Page 84 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

My hands move down his chest to the hem of his shirt, finding the heat of his skin and the hard lines of his stomach. I push it up, and he breaks the kiss just long enough for me to peel it away. He lifts me without asking, my thighs wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. I taste salt and want on his shoulder, and his hands grip beneath my ass so tightly that I gasp out loud.

He lowers me gently onto the bed and steps back. The light from the hallway cuts a sharp line across his body, illuminating the muscles tensing in his arms. I want him the way I want to be split open by sensation, emptied of everything but this.

I pull off my leggings and sweater, almost in one motion, letting them drop to the floor. He watches, lips parted, and the hunger in his face is almost a physical thing. My skin breaks into goosebumps under his gaze, as heat gathers at my core, an ache so deep it feels like hunger. He undresses without theatrics, but every movement is deliberate. He peels off his jeans and briefs together, his cock straining against the waistband until it springs free, dark and thick and so beautifully hard.

Rocco kneels onto the mattress, the bed dipping beneath his weight. For a moment, both of us hover in some tense, hungry pause. Rocco moves over me, his hand gripping my calf and dragging it over his hip, opening me wider for him. The air around us is cold, but my body is molten, every nerve awake and greedy for what he will do next. He kisses me again, slower now, biting at my lower lip until I moan into his mouth and dig my nails into his shoulders.

His hand moves down, cupping my breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and finger until it hardens to a sharp ache. I want to taunt him, to say I told you so, you want this as much as I do, but the words tangle up in my throat and scatter when he slips his other hand between my legs.

What if I tell him I know we’re meant to be together … that I was meant to come to Cady Springs at precisely this time? My thoughts remain unsaid.

Rocco says plenty without words as his palm caresses my inner thigh. His hand feels hot and heavy as he spreads his fingers, covering more of me without touching the place that matters most. He drags the backs of his knuckles slowly up the seam, so light it’s torture, until I can’t help rocking my hips, chasing friction. My own wetness is already slick between my legs, and when his thumb presses into the crease beside my labia, I groan. Not from surprise, but from the confirmation that I am as ready for him as I have ever been for anything.

He slides two fingers between my folds and strokes upward, drawing a line from my entrance to my clit, circling it once before returning to slide slowly inside. His fingers are thick and warm, and there is nothing tentative about the way he moves. It’s as if he already knows exactly how I want to be touched, ruthlessly but with all the attention in the world. That’s how he notices everything.

Rocco curves his fingers just so, rubbing the pad against the place that matters, and the shock of sensation makes me buck up into his hand. He watches my face as I shudder, the pleasure almost too much, and then he withdraws to draw slow, deliberate circles around my clit. The sound I make is embarrassing, high and uncontrolled, but he rewards it by pinning my thigh open with his arm and lowering his mouth to my breast. He sucks the nipple deep, hard enough to border on pain, and I am greedy enough to want it to hurt a little. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he moans against my skin, the vibration igniting every nerve in my body.

He moves down my body, kissing and biting a path across my ribs, my stomach, then lower, until I feel the heat of his breath against my wetness. He doesn’t tease, not at first. His tongue is as focused as the rest of him, parting me with a rough, confident stroke, as if every moment he’s spent watching and waiting for this is now being translated into precise attention.

I thought I’d feel shy, exposed, but there’s nothing clinical about the way he uses his mouth. He’s greedy for it, his hands locking my hips to the bed while his lips and tongue work me in a slow, devastating way. Every time I gasp, he groans against my skin, as if each sound is a confirmation that I belong to him.

He slips two fingers inside me again, curling them in that perfect way, and the pressure of his tongue on my clit makes my head slam back against the pillow. I want to last, to savor this, but the sensation is so intense I’m unraveling by the second.

Rocco is relentless, his pace increasing as he senses how close I am. His hand on my thigh goes rigid, holding me in place as I start to shake. I want to tell him yes, yes, I want this, but all I can do is ride the trembling edge as he sucks my clit between his lips and drives his fingers deeper, curling them inside me like he means to claim the place no one else has ever reached.

My orgasm comes with startling force, obliterating everything except the points where we touch. I feel his mouth, fingers, and hands holding my hips firmly to the bed.

