Page 9 of Saved By the Mountain Man Ranger

The water's still running. He turns it off. Dries his hands on a towel, slow, deliberate. Then he's crossing the kitchen in two strides, and his hands are on my face.

Both hands. Cupping my jaw. Tilting my head up. Those blue eyes are inches from mine, and the blue is darker now, nearly navy.

"I don't do this," he says, low and rough.

"You said that."

"I mean it. I don't know how to be what someone needs. The last woman who tried told me I was impossible to love."

"Maybe she just wasn't paying attention."

He kisses me. Not soft like the one I gave him last night. This one has weight behind it. His mouth opens mine, tongue sweeping deep, and the sound I make doesn't belong in a kitchen at seven in the morning. His hands slide from my jaw to my neck, thumbs pressing the spots where my pulse hammers against my skin.

My fingers grab his thermal at the chest, pulling him down. He comes without resistance, one arm sweeping the files off the table without looking. Pages scatter across the floor. Two years of research, and I don't care. Not with his mouth on mine, his body crowding me against the table edge, the heat of him pouring through the flannel into my skin.

"Bed," I say against his mouth. "Now."

He lifts me off the chair. Just lifts me, hands under my thighs, my legs wrapping around his waist. The flannel rides up. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my thighs, and the grip is possessive. Deliberate. The grip of a man staking a claim he's been fighting for two days.

The hallway is short. The bedroom door is already open. He carries me through it, sets me on the edge of the bed, and drops to his knees.

Those blue eyes look up at me from the floor. Hands on my knees. Pushing them apart, slow, watching my face the whole time. The wool socks are still on. The flannel is bunched at my hips. Underneath, just my underwear. Simple black cotton.

His fingers hook the waistband. Pull them down my legs in one smooth motion. Then he leans forward, presses his mouth to my inner thigh, and breathes in.

"God, Eliza." His voice vibrates against my skin. "You smell incredible."

My back arches. His hands spread my thighs wider, and then his mouth is on me. No hesitation. No teasing. Tongue flat against my clit, then circling, then sucking, and my hand flies to his hair.

He knows exactly what he's doing. Every stroke is deliberate, reading my responses the way he reads the mountain. When my hips buck, he holds them down with one hand across my belly. When I gasp, he does whatever he just did again, harder. The pressure builds fast because I've been wound tight for two days, sleeping in his sheets, wearing his clothes, breathing him in.

"Weston. Oh god. Right there."

His answer is two fingers sliding inside me, curling forward while his tongue works my clit. The combination shatters something. My orgasm rips through me so hard my vision whites out, thighs clamping around his head, fingers pulling his hair. He doesn't stop. Keeps his mouth on me through every pulse, every aftershock, until my body goes boneless against the mattress.

He stands. Pulls the thermal over his head. His body is lean, hard, built by years of real work. Not gym muscle. Mountain muscle. Scarred hands unbuckling his belt. Jeans dropping. He's thick and hard, cock straining against dark boxer briefs, and the sight of him makes my pussy clench around nothing.

"Condom?" My voice sounds wrecked.

"Nightstand."

He reaches past me, opens the drawer, pulls out a foil packet. Rolls it on while I watch, and watching is its own kind of foreplay. His hands on himself. Sure, efficient, no shyness. Then he's over me, one knee on the mattress between my legs, his weight braced on one arm.

"Tell me if it's too much." He nudges my entrance with the head of his cock. Thick. Stretching.

"Weston. Just fuck me."

He pushes inside in one long stroke, and my mouth falls open. Full. So full. His jaw is clenched, eyes on mine, reading me. When my legs wrap around his waist, he starts to move. Deep, grinding thrusts that light up every nerve ending. His hips rolling into mine with the patience of a man who's spent his life learning to be deliberate.

My nails dig into his shoulders. He groans, drops his forehead to my neck, and the sound he makes there is raw. Exposed. A man coming apart at the seams because a woman's body feels too good.

"Look at me," I whisper.

He does. Those blue eyes are blown. Desperate. His hand finds my breast under the flannel I'm still wearing, thumb circling my nipple through the fabric, and the combination of his cock inside me and his hand on my breast sends a second orgasm building at the base of my spine.

"Come for me." His voice against my throat. "Wanna feel you."

The words break me open. My second orgasm crashes through, harder than the first, and my pussy clenches around him so tight he swears. His hips stutter, control snapping, and he comes with his face buried in my neck, groaning my name into my skin.