Page 6 of My Forbidden Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #1)

Logan

The air feels lighter with each passing day. We grow more comfortable with each other.

It’s why I squeeze her hip in passing, or she brushes her fingers against my chest in return. It’s like a game of tug and pull, and this woman is starting to come out of her shell.

The woman I found on my doorstep wasn’t Violet. It was someone created by the hardships of surviving her career. Now look at her, wearing the shirt I bought with an old design, happy despite it being big enough to swallow up her frame.

She’s smiling as she coasts through my home, lazing about as she pleases. She looks comfortable .

Turns out, it’s not just her body I find sexy. It’s her feeling contempt for me that does the job. Watching her stretch out on the couch, all lazy curves and sleep-soft sighs, is enough to make me hard in seconds.

But then I catch it—the cracks.

The way her fingers freeze mid-scroll, thumb hovering over some unread message. The way her smile slips when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s torn, and I get it. Hell, I’d be an idiot not to.

Doesn’t stop the clawing behind my ribs when I imagine her leaving.

I’m greedy. A selfish bastard who’d chain her to this mountain if it meant keeping her here, warm and laughing and mine. But I’d also do whatever it takes to make that smile of hers remain.

If she asked me to drive her to the base right now, to return to her old lifestyle, I would in a heartbeat. All because that’s what she wants. Or, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.

Clueless to the turmoil happening in my head, she lets out a yawn. With another day wrapping up, we spend our night watching a film older than her to pass the time.

All curled up on the couch, she almost takes up the entire length. What few feet she can’t claim, the few that I’m sitting against, she uses her feet to rest comfortably against my lap.

In return, I give her ankles a light squeeze, stroking them both with my thumbs.

She’s so soft.

“We can finish it tomorrow, if you don’t want to fall asleep.” Already reaching for the remote, she sends a tired nod in my direction before I power down the television.

Darkness swallows us whole except for the light coming off the flames in the fireplace.

She stretches, arms arching over her head in a lazy curve, fingers flexing toward the ceiling.

“Carry me?” she teases, voice thick with sleep, her grin all mischief. I know she’s joking. She has to be joking—especially when she immediately backtracks, waving a hand. “Kidding, kidding. I’m way too—”

I’m already moving before she can finish her sentence. My hands find her waist, lifting her before she can wrap her mind around what’s happening. Her gasp is sharp, legs instinctively wrapping around my hips as I haul her up against me.

“Too what?” I murmur, fingers digging into the supple give of her thighs just to hear that little hitch in her breath again. “Tell me exactly how heavy you think you are.”

She’s weightless. Effortless. Perfect in my arms in every way possible.

For a heartbeat, she just stares at me, lips parted—then her hands slide into my hair, her thumbs brushing the stubble along my jaw. The firelight paints gold across her cheekbones, her lashes, the slow curve of her mouth as she drinks in my appearance.

“God, I think I’m addicted to you,” she whispers, the words a confession wrapped in smoke.

And then she kisses me.

It starts soft—just the brush of her mouth against mine, testing, savoring.

But when I groan, her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer.

Her lips part, inviting, and suddenly the kiss deepens, slow and searching.

The tip of her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I let her in, let her take whatever she wants.

Her breath hitches when I squeeze her thighs in response, my grip firm enough to remind her that I’m here. I’m not letting go.

The logical part of my brain screams that I should carry her to bed—her bed, alone, where she can sleep like she needs to. But the way she nips at my lower lip, the way her hips press closer, tells me sleep is the last thing on her mind now.

Firelight flickers over us, shadows dancing across the walls as the kiss turns hungrier, wetter. Her teeth graze my tongue, and I swear I see stars.

Fuck.

I’m the one addicted.

Pulling away, she pants softly. Pretty and pink, she teases me with the swipe of her tongue against her lips.

Hard to believe Violet can flush so easily while taking what she wants from time to time.

Remembering how to make my feet work, I carry us out of the living room and toward the hall full of doors. Despite being swallowed up in darkness, I move with ease as I’ve already memorized this cabin over the years.

Just as I reach her door, I’m not prepared for her breath to tickle my ear.

“Let’s go to your room. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.” Whispering the words against my ear, she makes me question what she means as her mouth brushes my neck.

Fuck, she’s not talking about only the bed.

“You’re sure?” Rasping out the words, my hands shift to her ass. One full squeeze and I’m already taking a step toward my door.

Feeling the motion of her nodding, I’m toeing open my door before stepping inside.

Just like the cabin, I know my way to my bed. Reaching it in all of ten strides, as I’m putting her down, she’s dragging me right along with her.

Knee sinking into the mattress, she’s mapping out my face until she can find my lips through the darkness. Once she finds what she’s looking for, I’m the one to groan as she wraps her legs tighter around me, lifting her hips in a way to rub against my growing arousal.

“Fuck me, Violet.” Panting against her lips, I don’t help slow this down by grinding against her. “You’re going to make me struggle to keep up with you, aren’t you?”

Her giggle fuels me. How am I supposed to be responsible for this whole thing when she’s making it impossible?

