothes or friends or career. Never dated anyone who wasn't pre-screened by my father’s campaign manager."

The pain in her voice does something to me I haven't felt since Afghanistan—that protective instinct that used to get me in trouble for taking risks to keep my unit safe.

I cross the room in three steps, stopping just behind her.

"You can figure out what you like now," I say quietly.

She turns, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I can?"

"Of course.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, and she leans into the touch.

"I like you," she whispers.

The words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus.

I should step back. Should be the responsible adult who drives her back to town and helps her figure out her next move.

Instead, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.

She melts into me immediately, all soft warmth and desperate need. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer as she kisses me back with a hunger that tells me she's been starving for affection longer than she probably even realizes.

I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the couch. She breaks the kiss to pull my henley over my head, her eyes going wide as she takes in the scars that map my chest and shoulders.

"Military?" she asks, fingers tracing a particularly ugly one near my collarbone.

"Army Rangers. Three deployments."

She nods, no pity in her expression. Just understanding.

"Is that why you live up here alone?"

"Partly.” I sit down on the couch with her straddling my lap. “I came back from my last tour and everything felt... loud. Just… too much. I couldn't handle cities or crowds or people who complained about shit that didn't matter."

Her hands are gentle on my shoulders as she gazes into my face. "So you built your own world."

"Built a world where I could control the variables," I correct. "Where the only person who could screw things up was me."

"And now?"

I look at her—hair mussed from my fingers, lips swollen from my kisses, wearing my shirt like it belongs on her.

"Now I'm thinking maybe some variables are worth the risk."

She smiles then, the first real smile I've seen from her, and it transforms her entire face.

"I've never been anyone's worthwhile risk before," she says.

"Then they were all idiots."

I kiss her again, deeper this time, pouring five years of loneliness and want into the connection between us. She responds with equal fervor, her body arching against mine as my hands explore the soft skin beneath my borrowed shirt.

I gently pinch her nipples, and she gasps. I take the opportunity to explore her mouth with my tongue, kissing her until we’re both desperate for air. When I finally break away, we're both breathing hard.

"I don't want to be a rebound," I tell her honestly. "Or a rebellion against your parents."

She studies my face with those intelligent green eyes.

"You're not," she says firmly. "You're the first choice I've made entirely for myself."

And God help me, I believe her.