Page 6 of Falling for the Mountain Man

Zaria

Oh my God. This is really happening.

Ryder is right here, his breathing a ragged, panting sound that’s the only thing I can hear.

The scent of him—the hazelnut from his coffee, and a woodsy smell—fills the space between us. This isn’t a dream. It’s too vivid, too overwhelming. The weight of his gaze on me is a physical thing.

Please don’t let me be dreaming. This has to be real.

I need to know he’s real.

My hand lifts, and my fingertips whisper across the hard expanse of his chest. He’s searing to the touch, a stark contrast to the cool sheets beneath me. I press my palm fully against him, needing to anchor myself.

Instantly, I feel the traitorous thumps against my fingertips.

His heart is a runaway train beneath my hand, a chaotic, pounding beat that doesn’t just match mine—it challenges it.

My breath catches in the back of my throat.

He’s just as lost in this as I am.

“Oh boy, where do I start?” The laugh that escapes me is thin, breathy, more of a nervous exhale than anything else.

I squirm beneath the solid weight of him, the soft cotton of his pajama pants a delicious friction against my thighs.

There’s one place I definitely want him to explore, a throbbing, insistent ache between my legs, but I want to savor this. I want to stretch this exquisite torture out forever.

Reaching down, I hook a finger into the soft, cotton hem of my shirt. I pull it up one agonizing inch at a time, the fabric whispering over my skin.

The cool air hits my stomach first, raising goosebumps in its wake.

I reveal a soft belly I’ve never been confident about, but the weight of his stare is a tangible heat, a brand that sears away my insecurities.

He had no issue picking me up, his hands sure and strong on my hips—the memory alone makes my core clench.

“How about here?” My voice is barely a whisper as I push the shirt all the way up, stopping just shy of my chin. The sound he makes is guttural, a thick, choked groan from deep in his chest that vibrates through me.

Oh. Right. Should I have warned him I wasn’t wearing a bra?

The air leaves his lungs in a sharp hiss. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the deep brown irises whole as they fixate on my breasts. He stares as if he’s discovered something sacred, the eighth wonder of the world made just for him.

The sharp line of his jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he pulls back to drag a calloused hand down his face. “Fuck.”

I can’t hold back a light, breathless laugh.

He looks so devastatingly serious. I could tell him they’re nothing special—just soft flesh I’ve idly squeezed in the shower, nipples I’ve pinched out of curiosity, wondering what all the fuss was about.

But the raw hunger on his face tells a different story.

He shifts, sitting back on his heels, and the loss of his heat is a small agony. His gaze never wavers from my peaked, rosy nipples, hardening further under his intense scrutiny.

One of his hands drops back to himself, and he palms the thick outline of his cock through his pants, a bold, unashamed gesture that makes my mouth water now that I’m focusing on the effect I have on him. “Cup them for me, sweetheart.”

My smile vanishes. The command in his voice, low and rough with need, doesn’t just send a shiver through me—it makes my walls clench in want for something inside.

Every nerve ending sparks to life, a wave of heat crashing from my chest to my thighs, leaving my limbs heavy and trembling. Slowly, my hands obey his husky order, rising to frame the soft weight of my breasts, my thumbs brushing tentatively over the taut peaks.

My skin tingles in a way I’ve never experienced. Might have something to do with having an audience this time around. Without him saying the words, I roll my nipples between my fingers and moan.

“Look at you.” He hums in the back of his throat, and he groans softly when he tightens his grip on himself. “You’re going to make me come before I can give you what you want.”

My heart flutters in my chest, skipping a beat. “Can I see?”

He lets out a sharp, guttural curse, and before I can second-guess my boldness, he’s shoving his pants down. The air catches in my lungs, escaping in a soft, shocked gasp.

There he is. Thick and formidable, his cock stands proud, flushed a deep, ruddy red and swollen with a need that mirrors my own.

A prominent vein pulses insistently along the underside, a visible testament to the blood pounding through him.

The broad, smooth tip is already glistening, a single bead of moisture welling at the slit.

Unconsciously, my tongue darts out to wet my lips, my mind dizzy with the imagined taste of him—salt, skin, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly male.

I have been curious about this man—his mind, his hands, his secrets—for what feels like an eternity. Now, the final, most intimate mystery is laid bare before me.

A low groan rumbles in his chest as his fist pumps slowly, twice, along his rigid length. The sight makes my breath catch. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and his mouth twitches with the effort of his control.

“You should see the way you look right now,” he rasps, his voice graveled with need. “Do you like what you see, Zaria? Do you enjoy knowing what you do to me?”

I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that this is all really happening. That my mere presence, the sight of me watching him, makes his body tense and his cock weep with that undeniable evidence of his desire.

“Maybe a little.” The admission is a whisper as I drag my hands down my stomach, feeling the tremble in my own limbs. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pants. “It makes me feel… powerful.”

It makes me feel more confident. Like there’s nothing I can do that this man would consider wrong. It’s a heady, intoxicating drug that I can’t get enough of.