I pull away just far enough to reach for the bedside lamp, and she whines—a breathy, frustrated sound as her fingers clutch at my shoulders, trying to drag me back down.

Then light floods the room, and Violet is sprawled across my sheets like a dream I’d hate to wake from.

Her lilac hair fans out in wild, silken waves, tangled from all of her squirming against my sheets.

Cheeks flushed pink, lips parted, those whiskey-brown eyes glazed with a hunger that mirrors my own.

Fuck. She’s gorgeous like this—undone and wanting, every sharp-witted retort melted into soft, panting breaths.

I hover over her, drinking in the sight. The rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her nipples pebble under my gaze, it all drives me mad. Of course, she’s not wearing a bra. She’s always known precisely how to wreck me.

“Tell me what you want,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles up along the curve of her stomach, savoring the way she shivers, “and I’ll make it happen.”

“Touch me.” The words come out so breathless, so needy.

I don’t give her time to second-guess.

My hands drag up the hem of her shirt, fingers skimming the warm, bare skin of her stomach as I peel the fabric higher. She shivers under my touch, but she doesn’t stop me—just watches, lips parted, as I bend to press my mouth to the delicate dip of her navel.

God, she’s soft.

I kiss my way up, slow and deliberate, tracing the faint tremors of her muscles as I go. Her breath hitches when I reach the swell of her breasts, finally free of the fabric. For a second, I just look, taking in the flush of her skin, the way her nipples stiffen under my gaze.

Then I lean in and take one into my mouth.

Her back arches off the mattress, a choked gasp escaping her as I swirl my tongue, teasing the peak before sucking gently. My hand finds her other breast, thumb rolling over the taut bud, and she whimpers, fingers twisting in my hair.

“Why are you so worked up?” My voice is rough, my breath hot against her damp skin as I pull back just enough to glance up at her.

“Because I’m tired of holding myself back,” she admits, the words coming out trembling. Her hips shift restlessly beneath me, her thighs pressing together. I don’t know what moment pushed her over her limit, but I’m in no rush to change things up.

I don’t make her wait. My mouth trails lower, teeth grazing the curve of her hip as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her cotton shorts. “I told you already, I’d take care of you. That means in every way possible.”

I drag her cotton shorts down her thighs with agonizing slowness, my lips following the path of exposed skin.

The scent of her arousal hits me first, warm and intoxicating, and I groan against the inside of her knee.

Fuck. She’s already soaked, her panties clinging to her, and I haven’t even touched her yet.

“Look at you,” I murmur, dragging a single finger along the damp lace. Her hips jerk, a whimper tearing from her throat. “All this for me?”

I don’t wait for an answer.

With a sharp tug, I shove her panties aside, and her pussy glistens in the low light—swollen, flushed, begging for my mouth. I blow a slow stream of air over her, watching her clit twitch. “You gonna come on my tongue, Violet?”

She rises onto her elbows, watching me through hooded eyes—dark, glazed, needy. The slow nod she gives isn’t permission; it’s a plea.

I answer with my tongue.

A long, deliberate lick from her soaked entrance to her throbbing clit, slow enough to make her whimper. The taste of her, sweet like summer fruit, salt-sharp with want, floods my senses. Her back bows off the bed, thighs tensing like she’s torn between clamping around my head and shaking apart.

I don’t let her think. Don’t let her breathe.

Dropping lower again, I circle her clit with the flat of my tongue, teasing just until her hips jerk—then seal my lips around it and suck.

Her cry is ragged, fingers fisting the sheets. “Oh, fuck.”

I groan against her, drunk on her inability to stay in control. Before, I’d only had her on my fingers—quick stolen tastes when she rode my hand. Now? Now she’s pouring into my mouth, and I’m fucking ravenous.

Do I worship her here, where she’s slick and swollen? Or lower, where she’s clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled?

I do both.

Flicking her clit with quick, ruthless strokes, I slide two fingers inside her, crooking them just so, pressing into places she’s the most sensitive.

Her thighs clamp down around my ears, her moan high and broken as she comes undone. Even muffled, it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. My favorite song she’s created. I listen to every note as I drink down her release.

Once I’m pulling back, I can’t think. I’m clawing at my own shorts, easily shoving down my waistband.

She’s as desperate as I am, happily keeping her panties pulled to the side so nothing stands in my way as I free my cock.

Fuck, I’m aching.

My cock throbs in my fist, so hard the veins stand taut under my grip. No amount of friction eases the burn—every stroke just smears more precum down my length, slick and shameful. And fuck, the way she looks right now?

Violet, sprawled out and breathless, lips swollen from my mouth, skin flushed from the onslaught of my tongue? Jesus.

I pump myself slowly, watching her watch me, the way her thighs spread further apart like she’s already imagining me there. The sound she makes when I thumb over the leaking head—a whimper, greedy and soft—nearly undoes me.

This is torture.

Because I could come just like this, just from the sight of her biting her lip as my hips jerk into my fist. But thinking about sinking into her? Feeling her clench around me, hot and wet and desperate? That’s a paradise my fist can never bring me.

Even if it’s nearly impossible, I’m going to survive long enough to make her come again. This time, it’ll be my cock she’ll be creaming all over.