Page 6 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“Good. I’d hate to think I was getting the polished version.”

That earns another hint of amusement, and I’m absurdly pleased by it.

He studies me for another beat before glancing toward the dark stretch of road running through town. “Leaving’s probably smart.”

I narrow my eyes. “Now you’ve got to explain that.”

“Do I?

“Yeah. That’s how conversations work.”

His gaze returns to mine. “Places like this get under your skin.”

The answer comes so easily that I know he’s speaking from experience. “Sounds personal.”

“It is.”

His eyes warm with amusement, and the look does strange things to my pulse.

The conversation should feel easy. It should feel harmless. Instead, every glance seems to stretch a little longer than it should.

Every smile lands a little harder.

I become painfully aware of how close we’re standing, of the scent of whiskey and leather clinging to him, of the way his attention never seems to wander.

Neither of us says anything for several heartbeats.

We just stand there looking at each other while the sounds of the tavern drift through the walls behind us.

The attraction that’s been simmering since I walked up to the bar finally stops pretending to be polite.

I take a small step forward.

His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, and that tiny movement is all the encouragement I need.

Maybe it’s reckless. I’m sure it’s a terrible idea, but that’s never stopped me before.

I reach for the front of his shirt just as his hand slides into my hair.

Then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss hits hard enough to steal every coherent thought from my head.

It’s all heat and hunger and months’ worth of restraint packed into a man I’ve only known for a few hours. I kiss him back, gripping his shirt tighter as he pulls me closer, and suddenly Colter Creek, the music, and every plan I made before driving into town fade into the background.

The only thing that matters is the cowboy kissing me like he’s wanted to do it since the second we met.

His hand stays firm at the back of my neck, his fingers strong and careful all at once, like he’s testing whether I’ll pull away. I don’t.

If anything, I move closer, giving ground until the railing digs into my spine and there’s nowhere left to go except straight into him.

His other hand settles on my hip, possessive enough to send heat racing beneath my skin, even through my jeans. He tastes like whiskey and impatience, a craving I never expected and can’t seem to satisfy.

“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth. “I want you. I want to fuck you right here.”

The bluntness of it steals the breath from my lungs. There’s nothing cautious about the way he wants me.

Need barrels through every sensible thought I have left.