Page 8 of Under The Mountain Man’s Spell

I lay back against the pillows. She straddled my hips and took me in her hand, guiding me, and sank down onto me in one slow glide that tore a groan out of both of us. For a moment she didn't move. She sat there with her head thrown back and her hands flat on my chest, the light from the hall gold on the long curve of her throat, and I couldn't have looked away if the house had been on fire.

"Is this all right?" she whispered.

"It's perfect." I put my hands on her hips. "Show me what you like."

She began to move. At first it was slow, a lazy, rocking roll of her hips that made my vision blur, then faster as she found her rhythm. She used me. She took what she wanted, tilting her hips and grinding down, chasing something I could feel building in her. Her breasts swayed with every motion. Her hair fell forward around us. I watched her face, the way her mouth opened, the way her lashes fluttered behind the mask, and I told her what I saw.

"God, look at you. Just like that. Take what you want. Use me, sweetheart. I'm yours."

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's—" She reached down and covered my hand with hers and moved it to where she needed it, between her thighs, and I rubbed her clit with my thumb in time with her rolling hips. "Right there. Oh, God. Don't stop."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She came apart on top of me with a wild, ragged cry, her back arching and her nails digging into my chest, clenching around me in waves so strong they pulled me right to the edge. I felt my control slip. I gripped her hips and thrust up into her, hard, three times, four, and then there was nothing left to hold.

I came with a harsh, broken sound against her neck as she folded down over me, pulsing into her until there was nothing left in me, and I wrapped both arms around her and held on. We lay there together, slick with sweat, her heart racing against mine, her breath hot on my throat. Neither of us moved for a long time.

When my heart slowed at last, I eased out of her as careful as I could, and she let out a small hiss. It was a tiny sound, and I felt it like a nail.

"Hey." I turned her face toward me with two fingers under her chin. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." She laughed, shaky. "I'm just a little tender. I did ask for it."

"I know what you asked for." I smoothed the hair back from her damp forehead. "Stay right there. Don't move."

I dealt with the condom and ran warm water over a washcloth in the bathroom, keeping the light off so I wouldn't spoil the dark she'd asked for. I filled a glass at the sink and shook two ibuprofen out of the bottle in the cabinet. When I came back she had pulled the blanket up to her chin, and she watched me from behind the mask with an expression I couldn't read.

"Sit up a little. Drink this." I held the glass for her and watched her swallow, and then I set the pills in her palm. "These'll help in the morning. Take them with water."

"Is this the full-service package?"

"It's the minimum." I sat on the edge of the bed with the cloth in my hand. "Can I?"

She hesitated, then nodded. I folded the blanket back and cleaned her, the warm cloth moving over her thighs and the swollen, sensitive flesh between them, slow and light, watching her face for any flinch. She didn't flinch. She watched me, quiet, and her breath came shallow.

That was when I saw her hips. In the stripe of light from the hall, the skin was pink, and I could see the marks of my fingers on the soft curve where I'd held her, five on each side, just starting to darken.

"Damn it." I laid my palm over one of them, easy, the way I'd cover a burn. "I held you too hard."

"I asked you to."

"You asked for hard. You didn't ask to be bruised." I bent and pressed my mouth to the mark, once, and then the other side. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should have eased off."

"Don't you dare be sorry." Her voice had gone deep and husky, and her fingers slid into my hair. "I'm not. Are you always like this?"

"No." That was the truth. "Nobody's ever asked me to be."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she took my hand off her hip and held it against her chest, over her heart, and I felt it beating, quick and strong. She didn't say anything, and I didn't need her to.

I tucked the blanket around her and slid in beside her, pulling her against me, one hand spread over the small of her back, rubbing slow circles into the knotted muscle there until I felt her go loose. She lay along my side with her cheek on my chest and her hair stuck damp to my jaw, our skin cooling everywhere we touched. She traced the burn scar on my left forearm with one fingertip. She wasn't asking. So I told her some of it. A fire, a long time ago, that I'd always believed was my fault, whatever the report said. A tractor I'd gone back in for, which was not my smartest move. I hadn't told anyone in years, but it came up easy in the dark, with the stove ticking down and the wind working at the eaves. She listened without filling any of the silences, and when I ran out of words, she pressed her mouth once to the scar and left it alone. I pulled the blanket over her and felt her go heavy and trusting against me, and I slept better than I had in years.

First light came gray through the east window, and I knew before I opened my eyes. The blanket was tucked around me. She'd done that. The pillow beside mine still held the dent of her head and the last of her warmth. No red dress on the floor, no note, only the tabby in the doorway, watching me with her unblinking yellow eyes. I was up and pulling on my jeans before I'd thought about it. I'd found hikers lost in these mountains in the middle of winter. I'd find her. Then I remembered the first thing she'd said to me in that tent. You're off duty. I checked. No radio. She knew what I looked like on duty. That made her local, and local, I could find. The festival gates opened at ten, and I intended to be standing at them.

Chapter 5

Molly

Iwoke in my own bed at six with my hair still loose across the pillow and his smell still on my skin, and for three seconds it was the best morning of my life.