The Mountain Man’s Bride – Mount Bliss Read Online Mia Brody

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
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He opens the door to a bedroom. Like the living room, it’s sparsely furnished with only a large bed surrounded by a wrought-iron frame and an antique dresser. The braided oval rug in front of the fireplace and the handmade quilt on the bed are the only items that soften the space.

He puts the suitcase on the bed before he turns to me and grimaces. “Bathroom is through the other door. Change your clothes.”

“I’m Maggie,” I say softly. I glance down and realize I’m still in my wedding dress. Getting out of it would probably be a good idea. It would definitely be more comfortable.

Crew grunts at my introduction and leaves me alone in the room without another word.

I wait until he’s gone then I creep to the door and lock the knob. I don’t know why I bother. A guy that size could probably kick it in. Not that I get the feeling he would. No, this mountain man might be big and gruff. But he’s not going to hurt me.

I unzip the suitcase and feel a wave of dread wash over me when I see all the lacy things in it. This was my sexy times suitcase for the honeymoon. Not the one with my real clothes.

Then I realize what this means. I may not have my comfy pair of jeans that hug my hips and make my ass look amazing, but I have something even better with me. Pushing aside the lacy thongs and delicate negligées, I reach for the hidden treasure underneath.

“Come to Mama,” I say as I reveal the bottle of expensive wine I purchased. It was supposed to be for my honeymoon. But since everything else has gone to hell, it seems like the perfect time for a drink.

Crew

Don’t think about her naked.

I dish out two bowls of stew from the pot on the stove. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her at all. Maggie just ran from her own wedding. But still, those curves—those are straight out of my dirtiest fantasies. She’s built like she was meant to be bred by me, to scream in ecstasy when I’m deep inside of her, to bare my children.

I shake my head, unsure of where that thought came from. Her falling into my life is just some cosmic joke and I’m the dumb bastard who’s the punchline.

Turning toward the table, I realize I only have a single chair. An image of pulling her onto my lap and feeding her has my cock growing hard again. Fuck, what is it about this woman?

I decide on the safe option and take the food to my couch. Setting the bowls on the coffee table, I try to remember the last time I shared a meal with a woman. Let alone a woman I found so mouth-watering.

I wait for nearly fifteen minutes before I finally knock on the bedroom door. She’s had a head injury and I haven’t heard the sound of movement in my room in a few minutes.

The door finally opens, and she’s still wearing that damn wedding dress, the eternal reminder that she’s not mine. That she never will be.

Her eyes are glassy, and she clutches a half-gone bottle of wine. “What do you want?”

I pluck it from her hands easily despite her surprisingly strong grip. “I don’t think we should be drinking after a head injury.”

“You’re just like everyone elsh.” Her words slur and she points a finger in my chest. “Alwayshh telling me what to do.”

I ignore her. I spent a few nights tanked after my failed nuptials. “It’s time to eat.”

“Ish it chocolate cookiesh?” Even wasted, her brown eyes are stunning. I want to drown in their depths as I thrust deep inside her. I want to feel her coming on my cock as I stare into that mesmerizing gaze.

“Let’s start with stew.” I put a hand on her back when she sways and guide her to the couch. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the head injury. But I don’t like the fact that she can’t quite keep her balance.

She settles on the couch beside me without protesting and accepts the bowl I pass her way. She takes several large bites, letting it dribble down her chin. Fuck me, I find it adorable to watch the way she behaves when she’s a little bit tipsy.

I reach for a cloth and wipe gently at her face, clearing the food from it. Why I like taking care of her I don’t know. But it fills me with a sense of warmth and rightness.

“He wasshh never going to love me,” Maggie proclaims.

I grunt, unsure of what to add. I don’t want to talk about the bastard who was foolish enough not to make her his whole world.

Her lower lip trembles and panic shoots through me. There’s a lot of shit I can deal with. Black bears and wolves in the forest where we cut down trees for the mill. Grown men getting crushed by those same trees because they were too stupid to follow my basic safety instructions.


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