Page 48 of Mountain Defender

So I tease at Rory’s lips, caressing them with my tongue, until she opens for me and invites me in.

Our tongues move together, tentatively at first, then more bravely. Exploring. Tasting. Showing a hint of the longing built up for months.

With each perfect sound, each brush of her fingers, the slight pain of her nails digging in, I absorb it. Commit each perfect sensation to memory.

In my life, I’ve never had a kiss like this.

When we finally break apart, it’s with a reluctant sigh.

Rory gazes at me, her expression unreadable.

“Was that okay?” I ask. It felt more than okay to me, but that doesn’t mean Rory?—

She laughs. “Gage. That wasn’tokay.”

Damn. “It wasn’t?”

“No.” She leans in to brush her mouth across mine. “It was amazing. Even better than I imagined.”

“In that case,” I reply, matching her smile with one of my own. “How about if we try it again?”

She grins. “I think that’s a great idea.”

CHAPTER 9

RORY

There’snothing to be nervous about.

Like Isla reminded me last night, this is Gage. Not douchenozzle Darren from college.

Gage thinks I’m beautiful despite my scars. Or rather, as he said yesterday, he thinks they’re beautiful, too.

It’s still hard to wrap my mind around it. After years—decades, really—of wishing I could look more like everyone else, I found someone who likes me just as I am.

And not just someone. Gage. Kind, smart, courageous Gage, who is by far the most handsome man I’ve ever met.

Just thinking about it is enough to bring on another wave of insecurity. The nagging voice that’s haunted me since I was sixteen comes creeping back in, asking in its furtive whisper,Are you sure you’re good enough? Pretty enough? What if Gage changes his mind?

When I looked into the mirror as I got ready this morning, I couldn’t stop looking at my scars. And the longer I looked at them, the worse they seemed to get, until my face morphed from just me into a version of the Bride of Frankenstein.

Which is ridiculous. I know, intellectually, that they aren’tthatbad.

Still. I spent a good twenty minutes carefully applying concealer and foundation and powder in an attempt to cover them. Then I realized how fake it looked, all caked on and unnatural, and washed everything off again.

After all, I told my reflection,Gage has seen me without any makeup.He knows how I look.He’s seen my scars in the unforgiving sunlight and under the fluorescent lights at the hospital. What’s the point of trying to cover them now?

So I settled on some blush and a light application of mascara, spritzed on some leave-in conditioner with a hint of shimmer, and changed into my favorite green wraparound shirt, the one that’s almost the same olive shade as my eyes. Then I spent the next hour pacing around the cabin, dusting and fluffing pillows and wiping down the kitchen counters until they were so clean dirt wouldn’t dare touch them.

And I forbade myself to look in the mirror again, even though I desperately wanted to check. I kept thinking,but what if my mascara smeared? What if my blush is too bright? What if I have a rogue hair sticking up on the top of my head?

It was almost enough to make me bolt for the bathroom again.

But as I peered through the front window for the umpteenth time, checking for Gage even though he wasn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes, something else occurred to me.

Something I should have thought of sooner, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own worries.

What if Gage is feeling insecure, too?