Tate (Mountain Men 3)

She bites her lip. “Oh.”

“It’s not common knowledge that my father’s ill, and fucking no one knows that Mac and Leith are married.”

“What? Seriously? Of course they must, they have family…”

“It’s kept as quiet as possible.”

“How can… people not know that?”

I exhale, trying to be patient. She literally didn’t know. “Because we’re reclusive here in the mountains. We don’t share our information freely. It can be used against us and has been.”

“Jesus.” She winces, and it’s the first indication of real guilt she’s given me. I feel myself softening toward her. She really didn’t know.

“No one knows the location of our interrogation room, the hierarchy of the bodyguards we hire.” I pause. “I should say, no one did. Until the books were released.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a breath. “I didn’t know, I truly didn’t. Maybe you should take me to your brothers. Let them deal with me properly.”

By instinct, I fist her hair, tug her head back, and her eyes fly open, meeting mine.

“Are you implying I didn’t do a good enough job?”

She moves to shake her head but obviously can’t when I’m holding onto her so tightly.

“No, Tate,” she whispers. “I mean maybe they should be… harsher.”

I drag her face closer to mine, only a breath apart.

“Do you need more than what I gave you?” I reach a hand to her arse and cup it.

“Maybe I should die,” she says, her eyes watering. “Maybe you should get rid of me. What would you do if it were anyone else?”

This is no ploy for mercy or sympathy. She’s earnest.

I blink in surprise, shocked at where she’s taken this.

“It would depend.”

My gaze focuses on the way she bites her plump, luscious lips. Her ragged breath tells me she’s either nervous or aroused. Probably both.

“Depend on what?” she whispers, her pupils dilated. With her body flush up against mine, I can feel every inch of her. Every goddamn inch.

“Who they were,” I whisper back. “What they were planning on doing next. Their status, financially and socially.” I brush my lips across the apple of her cheek, loving the way her eyelids flutter closed and a soft pink colors her skin. “But none would ever be as beautiful as you.”

“How can you call me beautiful?” Her eyes flutter open, and she holds my gaze. “What I’ve done should make me hideous to you.”

Now that I’ve finally gotten the confession I was after, why don’t I feel the satisfaction I expected? I wanted the truth. I wanted repentance. Now I have it all, and my only thought is to ease her discomfort.

I roll her over onto her back, and she takes in a quick breath when her arse comes in contact with the bed sheets. I gather her wrists in my hand and push them carefully against the bed, then position myself with a knee on either side of her. She’s trapped beneath me. I eye her with the steely conviction of someone who knows they’re stronger and more powerful, and a slow smile spreads over her face.

“Maybe I should swim with the fishes,” she whispers. I feel a corner of my lips quirk up.

“Never,” I growl, silencing her taunting with a kiss. My mouth meets hers, and her body rises to meet me. Her wrists still pinned in my grip, she can only lift her hips, arching into me with abandon. I slide my tongue against hers, relishing the sweet, sultry, seductive taste of her, and she releases a harsh, gasping breath that I swallow, owning her. Possessing her. Making her mine.

I want her lips swollen and branded by me. Her body marked and aching for me. Every inch of her… mine.

I press my swollen cock, still trapped in fabric, against her heated pussy, and she moves her hips to meet me.

“Tate,” she whispers, losing herself to this. I kiss her forehead, her cheek, the soft curve of her chin. I kiss her jaw, her neck, and down the tempting slope of her breasts until I reach her hardened nipple. I let my tongue dance against dusky pink, just a glimmer of a touch, but it’s enough to make her tremble.

I pull the nipple fully into my mouth as I move my hips against her belly, so hard, so fucking turned on, all I can think of is fucking her like this. Just like this. I want to feel the walls of her pussy hugging my cock, her full breasts pressed up against my chest. I want to feel her slick, heated entrance, and feel the way she melts against me when I enter her.

“Tate,” she repeats. “Oh, God. Do you mean to punish me further?”

I do, but I want to hear what she’s thinking. I release her nipple. “How?”

“By torturing me,” she groans. “By turning me on then leaving me hanging. Seriouslyyyy.”