Bossy Mountain Daddies: A Reverse Harem Romance, page 9
The sun is high overhead and I’m feeling hot. I stand, stretching my back. "Want to cool off?" I nod toward the pool beneath the waterfall.
Her eyebrows lift. "I didn't bring a swimsuit."
"Me neither. Don't need 'em," I say, pulling my t-shirt over my head. Her eyes find me, lingering on my chest. "Boxers work just fine."
I kick off my boots, then unbuckle my jeans, watching her face. She's trying not to stare, but not doing a very good job. I step out of my jeans, standing in just my black boxers.
"Coming?" I ask, then walk to the edge of the pool and dive in.
The water is bracingly cold, a shock to the system that feels amazing after sitting in the sun. I surface, pushing wet hair from my face. I see Skye standing at the edge, hesitating.
"Too cold?" I call to her.
She shakes her head, then pulls her shirt off in one fluid motion. She's wearing a simple black bra, nothing fancy, but my heart thuds at the sight of her bare skin.
She shimmies out of her jeans, revealing matching black underwear, then stands there for a moment.
"Stop staring," she says, but she's smiling.
"Can't help it," I admit. "You're gorgeous, Skye."
She blushes, then jumps in, gasping when she surfaces. "Holy shit, that's cold!"
I laugh, swimming toward her. "You get used to it."
"Liar," she says, teeth chattering slightly.
I reach for her, pulling her closer, our legs brushing beneath the water. "Body heat helps," I murmur.
Her arms wrap around my neck, our bodies aligning. The cold recedes, replaced by a different kind of awareness.
"Better?" I ask, my voice rough.
She nods, her eyes on my mouth. "Much."
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't. Instead, she closes the distance, her lips meeting mine.
The kiss deepens, her body pressing against mine in the water. Her hands tangle in my wet hair, and I grip her waist, pulling her even closer. We fit together perfectly, like we've known each for years instead of days.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Water droplets cling to her eyelashes, and I brush them away gently with my thumb.
"Still cold?" I ask.
She laughs, the sound echoing off the rock walls around us. "Not anymore."
Her laugh hits me right in the center of my chest, and I know I'm falling for her—this woman who walked into my bar with her broken car and broken heart, who's going to leave as soon as both are fixed. And I'll let her go when the time comes, because that's what she needs. But for now, in this hidden place with the water swirling around us, I'll take whatever she's willing to give.
Chapter 10
Skye
The cold water bites at my skin as Griff's mouth moves against mine, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me closer. His tongue traces my bottom lip, and I open to him.
My body is caught between two sensations—burning desire and numbing cold—and for a moment, I can't tell which is winning. But then a shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with his touch, and I reluctantly pull away.
"I'm freezing," I admit, my teeth starting to chatter.
His eyes search mine, and he nods. "Come on," he says, taking my hand and leading me toward the shore. Water streams down our bodies as we emerge, the air warm against my wet skin. Griff grabs the blanket we were sitting on earlier and wraps it around my shoulders.
"Better?" he asks, his voice rough.
I nod, clutching the edges of the blanket and trying to get my teeth to stop chattering. "Much. But what about you?"
He shrugs, droplets sliding down his chest, following the contours of his muscles. "I run hot."
I can't help but laugh at the understatement. Everything about him is hot—the way he looks at me, the way his wet boxers cling to his thighs, the intensity in his eyes as they travel over my body.
He glances around the clearing, then starts gathering our things. "Come with me," he says, nodding toward a cluster of trees to our right. "There's a spot over there that's more private."
I follow him, the blanket dragging behind me like a cape, our wet footprints marking our path across the sun-warmed rocks. He leads me to a small, grassy area partially hidden by a grouping of pines. The waterfall is still visible, but we're tucked away from the main clearing, screened by trees and boulders.
Griff spreads our things out on the grass. I stand watching him, suddenly shy despite the intimacy we've already shared.
He looks up at me, a question in his eyes. "We don't have to—"
"I want to," I say quickly, letting the blanket slip from my shoulders. The air hits my wet skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, but it's not from the cold this time.
He crosses the space between us in two strides. His hands cup my face, tilting it up to his. "You're fucking incredible, Skye. I can’t keep my hands off you," he murmurs, then kisses me.
We sink to the blanket together. His hands are everywhere—stroking my sides, cupping my breasts through the wet fabric of my bra, sliding down to grip my hips. I arch into his touch, my hands exploring the broad expanse of his back, the solid muscles of his shoulders.
"You're still cold," he says against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.
"Then warm me up," I challenge.
His eyes darken, and he reaches behind me to unclasp my bra. I lift my arms, letting him slide the wet fabric away. His gaze is hungry as it takes me in, and I can hardly wait until his mouth is on me.
"Let me see what I can do," he breathes, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.
I gasp, my back arching off the blanket. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks shooting through me. One of his hands slides down my stomach to the waistband of my underwear, fingers teasing along the edge.
"These need to come off," he says, looking up at me.
