Page 11 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

“Sure was. Good thing we know how to appreciate quality.”

My cheeks flush hotter. He’s taller than me by a good half foot, and the way he’s looming over me, holding me captive under his gaze, is doing things to me.

I tilt my head back and find myself studying the sharp angles of his jaw and the subtle flecks of green in his hazel eyes. I notice how dilated his pupils are and how my pulse jumps when his large hand returns to the small of my back.

“I’m glad I sat down next to you tonight,” he says, voice thick and husky. “And I’m grateful you took care of Buttercup today.”

I blink slowly, peering at him through long lashes. “That makes two of us.”

“However can I repay you?”

“Hmmm,” I hum softly, recognizing the flirtatious air swirling around us. “I can think of a few ways.”

The start of a grin forms at his mouth as his gaze drops to mine.

We react off the signals we give each other.

I lean up toward him, and he bows down to me, and the distance disappears between us. We meet midway, claiming each other’s lips.

Our hunger is immediately overwhelming. We’re both attracted and want this, and suddenly we’re no longer holding ourselves back.

His hand comes up to cradle my face, long fingers delicate as they skim my jaw. A simple light touch that has instant and intense effects on me.

Probably because I can’t remember the last time I was touched like this. That a man kissed me like this.

…with passion and desire and visceral consideration.

Craig is the last man who’s ever touched me. For almost twenty years, he was the only man.

As Rhett Dawson’s tongue sweeps into my mouth and massages mine, I realize what I’ve been missing.

It occurs to me how starved I am for something as basic as a passionate kiss from a man I’m attracted to.

Though I guess it shouldn’t be any wonder; Craig’s neglect started years before our marriage ever officially ended…

Rhett tastes warm and spicy like whiskey. But in the best way. Vague hints of it paired with his skillful tongue and the firm grip of one hand on my hips, squeezing at the soft flesh.

I lose my breath kissing him back.

When I finally pull away, I’m flushed and breathless and peering up at him almost dizzily. My pussy’s aching and throbbing and finally begging to be filled.

Still, I’m a practical person. A realist at heart. Even when turned on.

“I’m older than you,” I blurt out between my next ragged breath. “You know that, right?”

His hazel eyes flicker with humor. “We’re both grown, Miss Vivica. Both consenting adults. You know that, right?”

My lips part as if to counter what he’s said—point out just how big of a gap exists between us—but he bypasses that all at once.

His mouth covers mine, and we’re back to kissing heatedly, losing ourselves.

My hands slide up his chest, then my fingers start working on the buttons of his denim shirt. He presses a deeper kiss to my lips and follows up by traveling to my cheek and jaw.

His lips feel so damn good on me.

Firm and warm and insistent.

He moves onto my throat and earns a moan out of me.