Page 16 of Mountain Men on Ice

“Stevie,” he says, voice raw. “You’ll ruin me, Rockstar.”

“Maybe I’ll heal you instead,” I murmur.

I kiss him again. It’s slower now, deeper. His hands settle—finally—spanning my waist.

He lets me set the rhythm and the pace as I lean in to kiss him. He lets me lead as I stroke his chest and encourage him to cup my breasts with whispered praises.

When I rock forward, testing the give of the couch and the line of his body, he exhales my name. His cock presses against my core and we groan together as we move. Pressing ourselves against each other.

Feeding the pleasure brewing within us.

I feel, more than hear, the moment he lets go of the need to be the one holding the house up. He lets me.

“You already have healed me,” he says into my mouth as he slides his hands under my shirt and cups my breasts. “More than you’ll ever know.”

His thumb swipes over my nipple. Heat pools low and bright. I need more. I need all of him.

I take his wrists and lay his palms flat against my ribcage under my shirt. His fingers are warm and callused and reverent in a way that makes my throat tight.

He goes very still. “Stevie.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and peel my shirt over my head, the fire gilding everything in copper. The storm mutters at the windows and I forget there’s a world beyond them.

His gaze drops. He sees it—the teeny, tiny notes, black ink tucked just under my left ribs, right where the breath is shallow when I’m nervous.

The opening of “Landslide.” The first song I ever learned to sing all the way through. The song Mom used to sing as a lullaby.

He touches the ink with his thumb, careful, tracing the curve of the notes like they’re a coastline. Something like wonder crosses his face.

“Rockstar,” he says softly. “It suits you.”

“Not many people have ever seen it.” A small smile tugging. “You’re one of the special ones.

“No.” He tenderly traces the notes again. “I’m the lucky one.”

“It’s ‘Landslide,’” I tell him, voice shaking. “The opening notes so I always have a reminder of where to begin.”

He looks up, and I’m not ready for what’s in his eyes: pride, yes, and heat, yes—but something steadier too.

“I could learn a lesson or two from you,” he says. “I sometimes feel like I was born missing the first few pages of the story.”

I laugh for one bright second and then forget how because his mouth is on my skin again, and his hands are learning me, and the fire is a drum in my ears.

I find the hem of his hoodie, tug. He lets me pull it off, breathless, tattoos catching light—the cross near his heart.

The script he pretends he doesn’t regret.

The spread of wings across his back I want to trace like a prayer. I

Tonight, I do. I lay my palms on his shoulders and slide them down, slow, feeling the strength there and the surrender.

He shivers, surprised, when I kiss along the edge of the cross, and it undoes me, how tender he is when no one’s looking.

The couch creaks when I move. His leg twinges once and I shift, immediately, instinctively, guiding his thigh where it needs to be, bracing with my calves. He groans—this time it’s not pain—and my name is a grit-edged vow.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s a sound I want to keep.