Page 4 of Knotted by the Mountain Man Dragon

We’re alone.

“You should—” He closes his eyes. Opens them. Gold, all gold. “You should tell me to back off.”

“Why?”

“Because I can smell what you want and if you don’t tell me no in the next five seconds, I am not going to be able to stop.”

Five seconds is generous. I don’t even last two.

“I won’t say no.”

He moves so fast I gasp. One second I’m standing in the middle of his garage holding my car keys, and the next his hands are on my waist, my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and I’m on the hood of a car with my legs parted and him between them.

“Oh my God—”

“Cage.”

“What?”

“You’re going to say my name.” His hands find the front of my shirt. “Not God’s.”

He grabs the fabric and rips it open.

Buttons scatter across the hood and hit the concrete floor like tiny gunshots. Cool air rushes across my skin and I gasp. Then his hands are on me, huge and warm and callused, sliding up my ribs. He makes a sound in his throat at the sight of me in my black lace bra. It’s low, raw, almost pained.

He pulls it down. Doesn’t unclasp it, just drags the cups below my breasts with one rough motion so they spill free, and his hands cover them immediately. His palms are hot. Impossibly hot. His thumbs drag across my nipples and I arch into him and moan.

“Fuck.” He says it with awe. His hands squeeze, knead, his thumbs circling and pressing, and then he leans down and drags his mouth across the top of my breast and I feel teeth, just barely, and I nearly come apart.

Then he kisses me.

I have been kissed before. This is nothing like that. This is his mouth taking mine like he’s claiming territory, one hand fisted in my hair and the other gripping my thigh hard enough to bruise. He kisses like he’s furious about it, like kissing isn’t nearly enough, and I am completely, deliriously, embarrassingly into it.

I can feel him. Through his jeans, pressed against the inside of my thigh. He’s huge. I mean, of course he is, look at him. Hard and radiating heat like a furnace.

I moan against his mouth and he growls. Actually growls. The sound rumbles up from his chest and vibrates against my lips and I feel it in places that have no business responding to sound waves.

“Cage—”

“Again.”

“Cage, I do freelance marketing. I’m a professional. I’ve never… I don’t—”

“I know.” He drags his mouth down my jaw, my throat. Inhales against my pulse point and makes a sound like I just ruined him. “I know what’s happening. You’re reacting to me. Your body knows what I am.”

“What are you?”

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are fully molten. Not a trace of brown left. There’s a faint shimmer along his jaw, like light catching on something that isn’t skin, there and gone.

“Your mate.”

“Oh God—oh—”

“What did I say?” He hooks his fingers into my panties and pulls. The fabric tears. Actually tears. He shoves the ruined scrap into his back pocket—his pocket—and then his hands slide under my thighs, lifting them, spreading them, pushing my knees toward my chest until I’m completely open on the hood of this car and he’s leaning over me and the cool garage air hits where I am absolutely, mortifyingly soaked.

He looks down at me. He looks at what he’s uncovered with an expression I will remember forever.

“So wet for me,” he says. Low. Reverent. Wrecked. “My good little omega. Look at you. So beautiful.”