Page 18 of Under The Mountain Man’s Spell

His fist closed in my braid, not hard, just enough that I felt held, and a shudder went through us both. "Look at that mouth. You're so good at this, you're so goddamn good, Molly, taking me so well." His voice broke on my name. "Christ, I've wanted this. Let me watch you."

I looked up. He was watching me with his lips parted, his chest heaving, his eyes black and wide, and the praise made me ache between my legs. I worked him harder, and he said it again and again: good girl, that's my girl, so beautiful, that's it, take it. I was dripping, and it had nothing to do with the shower. I moaned around him just to hear him groan.

"Stop," he rasped, and I stopped at once, because that was the rule. His hand eased out of my hair and cupped my jaw. "Not like this. I want to come inside you."

He lifted me off my knees as if I weighed nothing. I'd told him once I wasn't light, and he'd said he carried men out of burning buildings, and he proved it again now, with one arm around my waist and my back against the cool tile and the hot water pouring over the two of us. His eyes held mine.

"I've waited two years to do this with the lights on," he said. "Hold on to me."

His mouth came down on my throat and he started to follow the flush. Slow, with his lips and his tongue, he traced the pink down the side of my neck, across my collarbone, over my breast, which he took into his mouth until I cried out. He kept going, down my ribs and the soft rise of my stomach, and I felt him smile against my skin.

"All the way down," he said against me. "I've wondered about this for two years. I wanted to know how far it went."

"And?"

"All the way, sweetheart." He dropped to his knees. "I'm going to find every inch of it."

He lifted my leg over his shoulder and put his mouth on me. I made a sound I'd never made in my life. He licked into me, slow and deep and greedy, and then he found my clit with his tongue and held it there, circling, relentless, and my hands flew to his wet hair. The water drummed on my skin. His voice rumbled against me in short, ragged phrases: so sweet, so wet for me, you taste so fucking good, let me hear you, Molly. I did. I said his name over and over, the whole word, Grayson, Grayson, no dark to hide in, only steam, and every time I said it he groaned into me as if I'd hit him.

"Good girl," he growled, and slid two fingers inside me, curling them. "That's it. Give it to me. You're doing so well. Come for me, Molly. I've got you."

The orgasm tore through me so hard my knee gave, and he caught me with one arm around my hips and kept going, drawing it out, making me sob. When I could breathe again, he rose, wet and shaking, and kissed me, and I tasted myself on his mouth.

"God, I love the sounds you make."

He leaned out of the shower, rummaged on the shelf, and came back with a condom. I stared at the foil packet. "You keep those in your shower?"

"I bought a box on Saturday, on the way home from the hardware store, and put one in every room I could think of." He tore it open with his teeth, flushed. "I told myself it was optimism."

"You bought condoms and a porch light on the same trip."

"It was a productive trip."

I was laughing when he lifted me again, the hot water streaming over his shoulders, and my laughter turned into a gasp as I felt him against me. His arm tightened under my thigh, and his other hand twisted into my braid and pulled, easy, tipping my head back. His mouth found my throat, right where my pulse was racing, and he bit down, not hard. I felt it all the way to my knees.

"Look at me," he said, hoarse. "I want you looking at me the whole time. No more hiding."

I looked. He pushed into me slow, inch by inch, and neither of us looked away. The stretch of him made my breath stutter. When he was all the way in, he stopped, trembling, his forehead against mine.

"Tell me you're all right," he said.

"I'm better than all right. Move. Please, Grayson."

He moved. He held nothing back, and I felt every bit of it. He drove up into me with long, deep thrusts that pinned me to the tile, and the shower roared around us, and the lights blazed, and his eyes never left mine. Every time he bottomed out, he said my name. Molly. Molly. Like he couldn't say it enough.

"You feel incredible," he gritted out. "So tight, so wet for me. You take me so well. That's it, sweetheart, that's my girl."

"More," I panted. "Harder. I want it hard."

"Yes, ma'am." The corner of his mouth lifted, wild, and then he gave it to me.

Friday, in the dark, I'd said I wanted to feel him tomorrow. Tonight I wanted to feel him for a week. I wrapped my legs tight around his waist and my arms around his neck and let him take me, and the sounds that came out of me were not the sounds of a woman who'd spent her life being sensible. My nails scored his shoulders. His fist stayed wound in my hair, holding my head back, and his mouth kept moving over my throat, praising me against my skin. Beautiful. Mine. Perfect. You're so good for me, Molly, you have no idea.

"I'm yours," I told him, and I meant every word of it. "I'm yours. Don't stop."

"Never." His rhythm broke. "Never stopping. Come for me again. I want to feel you."

I came crying out his name, my whole body clamping down around him, and he followed me over with a hoarse shout against my neck, shaking, holding me up with the last strength in his arms. The water went on pouring over us. Neither of us moved for a long time.