Page 6 of Bonfire with the Mountain Man

4

MAGGIE

He kisses me the whole way in from the fire.

We come through the propped door together, his hands not leaving me. The cold falls away behind us as the barrel room closes in, warm and dark.

He walks me backward—past the carboys, past the wash bench, into the rows where the barrels sit on their racks. One stands upright on its end near the back wall, full and sealed.

He stops us there, breaking the kiss just enough to look at me. “Maggie. Tell me what you want.”

My heart’s pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat. I’ve read about this. I’ve read a hundred versions of this in books I keep on the nightstand and never tell anybody about. But not one of them prepared me for the reality of a man waiting on my answer like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Because that’s the thing. He’s waiting. He’s not deciding for me.

“I’ve never done this,” I say. It comes out steadier than I feel. “Any of it. I want you to know that before, so you don’t find out after and think I should have said something.”

Something moves across his face. Not surprise. Something gentler and more careful than that.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “Nothing happens you don’t want. You say stop, we stop, and I pour you a drink and we go back to the apples. No questions. You hear me?”

I nod. I’m trembling, and I don’t even try to hide it.

“I don’t want to stop,” I say. “I want you. Here. Now.” I glance at the upright barrel behind me, the flat oak head of it at the height of my hip, and I feel my face go hot. “I want to be the one who chose it. Start to finish. That’s what I want.”

He takes my face in both hands. His palms are rough from the crank, warm from the fire. When he kisses me this time, it’s slow—a promise instead of a question.

“Then you choose,” he says against my mouth. “Every step. I’ll follow.”

He lifts me. His hands span my waist and set me up on the flat head of the barrel, the oak cool through my jeans. The whole cask is solid as stone under me, and I slide my hands through his hair and pull him in between my knees.

He works the button of my jeans open with those same steady hands, waiting for me to lift my hips. I do. The denim scrapes down my thighs, then my underwear with it, and the cool oak meets bare skin all at once. It pulls a sharp sound out of me.

The wood is flat and hard and already starting to warm where I sit. The full cask under me doesn’t give even a fraction. Boone looks up at me once, checking, and I nod.

He kneels.

The single bulb overhead throws a hard circle of light that leaves the rest of the barrel room in shadow. The smell of spirit and toasted oak is thick in the cold air, mixing with the smoke still caught in my hair and the leftover heat of the fire on both our skin. His palms slide up the insides of my thighs, rough from the press and the crank, and then his mouth is on me.

I gasp. The first stroke of his tongue is slow, deliberate, and the cold of the room against my back makes the wet heat of him feel almost unbearable. He licks me like he’s learning me, and I have to brace my hands on the edge of the barrel because my legs are already shaking.

He doesn’t rush. He waits for every small sound I make, every shift of my hips, and adjusts. When I rock forward, he stays with me. When I pull him closer by the hair, he gives me more of that flat, steady drag of his tongue over my clit until the pressure builds, sharp and bright behind my eyes.

“Boone—”

“I’ve got you,” he says against me, voice low. “You set it. Take what you need.”

I do. I move against his mouth, chasing it, and he follows every change in pace without once trying to take over. The oak under me is warmer now where I sit. My breath comes out short and broken.

When I come, it’s with a cry I don’t recognize as mine—thighs clamping around his head, the immovable weight of the cask the only thing keeping me upright. He stays with me through it, gentling, until I finally go still.

He rises. His mouth is wet. He looks at me like he’s still tasting me.

“Shirt,” he says, quiet. “I want to see you, Maggie.”

My hands go to the buttons of the flannel and then stop. I’ve never been looked at like this. Not specifically. Not by name. The shyness hits hard, heat climbing my throat. He waits. Doesn’t push. Just stands between my knees with the cold air and the single bulb and the smell of oak all around us, giving me the space to choose.

I slide the flannel off. Then the T-shirt. Then the bra. The cold finds my skin immediately, raising gooseflesh, but his gaze is hot. He can’t stop staring at my breasts.