Page 12 of Mated to the Mountain Bear (Bear Protector #1)

“Sorry. Oh god.” My eyes go wide as I process what I just grabbed. And how impressive it was. “Shit.”

This is a disaster. I pick up a cloth and start wiping at his stomach, fingers brushing across ridged abs that aren’t helping me think unsexy thoughts.

He catches my hand, stilling my frantic movements. “I’ll just put on a new one.”

I nod, frozen, as he releases me. My gaze drops to the stain, then lower, to the obvious bulge we’re both pretending doesn’t exist.

When he reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt off in one fluid movement, my brain short circuits entirely.

“Woah.” The word escapes before I can stop it.

Ben’s chest is broad, sculpted with functional muscle. Not gym-perfected but earned through actual work. A light dusting of dark hair trails down past his navel, disappearing beneath his jeans. Several scars mark his skin, silver lines that speak of a life lived rough.

It’s a good thing I’m not wearing panties because they’d be destroyed.

He tosses the shirt into a basket by the door, and I realise I’m staring. Immediately, I spin back to the dishes, start grabbing plates, and scrub like my life depends on it.

My face is burning hotter than the stove.

“Leave them,” he says, but I shake my head. I need these dishes. Need a distraction. A big one, to distract me from an even bigger problem.

“No. Go.” I wave him off without looking back, voice pitched too high. “Go.”

I hear him sigh, then his footsteps heading out the door. I’m at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, trying to calm my racing heart.

What am I doing? The man is letting me hide in his home, and I’m grabbing him, sucking on his fingers, and groping him at breakfast.

He must think I’m completely unhinged. I might actually be the first stalking victim to get evicted from her safe house for inappropriate behaviour.

And I wouldn’t be able to argue, because I deserve it.

I attack the dishes with renewed determination, then move on to wiping counters that are already clean. Anything to keep my hands busy. To keep my mind off the memory of his skin under my fingers, and the taste of honey and salt on my tongue.

A few minutes later, my hands are still shaking as I dry the last plate.

The morning started as an attempt to apologise, to make things normal between us. Instead, I’ve made everything infinitely worse. And now, he’s fled his own home to get away from me.

Maybe I should ask him to take me back to town, stalker or no stalker.

Surely, facing a dangerous ex-boyfriend would be less mortifying than whatever this is becoming.

But even as I think it, I know I won’t. Because despite everything, despite the embarrassment and the awkwardness and my complete inability to act normal around him, I feel safer here than I have in weeks.

I like Ben.

And that terrifies me almost as much as anything else that’s going on in my life, because what kind of horrible person spends her days falling for some guy she barely knows instead of focusing on finding her missing sister?

Time passes. I try to read, but the words on the page swim and blur together. The cabin feels too quiet without Ben’s presence, too empty. I find myself straining to hear any sound of him outside, wondering what he’s doing and if he’s okay.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I move to the window. He’s out by the treeline, pacing, and still shirtless despite the cool morning air.

I should look away… I don’t.

Instead, I watch the play of muscle under his skin, the way his jeans ride low on his hips, and the focused intensity of his expression. He’s beautiful in a raw, primal way that makes my stomach flutter.

As if sensing my gaze, he pauses and looks directly at the window. Our eyes meet across the distance, and when his nostrils flare, my breath catches.

Something shifts in his expression, and he turns, stalking toward the forest and disappearing into the trees without so much as a backward glance.

Anxiety crawls up my spine. Did I upset him that much?

The rational part of my brain says he’s probably just doing another of his obsessive searches for tracks.

But the rest of me, the part still reeling from this morning’s disasters, whispers that he’s trying to get as far away from me as possible.

I turn from the window and survey the kitchen again. Maybe if I put everything back where it was, he’ll forgive my presumption? But as I open cabinets, I realize I don’t remember the original organization.

Was his special mug on this hook or that one? Were the plates high or low?

