Page 5 of My Obsessive Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #3)

Paul's hands move with reverent hunger across my body—sliding beneath my t-shirt to trace the soft curve of my waist, his calloused fingers creating shivers wherever they touch.

His mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I let my head fall back with a soft gasp.

The contrast between his gentle exploration and the barely restrained power in his frame makes my heart race.

He lifts me with surprising ease, strong hands cupping my thighs as I wrap my legs around his waist. The hardness of him presses against me through our clothes, making me acutely aware of where this is heading.

When my back meets the quilted bedspread, Paul follows me down, his body a welcome weight above mine. I run my hands over the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex and shift beneath my fingertips.

"I need to see you," I whisper, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "All of you."

A slow smile spreads across his face—not cocky, but deeply pleased. He sits back on his heels between my thighs and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

The sight of him steals my breath. Afternoon sunlight streams through the curtains, bathing his torso in golden light that highlights every ridge of muscle, every plane and hollow.

His chest and arms speak of years of physical labor, powerful and defined without the artificial perfection of a gym-sculpted body.

But it's the scars that draw my eye—a constellation of stories written across his skin. A long, silvery line runs from his left collarbone down across his pectoral muscle. Smaller marks pepper his right side. A puckered circle mars his left shoulder.

I push myself up onto my elbows and press my lips to the longest scar, feeling the slight ridge of it against my mouth. His sharp intake of breath encourages me. I follow the line with my tongue, tasting salt and skin. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair.

"Your turn," he says after a moment, his voice even deeper than before. "Let me see you, Violet."

A flutter of nervousness passes through me.

My body is nothing like the toned, athletic women I imagine someone like Paul would normally desire.

I'm soft where they would be firm, rounded where they would be lean.

Years of desk work and comfort food have left me with generous curves and a fullness to my belly that no amount of dieting has ever quite erased.

But the hunger in Paul's eyes as his fingers find the hem of my shirt leaves no room for doubt. This man wants me—specifically, exactly as I am.

I lift my arms, allowing him to pull the garment over my head. Cool air kisses my skin, drawing goosebumps across my flesh. Paul's gaze is almost reverent as it travels over the black lace of my bra, the fullness of my breasts spilling over the cups, the soft curve of my waist.

"Beautiful," he breathes, one hand reaching out to trace the lace edge where it meets my skin.

"You have no idea how many nights I've lain awake thinking about you—about this—not even knowing what you looked like.

Just knowing you'd be perfect." His finger trails down between my breasts, following the centerline of my body to the waistband of my jeans.

When his fingers find the clasp of my bra at my back, I arch to give him better access. The bra falls away, and I resist the instinctive urge to cover myself. Instead, I watch his face as he looks at me, savoring the naked desire I see there.

"Gosh," he murmurs, cupping the weight of one breast in his large hand. The contrast of his tanned, work-roughened skin against my paleness sends a shiver through me. His thumb circles my nipple, which tightens immediately at his touch. "So responsive."

He lowers his head, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and the wet heat of it draws a sound from me I barely recognize as my own—part gasp, part moan.

His tongue circles the sensitive peak while his other hand kneads my neglected breast, thumb teasing until both nipples are hard and aching.

Each pull of his mouth sends a corresponding tug of pleasure straight between my thighs.

"I love how sensitive you are," he says against my skin, his breath cooling the dampness left by his mouth.

"Love watching your reactions." He switches to my other breast, lavishing it with the same attention while his now-free hand slides down to the button of my jeans.

He pauses there, looking up at me. "May I? "

The gentleness of the question, the care taken despite his obvious desire, makes my heart swell. "Yes," I whisper, lifting my hips slightly in invitation. "Please."

He unbuttons my jeans with careful precision, drawing down the zipper tooth by tooth, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Then his hands are at my hips, thumbs hooking into both denim and the waistband of my underwear, a question in his eyes.

