Page 87 of Dallas Rivals

Slow.

Oliver.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I woke up,” he murmurs against my lips.

Me too.

Every day it gets harder to stay away from you.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathless, lost in the heat of it. His eyes roam over my face, his thumb brushing my cheek.

“See you after dinner?” he asks.

I nod, swallowing hard, hoping it’s a promise.

Oliver taps lightly on my door, careful not to make a sound that will echo through the rest of the house.

When I open the door, I see that there’s something different in his eyes tonight — something heavy and restless. Then he’s on me, claiming my mouth hungrily and passionately, and kicking the door shut behind him.

So much for keeping quiet.

We tumble onto my bed and his weight presses against me. That same wild desperation that I’ve been fighting all day ignites all over again.

“Touch me,” he begs again, and I run my hands over his body.

He removes my pajamas and kisses my tattoo adoringly.

I remove his nightshirt and throw it on the floor but freeze when I see him taking off his pajama bottoms for the first time.

His underwear too.

His erection unfurls before me, large and thick, ready to nest inside me.

I want to touch it, to kiss it, but I’m so afraid of ruining this moment that I can only watch and admire his body.

Once he has finished undressing, he kisses my stomach and goes straight to my pussy.

“Oliver, wait,”

He stops what he’s doing and waits for my instructions.

“I want to do it myself,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The vulnerability in my words hangs in the air as I search his face for a reaction.

He looks at me, and suddenly, terror flashes in his eyes. The moment feels fragile, as if it could shatter with the slightest misstep. I sense him slipping away, panic rising in the silence between us. Not wanting to lose this connection, I quickly reach for reassurance, letting reckless honesty spill from my lips. “Let’s try,” I offer gently, doing my best to keep my voice steady and calm. “If you can’t, then don’t.” The words are an invitation, a promise that there is no pressure, only understanding.

The cowboy nods, worry and anguish evident in his eyes, and sits on the bed.

I kneel between his legs, kissing his broad knees and slowly moving closer to his cock. His muscles are so tense that they feel like a log.

“Wait, wait,” he says, his hands gripping my shoulders firmly. His chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath shaky and uneven. The anxiety boiling up inside him is nearly palpable—so intense it feels as though it could spill over at any moment, threatening to become a full-blown panic attack.

I have no idea who inflicted such pain on him, but the thought of the person responsible sends a surge of protectiveness through me. If I ever come face-to-face with whoever wounded this cowboy so deeply, I know I would be capable of anything—even violence—to defend the fragile soul he tries so hard to shield.

My fantasy is seconds away from becoming reality.

Cala is between my legs, ready to take me in her mouth, and I’m stopping her.

I couldn’t help it, the jerking was only natural when I felt her breath near my cock, and I stopped her.