Page 23 of Surrendering To The Forbidden Mountain Man

"Closet."

She opens the closet door. Reaches for my jacket on the hook. Stops.

Silence.

From the bedroom doorway, I watch her. She's crouched in front of the closet with the box open on her knees, the velvet box in her hand. Her fingers are still. Her back is to me, but I can see her shoulders rise on a breath she doesn't release.

"Reid."

"Open it."

The velvet lid hinges back. More silence. Then a sound. A sound comes from deep in her chest, wordless, quiet, cracked.

"Read the inside of the band." My voice is steady. First time in weeks my body has cooperated with what my brain wants to do.

She turns the ring in her fingers. Tilts it toward the closet light. Reads.

Worth it.

Her head drops. Both hands curling around the ring, pressing it against her mouth. Her shoulders shake once.

Crossing the bedroom takes three steps. Crouching behind her takes one second. My arms wrap around her from behind, chin on her shoulder, mouth against her ear.

"I put it in the box because that's where we keep the things that matter." My arms tighten. "Marry me, Mira."

She turns in my arms. Face wet. Eyes blazing. The ring in her fist between us.

"You put it in the box."

"Where it belongs."

"You absolute—" She laughs. Crying and laughing at the same time, her forehead dropping against my chest. "Yes. Obviously yes. You impossible man."

My hand takes the ring from her fist. She holds out her left hand, fingers trembling, and I slide the band on. Blue stone catching the closet light. Silver against her skin. Her hand, in mine, in the closet where this whole thing started.

"Worth it," she says. Looking at the inscription. Looking at me. "Always was."

Ray's pot roast can wait.

Her mouth finds mine. Rough and urgent, nothing gentle about it. Six months of certainty condensed into a kiss that pushes me backward onto the bedroom floor because we don't make it to the bed. Her body on top of mine, her knees bracketing my hips, her hands pulling my shirt over my head while my hands find the hem of her sweater.

"We're gonna be late," I manage between kisses.

"Ben can deal with it."

The sweater goes over her head. Bra, dark blue, front clasp. My thumb flicks it open. Her breasts spill free, heavy and warm, and my mouth is on her before she finishes pulling my shirt off. Her nipple between my lips, tongue circling, sucking. Her hips roll against mine, grinding down against the hard length already straining through my jeans.

"Off," she says. Her fingers on my belt. Pulling. The buckle clanks on the hardwood floor. Jeans shoved down my hips, boxers with them. My cock springs free, thick, already wet at the tip. Her hand wraps around me, firm, stroking once from base to head, and the groan that rips out of my chest echoes off the ceiling.

Six months has taught her exactly what I want. Her grip, her speed, the twist at the top that makes my vision blur. She strokes me twice more, then rises up on her knees. Shimmies her jeans down her thighs. Kicks them free. No underwear.

"You weren't wearing⁠—"

"Laundry day." Her grin is wicked. "Happy accident."

Jesus Christ.

My hands grip her hips. She reaches for the nightstand, finds a condom, tears the foil with her teeth. Rolls it down my length with both hands. Her touch deliberate, thorough. She learned that from me, the precision. Turned it into something devastating.