It’s why, with his heated gaze as my guide, I’m able to shove the rest of my clothes down my hips and peel them off.

I want him to see that I’m in the same desperate shape he’s in. The cool air hits my feverish skin, but it does nothing to quench the heat pooling low in my belly.

My pussy is slick and swollen to the touch, a throbbing ache already begging for attention, but my own fingers only ghost over the sensitive nub. I can’t explore much. Not while I’m already teetering on the edge just from his eyes on me.

While he drinks in the sight of my flush spreading across my chest, his hand begins to move in a more deliberate rhythm. A smooth, practiced glide from root to tip, spreading the bead of precum that gleams at his slit.

Ryder West is pleasuring himself to me. I watch, mesmerized by the primal display, by the way his knuckles tighten and his hips give a slight, involuntary thrust into his own circle of fingers.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?

” His thumb swipes through the moisture leaking from him, the act so intimate it steals the air from my lungs.

A raw, guttural moan breaks past his lips—a sound I’ve never heard from him—and it arcs straight through me, coiling my own tension tighter.

“I could look at you like this for hours,” he pants, his rhythm never faltering, “and never get tired. Never get enough.”

I love every word that leaves his lips. While he’s satisfied with looking, I’m happy to hear him speak such words.

“Then keep watching me.” My voice is a husky command, barely a whisper yet it seems to echo in the space between us. I cup the weight of my own breast, arching into my palm, while the fingers of my other hand find a slow, deliberate rhythm against my clit.

My lungs seize, my own breath catching as I watch his gaze—fever-bright and starving—locked on my every movement. “Don’t you dare look away.”

He doesn’t. A raw, guttural groan is torn from his throat, a string of curses following as we become a spectacle of mutual hunger, each displaying ourselves for the other’s rapturous consumption.

With every circle, every drawn shape, pleasure arcs up my spine in heavy waves. My toes curl into the sheets, a faint tremor starting deep within as my stomach coils into a tight, exquisite knot of anticipation.

His brows furrow in a look of intense, almost pained concentration, and his own hand moves in a frantic, blurring pace. Suddenly, his body tenses, a strangled gasp escaping him. “Fuck, I’m going to—”

The sentence shatters, lost to a low, visceral moan that seems to vibrate through the very air.

The world narrows to the sudden heat that splashes against my stomach and breasts, a stark contrast to our cooler surroundings.

The sound that follows is just as intoxicating.

The ragged symphony of his heavy breathing, punctuated by soft, helpless pants.

His hand, still moving, squeezes the last pulses of his release against my thigh, a final, claiming shudder.

Then, he collapses into the aftermath. One hand buries itself into his hair, the other rests on my leg. A slow, utterly sated smile curves his beautiful mouth, and I swear, in that vulnerable, unguarded instant, I fall for him all over again.

He looks devastating when he’s pleased. But right now, drenched in the evidence of his pleasure and mine, he looks absolutely delighted. It’s a look that is raw, stripped bare of all pretense, and it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

“Talk about feeling humbled.” He sighs and forces himself to blink. Burying his fingers into my thigh, he spreads me more open so he can drink in the view. “Don’t worry. I’ll still take care of you. I’ll be damned otherwise.”

When he drags his hand toward my pussy, I can already see what he has planned before he does it.

He’ll get me off with his fingers—efficient, expert, an easy task to finish the job. Then, he’ll clean me up, and that’ll be that. The intimacy will be neatly packaged and put away. In a blur, this precious, vulnerable connection will be over.

“Wait.” The word is a sharp breath, a fracture in the moment, and he freezes instantly.

The weight of his stare is heavier than gravity, pinning me to the sheets. Hoping to reassure him, I let a small smile curve my lips.

My hand moves before my courage fails. Gathering his release from my stomach, the scent of us, musky and intimate, fills the space between us. I keep my eyes locked on his as I drag my slick fingers toward my swollen folds.

He watches, mesmerized, as I mark myself with him. Still warm against my skin, I shiver as I reach my destination.

Mixing my arousal with his, a broken moan escapes me at the graze against my clit. I was teetering on the edge before he hit his limit.

Even if I had come, it would have been a hollow victory. I’d still ache. I want more than his skilled hands. More than this delicious aftermath. I want the crushing weight of him, the stretch, the connection of him buried inside me.

If he thinks I can go months without knowing that, he’s a fool.

“I don’t want to wait to find out what your cock feels like, Ryder. I don’t think we’ll get another chance. Don’t make me beg.” My voice is low, laced with all these sensations I’ve never experienced with another person.

I will beg, I’ll get on my knees and plead, but the fire in his eyes tells me I won’t have to.

A low groan rumbles in his chest as his cock twitches against my leg, already filling, hardening anew at my words—or perhaps at the sight of me, glossy with his release, laid bare and claiming myself for him.

I can see the moment the war in his head comes crashing down—the last vestige of his resistance shattering into a thousand pieces. The deliberation in his eyes is replaced by something feral, something purely and completely mine.