When it finally ebbs, I’m wrecked. Sweat dampens my hair against the pillow, my thighs shuddering around his hand. Rocco eases his fingers from me and licks them clean, eyes on my face, the gesture so intimate it nearly undoes me a second time. He moves up the bed, crawling over me, and the mattress shifts beneath his weight. For a moment, he just hovers there, arms braced on either side of my shoulders, watching my face as if he wants to be sure I am still with him, that I am exactly where I want to be. I am … so much so that I ache with it. My body is still coiled and thrumming from the aftershocks, but the need for him is just as sharp and immediate as before, maybe more so.

Rocco kisses me, and the taste of myself on his tongue should be embarrassing, but instead it feels like another kind of possession. I tighten my legs around his waist and drag him deeper, holding him there as though I can prevent either of us from ever leaving this moment.

There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation, only the slow, deliberate way he slides inside, stretching me open until I can’t breathe. I cannot tell where I end and he begins. For a moment, we are both perfectly still, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort it takes not to fuck me hard and fast.

His teeth are bared, jaw clenched, and the look on his face is half agony, half awe, as if he can’t believe I am letting him do this, that I want him this much.

I roll my hips up, desperate to take more of him, and he groans, one hand gripping my hip and the other braced beside my head. The first thrust is shallow, a testing movement, but I arch up to meet him, greedy for the full force of it. He gives it to me with the next stroke, deeper, a collision that sends the headboard thumping softly against the wall.

Every part of me learns the shape of him, the rhythm, the ways our bodies find each other in the half-dark. He fucks me slow at first, the kind of deliberate, controlled motion that tells me how long he has wanted this, how much of him is focused on not losing it too soon.

It’s exquisite torture. He stretches me with each stroke until I feel almost too full, and every time I think he’ll pull back, he pushes deeper. The helpless sounds leaving my mouth are loud in the quiet of the cabin, and I don’t care if anyone in the surrounding woods can hear. Let them. I want the universe to know exactly what he is doing to me.

Rocco watches my face as he drives into me, his eyes locked on mine, every movement a question. Is this what you want? Is this enough? The answer is always yes, and I give it with my body, my voice, the way I arch and shiver and dig my nails into his back until he hisses through his teeth and thrusts harder. I want to memorize every detail of this. I want to be ruined by this and rebuilt from the inside out. He fucks like he lives, with determined focus, every muscle straining for control. But his need is wild and barely contained. Every time I clench around him, he growls, low in his chest, and the sound makes me want him more.

I rake my nails down his back, leaving marks. He bares his teeth, eyes never leaving my face, and drives into me so hard I gasp. “Yes,” I say, barely a whisper, but he hears it and answers with a hand sliding up my side, cupping my breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaks again and my whole body tightens.

My hands are everywhere, greedy and uncoordinated, like my body is trying to memorize his. I want to consume him the way he is consuming me, to give back what he gives and match every ounce of his hunger with my own.

When his hand closes around my wrists, I let him guide them above my head. He holds them there with one broad palm while he drives into me, slow and deep. The position leaves me open to the rhythm he chooses, and I surrender to it because I want everything he is giving me.

I give up the last pretense of restraint, crying out as he drives into me, my body clenching desperately around his cock. He mutters my name into my ear, the sound raw and nearly unrecognizable. Each time he says it, it feels like a new claim, as if he is etching himself into my skin, my bones, the slick ache between my thighs.

I have never felt so much and wanted so much, all at once. Every thrust, every touch, every sound he makes, tears something open and then fills it with more of him. I want to keep him inside me forever, to keep feeling the hard, perfect shape of his cock stretching me, to keep seeing the wild, helpless look in his eyes. He lets go of my wrists and kisses me, swallowing my moans as he fucks me.

His hand slides between our bodies, searching for my clit, and when he finds it, the electric shock of sensation rips through me so violently I bite down on his lip. He groans, the sound vibrating through his whole body, and then he pounds into me even harder, fucking me until I’m pinned to the mattress and the only thing I can do is take it, take all of him, take everything he wants to give me.

I want to drag him deeper, hold him there until he splits me apart. I am already close, embarrassingly so, and he knows it. Rocco’s thumb circles my clit while his cock stretches me open. And when I come, the force of it almost frightens me.

I see nothing, feel nothing, except the white-hot pulse of release as it tears through every nerve. I tighten around him, and for a second he loses his rhythm, his control, fucking me in short, desperate thrusts as the orgasm rolls through my body in waves.