Page 11 of Mountain Man

She didn’t speak while she dished up what she’d cooked and handed me a plate. Her fingers brushed mine and a jolt shot up my arm again. Jesus Christ.

I dragged out a seat, sat my ass down, and started eating, trying to get my body under control. I should probably talk, make conversation. What the hell would I say?

I glanced over at her. She was in the chair across from me, her portion a lot smaller than mine, eating quietly. “Not used to company,” I muttered. I didn’t want her to feel bad, and obviously my gruff response to her cooking for me had done just that.

She glanced up and her big brown eyes caught mine. My gut tightened.

“When did you last have visitors?” she asked.

My gaze dropped to her full lips, then back up. “My brother visits when I’m down at the homestead.”

“That’s it? No one else?”

I shook my head and shoved in another mouthful. This was another reason I didn’t like talking: people wanted to know things, personal things about you. Assumed you were abnormal if you preferred your own company.

She lowered her knife and fork. “I don’t know how you do it. Don’t you get lonely?”

“No.”

We ate in silence after that, and then I went back to chopping wood. When that was done, I checked my traps. Rabbits were still fairly plentiful if you knew where to look. I could make rabbit stew tomorrow. I cleared and reset my traps—two wasn’t bad, especially with this weather—and headed back to the cabin.

I’d stayed away all day, so I had no idea how Birdie had occupied herself. I was just counting down the days until I could get her off this mountain. I couldn’t handle this restless, achy feeling in my gut for much longer. Didn’t want to deal…shit, I didn’t even want to think about the way she affected me.

I shoved the cabin door open and was hit with hot humid air and the smell of stew.

In the corner, where I kept my old tin tub, a sheet had been nailed up as a privacy screen.

“Hank?” Birdie called from behind it.

She had a camping lamp back there with her, which meant the white sheet might hide her, but her shadow was projected on it clearly. I could see the outline of the tub, as well as her shoulders, arms, and head. She was running a cloth along her arm.

She stilled. “Hank? Is that you?”

I quickly cleared my tight throat. “Yeah.”

She started moving again, if I had to guess I’d say washing her shoulders.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I desperately wanted a bath. I’ve already eaten. I heated up the stew from yesterday if you’re hungry.”

I grunted, unable to form actual words, and forced myself to take off my boots, coat, and hat, and dish up my dinner. I took my usual seat, then realized that wasn’t such a great idea because I had an excellent view of what was going on behind that sheet.

I couldn’t make myself move.

I couldn’t goddamn eat.

I sat there and watched her. Every shadowed move behind that sheet, listening to the sound of the water splashing, moving with her. My head filled with images of her bare skin, wet and glistening. Of her running a cloth over her soft, full breasts, between her thighs…

My hand dropped to my stiff cock and I squeezed it, biting back a groan. I was about to get the hell out of there, go to the outhouse and do what I needed to do to make it go away, when she stood.

Her naked body was outlined perfectly, every lush curve. She turned slightly.

Fuck.

I could make out one of her nipples. It was jutting out, a hard, tight peak. My mouth watered.

Roxanne had had a beautiful body. She was slim and delicately curved. But it wasn’t her I thought of when I stroked myself at night alone. The faceless woman in my head was soft, wide hips, rounded belly, bottom and breasts that overflowed my hands.

She was Birdie.