I lift my hips, letting him drag the wet fabric down my legs. His eyes roam over my naked body with such open appreciation that I feel myself flush with pleasure.
"Your turn," I say, tugging at the waistband of his boxers.
He grins, that sexy dimple making an appearance, and hooks his thumbs under the elastic. In one smooth motion, he strips them off, tossing them aside.
My breath catches in my throat. He's magnificent—all hard planes and angles, his cock standing proud from a tangle of dark hair. He's thick and long, and the thought of him inside me makes me squirm.
I reach out, wrapping my fingers around his length. He hisses, his eyes closing briefly at my touch. I push him gently to lay back on the blanket.
"I've been thinking about this all day," I say.
His eyes widen slightly, and a low growl escapes him as I lower my head, taking him into my mouth. The taste of him is clean—lake water and manliness—and I swirl my tongue around the head, enjoying the way his thighs tense beneath my hands.
I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, using my hand to stroke what I can't fit in my mouth. His fingers tangle in my hair, not pushing, just holding on like he needs something to anchor him.
"Jesus, Skye," he groans, his voice strained. "Your mouth is fucking perfect."
His words send a thrill through me. Everything with Griff is different. The sounds he makes, the way his body responds to my touch, the way he watches me—it all combines to make me feel powerful, desirable, so incredibly wanted.
I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, my hand working in rhythm with my mouth. His breathing grows ragged, his hips starting to move slightly, meeting my strokes.
"Wait," he gasps suddenly, gently pulling me off him. "I want to be inside you."
He reaches for his wallet, pulling a condom from it. I watch as he tears the packet open with his teeth, rolling it on quickly. Then he's pulling me into his lap, my thighs straddling his.
"Like this," he murmurs, hands guiding my hips.
I lower myself onto him slowly, gasping as he fills me completely. His hands grip my waist, steadying me as I adjust to his size. When he's deep inside me, we both pause, breathing each other's air.
"You feel incredible," he whispers against my lips.
I begin to move, lifting myself up and then sinking back down, establishing a rhythm that has us both groaning. His hands slide from my waist to my ass, guiding my movements, occasionally squeezing in a way that makes me gasp.
The angle is perfect, hitting all the right spots inside me. I brace my hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure builds. He watches me intently, his eyes never leaving mine, even as sweat beads on his forehead and his jaw clenches with the effort of restraint.
"Let go," he urges, one hand moving between us to find my clit. "I've got you."
His fingers circle it slowly at first and then quicker. My orgasm tears through me, so fucking intense. I cry out his name, my body clenching around his cock in rhythmic waves.
He holds me through it, murmuring encouragement, his hips still moving beneath mine. As I come down from the high, he increases his pace, his thrusts becoming more urgent. I lean down and brace myself on either side of his neck, kissing him deeply as his rhythm falters.
With a groan that seems torn from his very core, he comes, his body tensing beneath mine, his face buried in my neck. I hold him tightly, feeling the thundering of his heart against my chest.
We stay like that, neither of us willing to break the connection. Eventually, I lift my head, brushing my hair back from my face.
"Was the cold plunge worth it?" he asks, a smile tugging at his lips.
I laugh softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to that irresistible dimple. "Most definitely."
I get up and slip my clothes back on, minus the wet bra and panties. Griff does the same and we both settle back down onto the blanket and stare up at the impossibly blue sky. The sound of the waterfall creates a soothing backdrop to our slowing breaths. In this moment, I feel utterly content—no thoughts of expensive car parts or cheating boyfriends or uncertain futures. Just this man, this place, this perfect afternoon.
"We should probably head back soon," Griff says eventually, though he makes no move to get up.
"Probably," I agree, equally reluctant to end this moment.
I roll onto my side and place my head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart and marveling at how comfortable this feels.
With Daniel, sex had always felt like a transaction—something to be completed efficiently before moving on to the next item on his mental agenda. This leisurely aftermath, this quiet connection, is new to me. And I find myself wanting more of it, more of him, more of everything he makes me feel.
The sun hangs low in the sky by the time we make it back to Devil's Pass. My hair has dried in wild waves from the lake water, and Griff's is sticking up in places where he ran his fingers through it after taking his helmet off. We probably look like two people who spent the afternoon having sex by a waterfall. I try to smooth down my hair as we walk through the door, but I'm pretty sure there’s not much I can do with it at this point.
Vanna is wiping down tables, Loverboy napping under a table nearby. She looks up when we enter, her eyes taking in our rumpled appearance, and a knowing smile spreads across her face.
"Well, well," she says, straightening up and placing a hand on her hip. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Griff chuckles beside me, seemingly unbothered by her teasing. "We were up at the waterfall. Gorgeous day," he says, his voice neutral, but the way his hand brushes against the small of my back feels possessive.
"I bet it was," Vanna replies, her eyes twinkling.
"Vanna," Griff warns, but there's no bite in his tone.
She laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. You two have been giving each other those looks since she got here."
