Page 33 of Protected By the Mountain Man

Our conversation the other night put distance between us, although it didn’t pull us apart completely. Brooke might have been upset when I turned her down but I know she didn’t realize what she was offering. What turning our relationship physical would have meant.

Fuck.

Images flash through my head. Brooke laid out on my bed, waiting for me, spread for me, wet for me. Her lush curves ready for my hands. Her sex slick with want.

Fuck.

I bet she tastes incredible.

My dick pulses in my hand, my balls lifting as I work myself harder. Faster. I’m used to dealing with this myself. I’ve had the occasional bed partner, no one who stuck around for long, but in the last decade that’s been fewer than a handful of women.

And not one of them inspired the level of desire I have for Brooke.

A woman I shouldn’t want.

A woman over a decade younger.

A woman I can’t get out of my head no matter how much I try.

A woman I want to pound my dick into over and over.

Fuck.

Pressure builds in my groin, heat rising up my spine, and I quicken my pace, yank on my dick like my life depends on it, and grit my teeth to keep the guttural groan trapped in my throat as shots of come hit the shower wall.

Eyes closed, I breathe deep and shudder through the orgasm I know won’t bring any real relief. At this point nothing short of getting between Brooke’s legs will give me that. Then again, burying my dick in her once won’t ease the lust flowing in my blood.

I should be disgusted with myself for using Brooke to get off. I’m not. She might not know what she wants, but I do. I want her and I’m pretty sure I’m willing take whatever she offers me. Friend, lover, wife. I’ll take any scrap I can get.

That might make me a pathetic middle-aged man—and I wish the thought made me reconsider my plan—except the thought of not having Brooke in my life leaves the blood in my veins running cold. I might not have had a serious relationship, might not have had any kind of relationship beyond casual sex, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know what one should be.

I watched my parents live and love and know what it means to be gifted a partner who complements you. Brooke is that person for me. There might be tension between us, might be a dark cloud hanging over us in the form of her prick of an ex, but in the last week we’ve synced in a way I never dreamed possible.

That dark cloud is what’s holding me back. I want to move forward. Get to know her better, take her out to dinner, show her the land I love so much. Except I can’t do any of that until her past is just that, her past.

Which reminds me, I need to take a look at the security feeds and check in with Felix. Being snowed in and having uninterrupted time with Brooke has made me slack. I’ve let what’s happening beyond this house’s walls stay there for the last couple of days and while I’m glad we’re caught inside by this storm because she needed the break, it’s time to move things along.

Time to dig deep and remove the prick from Brooke’s life once and for all.

Shutting off the shower, I step out and grab a towel. I’m not sure what it is that stops me from drying off. An unusual sound on the other side of the bathroom door? Whatever it is, I wrap the towel around my hips and reach into the top drawer of the vanity.

The Sig P365 isn’t my preferred weapon, but it will do for now.

Turning the door handle slowly, I hold my breath and concentrate on the sounds coming from my bedroom. There isn’t anything I can pinpoint, no blaring alarm or shouting or movement. Whatever has my senses on alert is more subtle than any of those.

With a slowness I’m struggling to maintain, I ease the door open and freeze in place.

Tucked down at the side of my bed, legs bent, knees pressed to her chest is Brooke. Her face is ashen. Her eyes wide. And I don’t need to guess why she’s cowering in my room. She’s not one to spook easily.

My gaze bounces to the bedroom door and I smile. It’s closed. From here I can’t see the lock but I’d bet my life she’s locked it.

On light feet, I move over to where she is and crouch down. “Talk to me,” I whisper.

“Kitchen. Window. Outside.” Her breath is labored, short and sharp, and each inhale has my own chest tightening. This close I can see she’s shaking. Vibrating from head to toe.

“Your ex?” I keep my voice low. “What color was his shirt?”

“Green. Dark.” She licks her lips. Swallows hard before adding, “Uniform. He’s wearing his hospital uniform.”