The Mountain Man’s Curvy Christmas Surprise Bonus Scene

He lifts a hand—slow, reverent—and lets his knuckles skim my cheek. “You looked at me tonight like … like I’m something I never thought I could be.”

“What’s that?”

“Wanted,” he breathes.

My heart cracks open. I touch his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heartbeat. “You are. Every day. Every night.”

His eyes shut tight, as if the truth lands too heavy. When he opens them again, there’s nothing held back—no walls, no fear, just a man stripped all the way down to devotion.

“Lie back for me,” he says softly. “Wanna take care of you.”

God.

I crawl onto the bed, sinking into the warmth of our quilts. Camden follows like a storm rolling downhill—slow, heavy, unstoppable—until he’s braced over me, arms caging me in, breath ghosting my lips.

His beard scratches lightly against my skin as he kisses my cheek, then my jaw, then the sensitive place beneath my ear. My whole body shivers.

“Camden…”

“Yeah?” he murmurs against my throat.

“I want you.”

His breath stutters. His hand slides beneath the hem of my sweater, fingertips brushing my lower belly, the small curve that wasn’t here last winter.

“You sure she’s okay with this?” he whispers, voice cracking around the tenderness.

“She’s fine,” I breathe. “And her mama needs you so much.”

“So much?” 

“Mmhm.”

His hand spreads fully over me. Warm, protective, reverent. “Never thought I’d get this,” he murmurs. “A wife. Kids. A family. You gave me all of it.”

“You deserve all of it,” I correct.

He shakes his head once, jaw tightening. “No. But I’m gonna spend my whole life making sure I do.”

Then, he kisses me.

Slow at first, soft, exploring, tasting. His mouth moves with that same careful hunger he uses to plane wood or set beams. Like every stroke matters, like one wrong move could break something sacred.

He shifts, lowering himself until the weight of him covers me. His chest brushes my breasts, and a needy sound escapes me.

“Kylie,” he mutters, voice shaking. “You gotta tell me what feels good. What you want. I want to get it right.”

“You always do.”

His exhale shudders out, warm across my lips. Then, he kisses me again—deeper this time, more certain—and his hands glide up beneath my sweater, palms cupping my breasts with awe and hesitation.

I arch into him. “Yes,” I whisper. “More.”

He groans—deep, raw, instinctive—and lowers his mouth to my collarbone, kissing his way down my chest until he reaches the hem of my sweater.

“Can I take this off?”

I lift my arms. “Please.”

He slides the fabric free, staring at me like he’s reverent, wrecked, worshipping all at once.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Camden—”

“No,” he says softly, tracing his thumb over the swell of my breast. “Let me say it. Let me look.”

His mouth closes over me—slow, warm, gentle as snowfall. My fingers slide into his hair, holding him close as his tongue circles lazily, savoring. He groans when he feels how sensitive I am.

“That good?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

He takes his time, mapping me, tasting me, kissing every place he’s grown to know by heart. When he finally trails down my stomach, I gasp, hips arching.

“Easy,” he murmurs, placing a steadying hand on my thigh. “I got you.”

He kisses my lower belly—once, lingering—before nudging my legs apart with a quiet, hungry sound that vibrates through me.

“You smell so good,” he whispers, voice thick. “Sweet. Warm. Mine.”

Heat sparks between my legs.

He lowers his mouth.

And when his tongue touches me—slow, careful, attentive—I gasp, hand flying to cover my mouth.

He eases one big hand over my hip, anchoring me. His tongue strokes softly, learning all over again, coaxing heat through my body until I’m trembling.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let it happen. I’m right here.”

Pressure builds, slow, steady, perfect. He takes his time, never rushing, never greedy. Every movement says the same thing…

You’re safe with me. I want to make you feel good. Let me give you this.

When release hits—a warm, rolling wave that steals my breath—I cry out softly, shuddering beneath him.

He rises on his knees, breathing ragged, pupils blown wide with hunger and tenderness.

“Kylie,” he rasps, “I need to be inside you.”

My thighs fall open for him. “Yes.”

He groans and braces over me, guiding himself slowly—so slowly—until he slides into me with a shaking exhale.

“God,” he whispers against my cheek. “You feel like home.”

He moves with care, hips tilting gently, every thrust a slow, tender stroke that feels like he’s carving promises into my bones. His forehead presses to mine. His voice breaks.

“Tell me this is real.”

“It’s real,” I whisper, cupping his face. “You’re my husband. My forever.”

He shudders—full-body, overwhelmed—and kisses me like it’s a vow.

We move together, slow and deep, until heat coils low in my belly again, building, rising, cresting…

“Camden,” I breathe, “I’m close—”

“Come with me,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent.

And I do.

He follows, groaning into my mouth, holding me tight as he spills warmth deep inside me, his whole body trembling with release and emotion.

After, he gathers me gently against his chest, one big hand sliding over my belly, protective and awed.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” I murmur sleepily.

“For choosing me,” he says, kissing my forehead. “For staying. For giving me this family. For letting me love you.”

I press my lips to his pulse.

“Forever,” I whisper.

His arms tighten around me like a promise he’ll keep until the mountains crumble.

“Forever,” he echoes.

Outside, snow falls soft and steady on a smokeless ridge.

Inside, Camden holds me like home.

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