"What looks?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Like you want to devour each other," she says bluntly. "Like two hungry wolves."
Griff shakes his head, but I catch the small smile tugging at his lips. He turns to me, his expression softening. "I should head home, get cleaned up. I’m scheduled to open tomorrow."
"Okay," I say, suddenly uncertain how to say goodbye after everything we've shared today. Do I kiss him? Shake his hand? Wave awkwardly?
He solves the dilemma by leaning down and pressing a quick, firm kiss to my lips. "See you tomorrow," he murmurs.
"Tomorrow," I echo stupidly, watching as he nods to Vanna and heads out the door.
When I turn back, Vanna is watching me with a softer expression. "He's a good one," she says simply. "Rough on the outside, but solid gold underneath."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
"I'm going up to change," I say, already moving toward the stairs. "Be back down for dinner in a bit."
In my small room, I peel off my clothes, which smell faintly of lake water. My body aches pleasantly, little reminders of the afternoon. In the shower, I watch as pine needles and bits of grass wash down the drain, evidence of our makeshift bed by the waterfall.
What am I doing? This wasn't part of the plan. Get my car fixed, get to Wyoming, figure out my life—that was the agenda. Nowhere on that list was "have mind-blowing sex with the incredibly hot bar owner." And yet, here I am, unable to stop replaying every moment of our afternoon together.
I pull on clean jeans and a white t-shirt, run a brush through my hair, and dab on some tinted lip balm.
When I head back downstairs, the dinner crowd is starting to trickle in. Vanna is now taking orders from a family with two young children, and Buck's voice booms from the kitchen, letting her know there’s a pickup ready. Behind the bar stands Ford, arranging bottles with the precision of an art curator.
He looks up as I approach. "Evening, Skye," he says, setting down the bottle of bourbon he was examining. "Can I get you something to drink? Or are you working tonight?"
"Just a customer tonight," I say, sliding onto a barstool.
He nods, reaching for a glass. "What's your pleasure?"
The question feels loaded somehow, his eyes holding mine a beat too long. "Wine, I think. Red if you have something decent."
His mouth quirks up at the corner. "We may be a mountain dive bar, but we do have standards." He selects a bottle from behind the bar. "This is a nice pinot noir. Not too heavy for a warm evening."
As he uncorks the bottle, I notice a small book tucked beside the register. It's worn at the edges, clearly well-loved. "What are you reading?" I ask.
He glances at the book, a flash of something—embarrassment, maybe?—crossing his features. "Just some poetry. Keeps me company during slow periods."
"May I?" I reach for the book, and he hesitates briefly before sliding it toward me.
It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, pages dog-eared and margins filled with neat handwriting. I open to a marked page and read the underlined passage aloud: "'Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?'"
I look up to find Ford watching me intently. "Do you have an answer?" I ask.
He pours my wine. "I used to think I did. Then I realized I was living someone else's answer."
I appreciate the simple honesty of his response. "And now?"
"Now I'm figuring it out day by day." He leans against the back counter, arms folded across his chest. "What about you? What do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I take a sip of wine, buying time. It's good—rich and smooth and a little spicy. "I thought I knew," I admit. "Find the right job, marry the right guy, have some babies. But now..."
"Now you're not so sure?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "Everything has changed so much recently."
He picks up the book, flipping through until he finds another page. "Here—'The world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting.'"
The words resonate with me. "That's beautiful."
"Oliver understood something essential about life," Ford says, his voice taking on a passionate edge that I find incredibly attractive. "That paying attention—really paying attention—is a form of prayer."
"I've never thought of it that way," I say, leaning forward, drawn into the conversation. "But I think you're right. It's about being present in the moment, isn't it? Not just rushing through to get to some imagined future."
His eyes light up. "Exactly. So much of modern life is about distraction—phones, social media, constant noise. We've forgotten how to just be still and notice."
We fall into a deep discussion about poetry, about the way certain writers capture universal truths in such simple language. Ford is articulate and passionate, his hands gesturing expressively as he talks about his favorite poets. I find myself watching the movement of his fingers, the animation in his face, and feeling a pull toward him that's different from what I feel with Griff, but no less powerful.
Where Griff's attraction is immediate and physical—a lightning strike of chemistry—Ford's is like a slow-burning fire, building gradually as our minds connect. I'm captivated by the way he thinks, the depth of his reading, the thoughtfulness with which he approaches literature.
"You two look like you're solving all the world's problems over there," Vanna comments as she passes behind the bar to grab a bottle of tequila. "So intense."
Ford rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Just talking books, Vanna. You know how I like that."
"Mmm-hmm," she hums skeptically. She nods toward my menu. "Skye hasn't even ordered food yet, and you're so wrapped up in your literary love fest that you probably haven’t given her a chance to look at the specials."
I feel myself blush again. "I got distracted," I admit.
"Ford has that effect on women," Vanna says with a wink. "Gets them all hot and bothered talking about poetry and philosophy." She leans in conspiratorially. "It's his superpower. Brains instead of brawn."
