Page 8 of Snug with the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #12)

Chapter eight

Maisie

The storm broke overnight, but the world still feels soaked through. The air is damp, the trees are dripping, and the ground is slick with mud.

I wake up tangled in the blanket on the couch. Ford’s jacket hangs over the chair. He’s still here.

He’s standing by the stove, coffee mug in one hand, his shirt clinging in all the right places. The fire he built last night has burned down to embers. Outside, fog drifts between the trees. Inside, it’s just us.

Quiet. Still. Dangerous.

He doesn’t see that I’m awake at first. I take a second to watch him and the way he moves. He’s the kind of man who keeps everything neat and in order because the alternative might be chaos.

The kind of man who kissed me like he couldn’t breathe without it.

I sit up, the blanket slipping off my shoulder. “You make a habit of pacing around women’s cabins at dawn?”

He glances back. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hard to sleep when a six-foot-something giant is growling at my appliances.”

That earns the faintest curve of his mouth. “Coffee’s ready.”

I stand, stretching, pretending not to notice how his eyes drag down my legs before he looks away. “You stayed.”

“Road’s bad in a few places after a rain like that,” he says. “Safer to wait.”

“Sure,” I say lightly, padding over to the counter. “Safety first.”

He pours a mug and slides it toward me, careful not to touch my fingers. The distance between us feels deliberate, sharp-edged.

I take a slow sip, eyes on him over the rim. “So we’re just not going to talk about it?”

He tenses. “About what?”

“Last night.”

He sets his cup down. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Really? Because it felt like a lot was happening for there to be nothing.”

“Maisie.” His voice drops, rough. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I take a half-step closer. “Don’t remind you that you kissed me? Or don’t remind you that you liked it?”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I thought you liked fire,” I whisper.

His eyes lift to mine, dark, steady, unguarded for once. Something pulls tight in the space between us.

I move first. My fingers brush his when I reach for the sugar jar. His hand closes reflexively around mine, heat shooting up my arm.

“Careful,” he says.

“I am.”

“Maisie.”

I look up at him, innocent. “What?”

He mutters something that sounds like a curse. Then he grabs the counter edge like he’s trying to stop himself from doing something.

I smile a little, slow and deliberate. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t want that kiss.”

He looks at me then, really looks, and something in his face changes. The control, the distance, it all fractures.

In two steps, he’s in front of me, his hand sliding around my waist, the other at the back of my neck. The coffee mug hits the counter with a dull clink.

“You drive me crazy,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Good.”

I barely finish the word before his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is brutal, hungry, nothing polite about it. His fingers dig into my hips as he pulls me closer, hard enough to make me gasp. My hands find his shoulders, then his hair, tugging, urging him closer.

The sound he makes, a growl buried in his chest, sends heat straight through me.

He backs me against the counter, the edge biting into my spine. His mouth leaves mine only to trail down my neck, hot and open, teeth scraping skin.

“Ford—”

He catches the sound against my throat, breath rough. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” I breathe.

That’s all it takes.

He lifts me effortlessly, setting me on the counter, stepping between my legs. My body arches toward him, his hands spreading over my thighs, sliding up, rough and steady, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

I tilt my head back as he mouths along my collarbone, the heat of him everywhere, the air thick with the scent of coffee and smoke.

My fingers find the back of his neck, nails grazing skin. He groans, low, guttural, and presses closer. The hard length of him drags against me through my thin sleep shorts, and the sound that leaves me is pure need.

“Ford,” I whisper.

His hand slides up my shirt, calloused palm on bare skin. His thumb traces the underside of my breast. I tremble.

“Tell me to stop,” he says roughly.

I don’t.

He kisses me again, deep and filthy. His tongue tangles with mine, his breath hot against my lips.

“God, Maisie,” he mutters against my mouth. “I want to bend you over that table.”

The words hit me like a spark, sharp and electric.

My hands fist in his shirt. “Then do it.”

He freezes, just for a second. Then he pulls back, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.

“I can’t,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t start something I can’t stop.”

The sound that leaves me is half-laugh, half-sigh. “You already did.”

He steps back, running a hand through his hair, chest still rising fast. “You make it hard to think.”

“Maybe stop thinking.”

He laughs once, short and strained. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I really would.”

He shakes his head and grabs his jacket from the chair. “You need to eat something. I’ve got work.”

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel.

He pauses at the door, looking at me for a long second, the counter, my rumpled shirt, the heat still between us.

“This shouldn’t happen again,” he says finally.

I smile faintly. “You keep saying that.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leaves.

The cabin feels bigger without him in it. I can still feel his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear the man’s truck doesn’t start for a few minutes before he finally drives off.