Page 57 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

My head bumps the wall hard enough that I’ll probably find a bruise later. Right now, I barely notice.

The world has started blurring at the edges. The creak of the barn, the thunder overhead, my own heartbeat, all of it folds together until I can’t tell where one thing ends and another begins.

Then Willy changes tactics.

He eases back just enough to catch my eyes, and the look he gives me lands like a challenge. He withdraws completely, dragging across every sensitive nerve on the way out, then drives back into me hard enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

He does it again. Then again. Each thrust strips away another layer of composure until I’m reduced to babbling fragments and my legs feel incapable of remembering their job.

When I finally come, it’s spectacularly undignified.

It arrives like a collision, dragging every buried want and every hidden vulnerability to the surface before obliterating language altogether. The orgasm tears through me so hard that every muscle locks down at once.

My thighs clamp around him. My body trembles. Even my teeth come together as wave after wave crashes through me.

Heat floods through me. Then cold.

Then everything dissolves into aftershocks.

Through it all, Willy keeps moving, chasing his own release with the same relentless determination he’s brought to everything else. He buries his face against my neck when he finally comes, a guttural groan vibrating through both of us.

His hips jerk through the climax, holding himself deep as he rides it out, and I swear I can feel every pulse of it before the last of the tension finally drains away, leaving just us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emmett

Sunday potlucks in Colter Creek run on one rule as far as I’m concerned.

Nobody leaves hungry.

Maybe the church has an official handbook tucked away in an office somewhere. Maybe there was a committee meeting about proper fellowship hall etiquette twenty years ago.

If so, nobody pays attention to it anymore.

Around here, the actual law is simple: if you walk through those doors and leave without eating enough to regret your life choices, somebody’s grandmother will track you down and correct that mistake herself.

That’s how I end up carrying three casserole dishes across the parking lot while Sadie bounces ahead of me in pink cowboy boots, moving with the kind of energy that makes me wonder if she secretly plugs herself into a wall outlet at night.

“Daddy, hurry.”

“I’m carrying enough potatoes to feed a cavalry unit.”

She glances back at me without breaking stride. “You still walk too old.”

“I’m thirty-four.”

“That’s old.”

“To who?”

“Me.”

I open my mouth, then close it again.

There’s no recovering from that. She’s five and already debates like a lawyer who bills by the hour.

She darts through the church doors before I can think of a response, leaving me to haul the potatoes inside by myself.