I nod, and he slides both garments down my legs in one smooth motion.

And then I'm naked beneath him, completely exposed to his gaze. A flush spreads across my skin—not just from desire, but from the vulnerability of the moment.

Paul sits back again, his eyes traveling slowly over every inch of me, lingering on the fullness of my hips, the soft roundness of my belly, the plush curves of my thighs.

"God, look at you," he says, his voice hushed with something like awe.

"All these beautiful curves." His hands follow his gaze, exploring the topography of my body with careful attention—the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip, the softness of my inner thigh.

His fingers trace the silvery stretch marks on my hips and stomach, marks I've always tried to hide.

He leans down to press a kiss to my belly, his beard tickling sensitive skin. "I could spend days just looking at you," he murmurs against me. "Touching you." Another kiss, lower, near my hip bone. "Tasting every inch of you."

My breath catches as his intent becomes clear. His broad shoulders nudge my thighs wider as he settles between them, his warm breath teasing against my most intimate place.

"Paul," I whisper, uncertain and wanting in equal measure.

He looks up the length of my body, his blue eyes dark with desire, his expression serious. "I've dreamed about how you'd taste," he says, his voice rough. "Let me have this, Violet. Let me taste you."

The idea that this powerful man has fantasized about this specific act—about me—sends a fresh wave of heat through my body. I nod, unable to form words, my fingers finding purchase in the quilt beneath me.

He starts with a gentle kiss against my inner thigh, then the other, working his way inward with deliberate patience. When his mouth finally makes contact with my center, it's with a reverence that makes my heart stutter.

His first touches are exploratory—learning the geography of my pleasure, noting what makes my breath hitch, what makes my thighs tremble against his shoulders.

His strong hands grip my hips, thumbs spreading me open to his gaze and mouth. The exposure is intense, almost too much, but the look of concentration on his face, the obvious enjoyment he takes in my responses, transforms vulnerability into power. He's at my mercy as much as I am at his.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs, the vibration of his words adding another layer of sensation. Then his tongue finds the bundle of nerves at my center, circling it with deliberate pressure, and coherent thought dissolves.

The dual sensation of his hot mouth and rough stubble against my sensitive skin is overwhelming.

Pleasure builds steadily, coiling tighter with each skilled movement of his tongue.

My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands—not guiding, just needing something to anchor me as sensation threatens to sweep me away.

"That's it," he encourages against me, his breath hot and intimate. "Let go for me, beautiful. I want to feel you come on my tongue."

His words, combined with a particularly clever motion, send me tumbling over the edge. My back arches off the bed as pleasure radiates outward from where his mouth is still working, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock.

His name falls from my lips like a mantra, a prayer, a plea.

Before I can fully recover, he's moving up my body, his jeans rough against my oversensitized skin. His mouth finds mine, and I taste myself on his lips—tangy, intimate, slightly sweet. His kisses are hungry now, less controlled, and I respond in kind, my hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

"Let me," he says, standing to remove his remaining clothes. When he straightens, I'm treated to my first full view of him, and my mouth goes dry.

He's magnificent—all lean muscle and sinew, his skin tanned except for a paler band at his hips. His arousal juts proudly from a nest of dark hair, thick and ready. A soldier's body, hardened by necessity and physical work, marred by scars but all the more beautiful for them.

"Now who's staring?" he asks, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Can't help it," I reply, deliberately echoing his words from earlier. I hold out my hand to him. "Come here."

He rejoins me on the bed, settling his weight between my thighs, the hot length of him pressing against my center without entering. We both groan at the contact. His forearms bracket my head as he leans down to kiss me again, this time with achingly tender care.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," he confesses, his voice rough with emotion and need. "It's like you've been carved into my bones since before we met."

In any other context, with any other man, these words might frighten me. But here, with Paul's body covering mine, with the taste of desire still on my tongue, they feel like the most natural thing in the world—a truth I've somehow always known.