Page 14 of Risking it for the Cowboy

Somehow, caps and boots were stripped. Somehow, they crashed through her back door, her in his arms, creeping lilacs fragrant and playing on his senses that he’d been meant for her tonight. Somehow, he was fumbling upstairs as she gave ragged directions to her room, this reluctant goddess with the voice of an angel straddling his waist as he gripped her rear, lips against lips because he was a greedy bastard and she tasted so good…

They collapsed on her bed.

Springs creaked. An old metal frame. Simple, patchwork quilt.

He was dragging up that skirt. Sweet lace panties, powder blue against her naturally tan skin met his eyes, trimmed bikini line he wanted to explore with his tongue.

He traced a thumb over the lace. Over her mound. Eying her reaction as she twitched and hitched her breath, her fingers clenching down hard on his shoulders.

“Tell me you want me—” he gruffed. “Can’t do anything more—till you give me that right—”

She nodded frantically, and he dove forward, relishing her gasp as he shamelessly nipped and kissed her through the fabric right on that hot button that with just the right amount of pressure would flow like an open tap for him and, Jeezus, she smelled so sweet and tangy, he inhaled deeply.

Hooking her panties on his thumbs on either hip, he dragged the lace off her legs and tossed it somewhere as she fought with his belt buckle, tugged at his buttons on his plaid, whining when, distracted, she couldn’t undo them fast enough. He helped her out. Shucked the plaid off his shoulders. Stripped off his undershirt. Ripped loose his wallet and plucked free a foil square, tearing it with his teeth. God, he was so hard. He had to be with her, and hissed when she unzipped his denim and pushed them down his rear.

Commando, he sprang free and hastened to roll the rubber on.

“You with me, beautiful?” His voice, rough.

Cradling her nape in his palm, he commanded her attention, until she nodded, clenching his shoulders, folding her legs around his waist and opening herself to him.

He collapsed atop her, kissing her, relishing her ragged breathing and erratic nod, took himself in hand, lips locked frantically to lips, unable to disengage, shimmied his helm into the prize, and slammed home.

She cried out against his lips and arched beneath him, clinging to him. So tight it hurt as a rumble groaned up his throat, as her ankles locked about his rear.

God damn him, because he certainly wasn’t blessed. Welcomed by the most divine, snug heat, he held himself hilted as aftershocks rocketed his pulse, his kiss stalling as his forehead rested to hers.

So warm. So slick. So … perfect.

The burning sensation eased to simmering and he withdrew slowly. Undulated within again, swallowing her cry. Resumed kissing as her fingers sifted into his hair, his hat somewhere lost, skittering goose bumps over him.

This woman, in her bed welcoming a rover like him who’d never found a place that wanted him, and he the undeserving bastard who was already lying to her, unable to stop taking. He withdrew. Pushed back in. Swallowed down her sounds of pleasure like a thirsty man drinking water.

“What d’you want from me, baby?” he growled, nipping the soft shell of her ear.

Tender or rough. Missionary or flipped on her belly. He didn’t care, he’d give it—

“Make it special,” she whispered.

He pulled up and studied her suddenly shy expression. Not the answer he’d expected.

Biting her lip, she refused to look him in his eyes as her fingers strummed the hair at his nape contemplatively. “I know it’s a fling. I know it’s just a night, but if you’d h … hold me like you aren’t gonna let…”

She didn’t finish, but he filled in the blanks. Aw, damn … hold her like he wouldn’t let her go. Protectiveness burgeoned on her behalf, because this girl … she’d been hurt. Who was the fucker who’d done it? And what had they done?

Someone had made her feel worthless, when a real man made his women feel special. And she wanted that feeling from him.

He petted back her hair, thinking through the haze of lust to pound home. “On one condition, beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely.

She froze, tensing, so vulnerable beneath him. He kept petting her hair. Inspecting her face.

“What?” she whispered.

Her eyes widened up at him. What they were doing … it hit him, as he studied her jade gems, embarrassment staining her cheeks in the milky moonlight shining on her face. It wasn’t casual. Not for her. This was his Flower Girl taking a big risk and a bigger leap of faith for a night of not feeling alone, and Christ, he, a dropout with a record, didn’t deserve her trust. This was a forever girl too afraid to ask for forever, or trust in it.

And yet … to feel wanted by her was addictive.

His head giving the barest of shakes, he murmured roughly, “Don’t let me go, neither.”