Page 3 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies (Men of Medford #4)

There was an intensity about him, solid, unfazed, magnetic without effort. Like he didn’t care about pretense, or press, or the algorithms that dictated worth. He just was .

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re very unsettling.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Bet you don’t.”

He leaned a little closer, eyes narrowing as if he could see the side of me I hadn’t meant to reveal. “You look like someone who’s forgotten how to breathe. Like the kind of girl who’s always on .”

I blinked. “That’s weirdly accurate.”

“Figured." He tipped back his glass. “Well, you’re in the right place, then. Medford’s like a long exhale.”

“Except for the part where I spill drinks on locals.”

“That’s our version of a handshake.”

Interesting.

Everything about this man was incredibly interesting. He wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met in my life.

The Medford Inn was quiet when we slipped in through the side entrance, his hand grazing the small of my back like it belonged there.

I didn’t remember the walk from Lucky’s… only the buzz in my blood and the steady rhythm of his voice as we moved through the crisp November air.

I fumbled with the keycard outside my room, nerves tripping over want. Asher leaned against the doorframe, watching me with that maddening, effortless calm.

“You always this clumsy?” he asked, low and teasing.

“Only when I’m doing something I probably shouldn’t,” I muttered.

The lock clicked. The door opened. And then we were inside.

No more small talk.

No more careful smiles.

His mouth was on mine before the door even shut, and I kissed him, desperately trying to forget the last few weeks. Hell, the last few years. I tasted whiskey and heat and a sharpness I couldn’t get enough of.

He lifted me easily, backing me against the wall, and I let my head fall back with a gasp. His hands were firm, callused.

The kind of hands that knew how to hold on. Or how to let go.

His mouth was hot and demanding, crashing into mine like he didn’t care who I was or what I was running from, only that I was here , wrapped in his arms, needing something real.

His tongue slid against mine, and I kissed him back, trying to burn the rest of my life down.

He shoved my coat off with a rough tug, fingers already sliding under my sweater, pushing it up over my head. My bare skin hit the cold air, nipples tightening instantly, and then his hands were on me.

Big, warm, rough palms cupping my breasts as if he owned them, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I arched into him with a gasp.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re unreal.”

I reached for his belt, my fingers trembling but greedy, tugging it loose as he nipped down the side of my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark I knew I wouldn’t regret.

As he stripped off his shirt, I caught sight of the ink across his chest and bicep… bold strokes in black and dark blue, almost abstract at first, until I realized it was a storm.

Not the cheesy kind, but a real storm: jagged lightning branching across his collarbone, dark clouds curling over his shoulder blade like they were still moving, and tucked just beneath it, a single line of script in delicate lettering.

The wreckage is part of the story.

My breath caught.

That was truly beautiful. Painful, too.

I’d seen a thousand tattoos, most of them designed for attention or aesthetics. This one felt more like a scar someone had chosen to make visible.

But something about it snagged in my brain, a flash of something almost familiar . Like I’d seen it before. Or him. That face, that jawline, that particular rough-around-the-edges confidence.

I frowned for half a second. Where…?

He caught me staring and gave me a half-smile, all sex and shadows. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly, shaking it off. “You just look familiar.”

He quirked a brow, stepping closer. “Maybe I have one of those faces.”

“Maybe,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Then he kissed me again, and the thought slipped from my mind like steam off glass.

He helped me out of the rest of my clothes, peeling my leggings down my hips while his eyes stayed locked on mine. There was heat in that stare, pure and molten, like he wanted to memorize every inch of me.

“Lie back,” he said, voice low and rough.

I obeyed, spreading across the cheap hotel bed with my legs parted, heart pounding like I was about to do something holy.

He dropped to his knees between them and dragged his mouth along the inside of my thigh, beard scraping just enough to make me squirm.

Then his tongue was on me, hot and wet and devastating. I cried out, hips jerking, and he gripped them hard enough to keep me still, like he wanted to watch me fall apart.

And god, I did. He licked and sucked and fucked me with his mouth until I was trembling, begging, one hand fisted in his hair and the other pressed over my mouth to keep from screaming.

“You taste like sin,” he muttered, pulling back enough to slide two fingers inside me. I clenched around him, soaking, desperate. “So fucking wet, Riley.”

“Please,” I gasped. “I need you. Now .”

He stood, eyes blazing, and stripped out of his jeans. When he rolled the condom on, I couldn’t stop staring.

Every inch of him was unreal, cut from steel and ink and heat. My eyes drifted again to the ink on his ribs, where a quote curved just beneath his chest.

Sometimes the fire is the cure.

I didn’t know what it meant, but it felt like I should.

He crawled over me, settling between my thighs again, his cock brushing against my slick entrance.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice a warning and a promise.

“I want this,” I whispered, clawing at his back. “I want you .”

He thrust into me in one slow, thick push, and I shattered. My back arched, a cry ripped from my throat as he filled me to the hilt, grinding deeper until our hips aligned.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled, starting to move… deep, hard strokes that left me panting, clawing, moaning his name like a prayer.

We moved together in a rhythm that felt primal, like my body had been waiting for his all along. Every thrust sent sparks up my spine, my nails dragging down his back as he fucked me harder, rougher, deeper.

“Damn, you feel good,” he muttered against my ear. “Like you were made for this.”

I met every thrust with one of my own, desperate and unrestrained. “Don’t stop. Please, Asher. Don’t fucking stop.”

His hand slid between us, thumb circling my clit as he slammed into me harder, faster. My orgasm built fast, tight and blinding, and when it hit, I screamed his name, back bowing as I came all over his cock.

He followed with a grunt, hips jerking as he buried himself deep and let go with a raw, broken sound against my neck.

We stayed tangled like that, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding all crazy, as if we had survived something insane together.

And maybe we had.