Page 24 of Mated to the Mountain Bear

“Actually, there’s more…” His voice is husky, sending a shiver straight to my core.

And when he glides his thumb gently over the corner of my mouth this time, without thinking, I lean forward and wrap my lips around it, sucking the honey off. The taste is sweet on my tongue, but it’s the salt of his skin underneath that really makes my stomach clench.

Ben growls, a sound from deep within, and we both freeze. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he stares at me.

I’m holding his hand, my lips wrapped around his thumb like some kind of provocative promise I didn’t mean to make.

“I was just showing you...” he mumbles, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrates through me, which isn’t helping the dampness that’s spreading between my thighs.

Reality crashes back, and I release his thumb with a wet pop that seems obscenely loud in his quiet kitchen.

“I thought you were offering it to me.” Heat floods my face as I bury it in my hands. What is wrong with me?

“Oh god. Oh god.” I push to my feet, needing distance between us before I do something even more mortifying. I pace to the sink, then back, then away again. “You, eh, you go and do whatever manly fixing of things you need to do. I’ll tidy up.”

He stands too, and suddenly, the kitchen feels impossibly small with both of us in it.

“Zara…” As he moves closer, I spin to face him, my heart pounding, with no idea what’s going to happen next.

But just when I think he’s going to reassure me I haven’t made a complete fool of myself, his nose twitches. He slams his eyes shut as he takes a deep breath, no doubt, looking for patience. When he opens them again, the light makes them look bright gold instead of their usual chocolate brown.

“You cooked. I’ll do the dishes...” he attempts to edge past me to the sink, jaw tight.

But I whirl around, reaching for the plates at the same time he does. My hand, aiming for dishes, finds something else entirely. Something hard and substantial beneath worn denim that twitches under my accidental touch.

My other hand knocks the plate he’s holding, sending eggs and grease cascading down his shirt.

“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 evenbiggerproblem.

“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.