Page 7 of Sparked By the Mountain Man Hotshot

“I won’t regret it Thursday.”

“Everybody regrets me by Thursday. It’s kind of my thing.”

I get the door open and step out into the gold afternoon, pointed down Prospect toward the kitchen and the service that’s supposed to save my life. I leave before he can tell me otherwise. Because he might mean it. And a man who means it is so much worse than a man who doesn’t.

4

REID

The last table clears at ten, and she doesn’t run.

That’s how I know. Two days of her bolting the second anything gets real, and tonight she comes out to the dark patio, apron off, hair down, stops in front of me, decided.

The lights are off, the street empty, and at dawn a truck takes me south for two weeks I no longer want. She holds still and looks at me anyway, because a man who’s already leaving is safe to want. He can’t stick around and turn into one more person who walks out on her.

“You didn’t go home,” she says.

“No.”

“I keep waiting for the part where you get bored and cut it short.”

“I’ve got until dawn.” I stand. “I’d rather not waste it.”

She glances at the empty street—the patio nobody’s watching—and something reckless and delighted crosses her face. “Here. Right where I’m supposed to be a professional. For two days, I’ve been scared to death of getting caught wanting you.” She steps into me, grinning, braver than I’ve seen her. “Turns out the fix is not caring who looks.”

I walk her into the deep shadow along the building, out of the streetlight. She follows, and I let go of the last careful distance I keep from anything I want.

Her back hits the cool brick, and she laughs under her breath, that same breathless sound she made when she said here. I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it, tasting the last of the kitchen on her mouth. She answers harder than I expect, fingers already working the buttons of my shirt, efficient even now, until the fabric hangs open and her palms slide over skin she’s never touched.

Her hands tremble, and I catch her wrists just long enough to look at her. Something in the way she holds still under my hands—eager, yes, but careful in a way that isn’t fear—makes me slow down.

“First time for a lot of things tonight,” I say, quietly enough that the empty street can’t hear. I study her face in the dark. “Including this. Am I right?”

Her grin softens but doesn’t disappear. She doesn’t look away. “You’re right. I’ve never…done this. Any of it.” A small breath. “I kept choosing second on purpose. Safer that way. But I’m not choosing second tonight.” Her hands slide up my chest, steady now. “I want this. I want you. I’m ready.”

The words land like a door opening. Eleven years of believing I don’t get to have this connection with someone, but here she is handing it to me. I kiss her again, slow and reverent even against brick, in a place we shouldn’t be.

“Good,” I murmur against her mouth. “Then we do it right.”

I strip her carefully, not because I’m careful with her but because I want to see every inch as it appears. Apron already gone. Dress unzips under my hands. She steps out of it and stands there in nothing but simple cotton, hair down around her shoulders, and for a second, the old clamp tightens around my heart—then gives way. I unhook her bra, slide the last of the cotton down her legs, and kneel.

The patio is shadowed, the street a few feet away and dead quiet. Somewhere, a truck will come at dawn, but right now, the only sound is her breathing and the soft scrape of my knees on stone.

I look up. She’s watching me, eyes wide, that careful self-denying woman discovering she likes being reckless. Her hand finds my hair, not pushing, just holding on.

I start with my mouth.

I kiss the inside of her thigh, then higher. When I finally put my tongue on her, she makes a sound she’s never made in the kitchen—surprised, almost delighted.

She’s wet already, the evidence of how long she’s been thinking about this, and I taste her like I’m learning the only map that matters. Fingers follow, two of them sliding in easily while my tongue works her clit in slow, steady circles.

She gasps, hips tilting, and I feel the exact second that nervous thrill tips into something deeper. Her free hand flattens on the brick. The other tightens in my hair.

“Reid—”

I don’t stop. I keep the rhythm unhurried even here, in a dark corner we’ve got no business being in. The risk is only excitement now—crew gone, town asleep, her decision not to care.

Her thighs start to shake, and I feel the way she tries, for half a second, to stay quiet, then abandons it. She comes with a broken little cry she can’t hold back, body tightening around my fingers, pulsing against my tongue. I stay with her through it, gentling only when she starts to get oversensitive, until she’s trembling and laughing under her breath like she can’t believe she just did that out here.