Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“Fran.” One word, one syllable, a warning I should heed.

I open my mouth to talk, but no words come out.

“We’ll start with you stripping, then."

I blink in surprise and try to laugh it off. “Oh, Tate. I didn't know that you were interested in me like that."

I expect him to deny it. I expect him to say something all macho like, "This has nothing to do with my attraction to you. This is about me researching for our Clan." But he says nothing of the sort. He looks at me with bald truth in his eyes, the kind of look that’s honest. The kind that makes you want to be honest yourself.

He leans in, lowering his voice so it’s a whisper against my cheek. "Don't you realize that if I didn't want you for myself, I would've gone straight to my brothers?"

Oh God. Yes. This makes sense. I don't know if I’m excited or more afraid than ever.

“I guess you could've done that," I say diplomatically, my words drowned out by the pounding in my ears, the rapid beating of my heart making me feel lightheaded and woozy. Again, I war with excitement and fear, a delicious combination that leaves me breathless.

He wants me.

He’s going to punish me.

But he wants me.

How does a man who wants a woman punish her?

"Of course I could have. Instead, I decided that I’d take you alone. Here, in the privacy of my cabin, where you’re going to tell me everything." He jerks his head to the bedroom. “First, go to my room.”

He takes my arm, and I feel all tingly and lightheaded as he leads me to the bedroom. There's nothing seductive about what he's doing right now, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment. This is nothing more than marching me off to face my punishment. I feel as if I'm being hauled into the headmaster’s office.

"Oh," I say in what I hope is a seductive tone. "Am I getting marched to the headmaster’s office to be paddled?"

He grunts. "Absolutely."

Oh God. I thought that he was going to deny it or make some quip about punishing a different way. But apparently, that’s exactly what he has in mind, dammit.

He lets me go when we're in his room, and I quickly take a look around. It's fucking gorgeous, with the continuation of muted colors and clean lines, a sturdy bed, and a faintly masculine scent that lingers. I wasn’t prepared for how this would feel, seeing the lion’s lair in person. Excitement ripples through me at the sight of the navy duvet, and fluffy white pillows. Does he bring women here? I perish the thought.

I can see the toilet from here, complete with an ancient clawfoot tub, everything gleaming white and silver, clean and tiled. There's a stand-up shower as well, a nice touch so no one needs to be subjected to antiquated ways. But to the left there's a door that leads out to a patio. From here, I can see a circular fire pit, and comfortable-looking chairs. And is that a bar? Everything's glass windows.

I feel so exposed here.

“Clothes off.”

“Wow, so no foreplay then?”

He responds with a growl. I quickly move to obey.

He goes over to a side table and pours himself a few fingers of scotch. Then he slouches into an overstuffed armchair, looking comfortable and at ease, the exact opposite of me.

“You know if you do this, your sisters will never forgive you.”

It’s definitely a last-ditch effort.

“And you know if I don’t, my brothers will never forgive me. My sisters are far more forgiving.”

Lovely.

“Now start stripping, before I do it for you, and believe me… you don’t want that.”

My fingers fumble over fabric, and I'm well aware of the rigid line of his cock, the way his eyes are half-lidded, as if he can't hold back his lust.

I feel like a total jerk for writing these books about his Clan, for putting them in any type of dangerous situation. And now I want to tell him. But I don't speak while I take off my clothes down to my knickers and bra. I just start stripping, letting them fall to the floor in a puddle. Fabric glides over my naked skin, heightening my senses as he undresses me along with his eyes.

I’m squirming under his gaze, and it surprises me how wobbly my voice is. I feel suddenly like I'm under a spotlight, as if there’s nothing in the world more mortifying than taking off my clothes and standing half-naked in front of Tate Cowen.

I'm a curvy girl, with pretty big tits, and an arse to boot. I cover things up with scarves and flowy clothes and leggings and whatnot, and I never go to the beach in anything less than a simple black one-piece suit and a little dress to cover things up.