Page 12 of Surrendering To The Forbidden Mountain Man

Reid's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. He follows my father inside, and when he passes me in the hallway, his hand finds the small of my back. Light. Warm. Deliberate.

That touch stays on my skin through the entire dinner.

Ben shows up at seven with a six-pack and a bag of rolls from the Ridgeline Diner. He hugs me, claps Reid on the shoulder hard enough to rock him forward, says "You look terrified. Good." Then sits down at the table and starts talking about the culvert on Highway 6 as though nothing in the universe has shifted.

Dinner is pot roast. My father's recipe, adapted for one arm. Potatoes a little undercooked, carrots perfect, gravy thick enough to stand a spoon in. Reid eats everything on his plate, then seconds, then the last roll before Ben can reach it.

"He's eating," Dad says to me, quiet, while Reid and Ben argue about snow tires.

"He always eats here."

"He's eating like he plans to stay." Dad squeezes my shoulder with his good hand. "Good."

After dinner, Ben loads the dishwasher because it's his turn. Dad settles into his recliner with a book. Reid stands in the kitchen doorway looking at me, and the look isn't careful or controlled or measured. It's open. Direct. A man deciding something.

"I'll drive you home," he says.

Ben doesn't look up from the dishwasher. "Night, Reid."

"Night, Ben."

"Night, Mira." Ben's voice carries just enough amusement. "Lock your doors."

The truck is warm. September night, cold enough for breath to fog. Reid drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us. Neither of us reaches for it. Neither of us needs to. The proximity is enough.

At the building on Main, he parks. Kills the engine. Sits for a beat with his hands on the wheel.

"You wanna come up?" My voice is quiet in the dark cab.

His hands tighten on the wheel. Then relax. "Yeah."

The stairs to my apartment have never felt this long. His boots are heavy behind me on the wooden steps. At the door, my key sticks the way it always does, and his hand closes over mine. Steadies it. Turns the lock together.

Inside, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light I left on. The same kitchen where he kissed me four days ago. The counter where his screwdriver clattered. The floor where he stood with his hand on my face and told me he wanted me to come home.

"Coffee?" Habit. Deflection.

"No."

He's standing by the closed door. Six foot three filling my small entryway, shoulders almost brushing both walls. His eyes are on me, dark in the low light, gold flecks visible even from here.

"Come here," he says. Low. Not a command. A request from a man who doesn't make them often.

Two steps close the distance. His hands find my waist. Big. Warm. Spanning from my hip bones to my ribs, his fingers pressing into the softness there, and he doesn't hold me gently. He holds me like I'm real. Like my body is something he's been thinking about gripping for years and now that he has permission his hands don't know how to be casual about it.

My palms slide up his chest. Hard muscle under flannel. His heartbeat hammering against my fingers.

"Reid."

"Mira." My name in his mouth, rough and low. He pulls me into him. My breasts press against his chest, my hips against his, and the hard length of him is right there against my stomach, unmistakable.

His mouth drops to mine. Not tentative this time. Deep from the start, his tongue sweeping in, one hand sliding up my back to cradle my head while the other grips my hip hard enough that I feel every finger. My hands fist in his shirt. A moan climbs out of my throat before I can stop it.

He walks me backward. Three steps to the kitchen counter. My lower back hits the edge, and he lifts me onto it in one smooth motion, both hands under my thighs, setting me down so my legs are open around him. The height puts us nearly eye to eye.

His mouth moves to my neck. Open, hot, his tongue dragging below my ear. My head falls back. Fingers digging into his shoulders while his teeth scrape along my pulse.

"I need to tell you something." The words come out breathy. Not how I planned this. I planned it calm, practical. I'm a medical professional. Bodies are my job. But his mouth is on my throat and his hands are on my thighs and the clinical detachment I trained for a decade is gone.