Page 24 of Working for the Mountain Man

It’s not quite a question. It’s him giving me an exit, making sure I know it’s there. "Yes," I say.

He reaches up and his hand comes to my jaw the way it did last night, but this time there is no stopping. He kisses me slowly, like he’s making up for every time he doesn't. His other hand finds my waist and pulls me in and I go, because I’m done pretending I don’t want to.

"I'm trying to be careful with you," he says, against my mouth.

"I know."

"I want you too much to be good at being careful."

"Hugo."

"Yeah."

"Stop talking."

He makes a low sound and kisses me harder, and we stumble back toward the cot, and I stop thinking about three weeks fromnow or Daniel or any of it. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his breathing already uneven, his hands at my hips like he is trying to decide something.

"Tell me to stop if you need me to," he says.

"I don't need you to stop."

He kisses me again, slower this time, and his hands slide under the hem of my sweater and find skin, and I make a sound against his mouth that I would be embarrassed about if I had any embarrassment left.

"Off," I say, pulling at his flannel.

He shrugs it off. Underneath is a thermal shirt and I pull at that too and he helps me, dragging it over his head, and then his hands are back on me and I have a moment of just looking at him, this broad, solid, serious man standing in firelight with his hands on my waist, watching me like I am the most important thing in the room.

I reach for my own sweater, but he stops me.

"Let me," he says.

He takes his time. Pulls it over my head slowly, unhooks my bra with a patience that undoes me a little, and then he just looks at me, standing in the warm light of the stove, and his jaw tightens.

"God," he says. Low, like he did not mean to say it out loud.

"Good or bad?" I ask.

"Good." His hands come up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing slowly, and my breath catches. "Very good."

He bends his head and puts his mouth on me, and I stop being clever about anything.

We end up on the cot in a tangle of the rest of our clothes coming off. He’s unhurried in a way that is almost maddening, his mouth moving down my throat, my collarbone, my stomach, and every time I try to rush him he pulls back and starts again slower.

"Hugo."

"Yeah."

"I need you to?—"

"I know what you need."

"Then—"

"Elsie." His voice is rough and certain. "Give me a minute."

I give him the minute and he makes good use of it. His hand slides between my thighs and I stop forming sentences entirely. He watches my face while he touches me, not looking away, and that alone is almost too much, the focused, careful attention of him.

"There," he says, when I gasp. "Okay."