Page 5

Ellie

I came to Montana to honor my grandfather. Find a little perspective. Take a photo with a fish I’d catch with my new fishing skills. Okay, and maybe the opportunity to meet a man who’d I’d want to get close to.

And I found one. A six-foot-two, brooding-as-hell mountain man who kissed like I was his favorite shot of whiskey. I’d found Nate.

And I wanted him. I wanted him to be the first man I slept with. The first man I’d fall in love with.

And the last.

That was the problem. I knew it was unlikely either of those would happen now.

I flopped back on the motel bed, still damp from a shower I’d taken twenty minutes ago—and already debating if I needed another one, because Nate’s touch was still clinging to my skin like steam.

I’d packed a book. I’d queued up a podcast. I’d even pulled out a face mask and tried to convince myself I was on a relaxing solo trip and not one that had been emotionally hijacked by the hottest man I’d ever met.

He’d touched me today. Really touched me. And I knew—deep down—that if I’d asked for more, he would’ve given it.

But then he’d stopped. Pulled away like I’d burned him. Walked off like he regretted every second.

Except he didn’t look like he regretted it.

He looked wrecked.

So was I.

I was twenty-nine years old—practically thirty—and I’d never felt this kind of wanting before.

The kind that made your skin feel too tight and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

The kind that made you pace hotel rooms and change clothes and wonder if you were brave enough to go after what you wanted.

The kind that made you wish your lingerie was cuter and your legs were smoother and your courage didn’t hiccup every time you thought about taking what you wanted.

A knock at the door made me sit up fast.

I knew it was him before I opened it. Maybe it was the way he knocked—firm but hesitant, like he was fighting with himself even as he stood there. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.

I pulled the door open and saw Nate standing in the hallway, his hair still damp like he’d just come from a shower. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt that made his eyes look even darker.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly aware that I was wearing a pair of baby doll pajamas that did nothing to hide my curves. Thin satin. No bra. Barely there fabric.

“I shouldn’t be here.” It was a statement. A broody, growly statement that made my body clench in response.

“But you are.”

He didn’t answer, Not with words.

He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him. His hands were in my hair before I could breathe, his mouth crashing onto mine like he’d run out of excuses. I gasped, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and kissed him back just as hungrily.

God, I’d wanted this.

Wanted him.

His hands slid down my body—rough, confident, searching. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let myself get lost in it, in him, in the way he kissed like he’d spent the past twenty-four hours starving for me.

“This is a bad idea,” he growled, backing me toward the bed.

“Probably.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Then stop.”

“No.”

Cue full-body internal meltdown.

And then he was kissing me, and every thought in my head scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. This kiss was different from the others—slower, deeper, full of intention. Like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second of it to drive me crazy.

His hands tangled in my hair, and I pressed closer, needing more contact, more of him.

“I need to touch you,” he murmured against my mouth. “All of you.”

The words sent heat spiraling through me, but they also brought a flutter of nerves. “Nate, I... I’m not exactly... I mean, I don’t look like—”

He pulled back to look at me, his eyes serious. “Like what?”

“Like the women you’re probably used to.” The words came out in a rush, all my insecurities spilling out at once. “I’m not thin or perfect or—”

“Stop.” His voice was firm but gentle. “You think I care about any of that?”

“Don’t you?”

Instead of answering with words, he showed me. His hands skimmed down my sides, over the curves I’d always tried to hide, and his touch was reverent, worshipful. Like my curves were hot, instead of something to be ashamed of.

“I love your curves,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I love the way you feel.” His hands fell to my hips, dragging me against his body and leaving me in no doubt that he did find me absolutely attractive.

Something inside me started to dissolve. That knot of fear I’d been carrying around for years. When he looked at me like that, touched me like that, I finally believed I was the beautiful, desirable woman he seemed to see.

“Can I?” he asked, his fingers playing with the thin straps of my babydoll top.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and he slowly slipped the straps off my shoulders. The silk slid over my arms and down my body like a whisper, pooling at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my matching shorts.

His hands came up to cup the heavy weight of my breasts while his thumbs brushed over my nipples. The sensation shot straight through me, making me gasp and arch into his touch.

“So responsive,” he murmured, his voice thick with want. “So perfect.”

I’d never felt perfect before. Never felt like my body was something to be worshipped instead of hidden.

But the way his hands moved over me, the way his breath caught when I pressed closer, made me feel like the most beautiful woman alive.

Like maybe I’d been waiting for the wrong men my whole life—until now.

“Ellie,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on my skin, lips and tongue and teeth tracing patterns across my collarbone, down to my breasts.

When he took my nipple into his mouth, I cried out, my hands flying to his hair to hold him closer. The sensation was electric, shooting straight to my core and making my knees weak.

He lavished attention on one breast and then the other, his hands never still, mapping every curve and hollow like he was memorizing me. I was drowning in sensation, in the feel of his mouth on my skin, his hands on my body.

“Your turn,” I said, surprised by my own boldness.

He smiled—just the second real smile I’d seen from him—and pulled his shirt over his head. And holy heaven, he was beautiful. All broad shoulders and defined muscles and scattered scars that told stories I wanted to learn by heart.

I reached out to touch him, my fingers tracing the line of a scar that ran along his ribs. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” His voice was strained, and I could see the effect my touch was having on him. “Ellie...”

“I know.” I could feel it too. The way every brush of skin against skin sent sparks shooting through me. We weren’t just playing around. This was it. The moment I’d fantasized about—only real, and raw, and so much better.

He backed me toward the bed again, his hands never leaving my body, his mouth finding mine again and again. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I let myself fall, pulling him down with me.

The weight of him on top of me was perfect, all heat and solid muscle and the scent of his skin. I could feel how much he wanted me, could feel the tension in his body as he still held himself in check.

“I want you,” I whispered against his ear. “All of you.”

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through his chest into mine. “Are you sure? Because once we do this—”

“Once we do this, what?” I looked up at him, at the conflict written across his face. “You’ll care about me? News flash, Nate—I already care about you too.”

“This changes everything.”

“Good,” I said, echoing what I’d told him that morning. “I want everything to change.”