The futility of it hits me, and I sink back onto the couch. I can’t undo this morning any more than I can undo grabbing him last night. All I can do is try to be less of a disaster for whatever time I have left here.

I pull the throw blanket over my legs and close my eyes, trying not to think about the honey on his thumb or the feel of him, thick and hard, against my palm.

An hour passes. Maybe two. The sun climbs higher, warming the cabin, but Ben doesn’t return.

I’ve reorganized the bookshelf twice, first by genre, then alphabetically by author. I’ve dusted surfaces that were already clean and swept the floor, anything to keep busy.

I’m reaching for a high hook, trying to return the cast iron pan I used earlier, when my sleeve catches the edge of the pot rack that’s hanging above the kitchen island. The whole thing tilts, and before I can steady it, cookware crashes down in a deafening cascade.

I drop to my knees, frantically trying to catch them, to stop the awful noise, but I shriek when a stockpot bounces off the island, narrowly missing my head. A skillet clangs against another, the sound ringing through the cabin like a bell tower.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I’m on all fours, gathering up the pots, when the front door swings open with enough force to rattle the windows.

Ben stands in the doorway now, chest heaving and eyes wild.

And he’s completely, utterly naked.

My position on the floor puts me at the perfect height to see absolutely everything. The broad expanse of his chest, still gleaming with perspiration. The trail of dark hair leading down past his navel. And below that...

Oh. My. God.

I was right. He’s substantial everywhere, it seems. Swollen and heavy, and responding to the adrenaline, or maybe, it’s the way I’m staring, with my mouth open and a saucepan clutched forgotten in my hand.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is rough, urgent. “I heard the crash.”

I should answer. I should look away. I should do literally anything except kneel here, eye level with his impressive anatomy, while my brain tries to process what its seeing.

“I...” The word comes out as a squeak. “The pots.”

He seems to realize his state then, looking down at himself with dawning horror. His hands move to cover himself, but there’s too much to hide, and the gesture only draws more attention to what he’s trying to conceal.

“I was swimming,” he says quickly. “In the creek. Getting rid of the grease when I heard the noise and...”

I nod but notice his hair is completely dry. No water droplets on his skin except for what might be sweat. And no wet footprints on the floor behind him.

“You were swimming?” I repeat dumbly, still on my knees, staring up at him from beneath my lashes.

Every muscle in his stomach stands out. It’s not a six-pack; it’s an eight-pack. Maybe even ten.

“Yes.” His jaw tightens as he looks down at me and shifts his weight from leg to leg, making his impressive thigh muscles clench. “Swimming.”

A beat of silence. Then another as I run my tongue along my bottom lip before digging my teeth into it, afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll do something just as stupid as earlier. Like lick it.

“I should...” He gestures vaguely behind him, those eyes hungry, and fixed on my mouth.

“Clothes,” I supply helpfully, resting my fingers on my knees and curling them into my bare skin to keep them where they can’t get me into any more trouble. “You should get clothes.”

“Right. Clothes.”

But neither of us moves.

His eyes drop to where I’m kneeling, his flannel I’m wearing having risen dangerously high, and takes in my position. The way my chest rises and falls with quick breaths. His nose twitches again, and something dark flashes in his expression, there and gone so fast, I think I might have imagined it.

Then he turns abruptly, giving me an unrestricted view of his magnificent backside as he strides down the hall. Firm. Sculpted. Hard in a way that makes my fingers itch to dig my nails into it.

The bedroom door slams shut.

I collapse from my knees to sit properly on the floor, saucepan clattering beside me.

My heart pounds so hard, I can hear it in my ears.

My skin feels too tight, too warm, like I might combust from embarrassment and something else.

Something that has nothing to do with mortification but everything to do with the way he looked standing there, powerful, like he wanted to devour me whole.

“Why was he naked?” I whisper to the empty kitchen, unable to think of any reasonable explanation. “Swimming. He was definitely about to go swimming.”