Page 28 of My Cowboy Valentine

Slinking her hands up my back and wrapping them tightly around my neck, she brings her head up and her lips to the shell of my ear, whispering between sobs, “I don’t deserve you, Ronald.”

It’s only then that I realize she’s crying, and I look down, startled at her wet cheeks. “Lesley, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head mid-sob, unable to speak. I palm her cheeks, using my thumbs to wipe away her tears. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she manages, breathing hard. “Please don’t ever stop...”

Her words confuse me, but I can tell by the way emotion contorts her face that she can’t say anymore. Nestling into the crook of her neck and savoring the smell of her fragrant red tresses, I promise, “I’ll never stop when it comes to you, Lesley.”

She nods, still sobbing, her eyes searching mine with a tenderness that takes my breath away and lodges an ache in my chest. I’m surprised by the sting I feel at the back of my eyes, realizing I need to be careful, or I’ll end up crying, too.

An abused child who went on to rodeo, I’ve perfected stoicism over the years. I had to in order to survive. But Red peels back my heart one layer at a time, revealing feelings and desires in me I didn’t even know I had, the hate-filled and angry, the soul-stirring and beautiful. Nothing in half-measure, all brazen, bold, and over-the-top.

She makes me feel life intensely, like that part inThe Wizard of Ozthat goes from black and white to Technicolor. And she comes with loads of drama and a fucking emotional rollercoaster, but I can’t go back to living life the way I did before her…not that I can technically remember a before her. But before she gave herself to me last night.

The intimacy in her look is unrivaled, our souls touching in her gaze. Red brings her hand up to my cheek, wiping a stray tear that slides from my lower eyelashes, her own cheeks smattered with wet streaks despite the work of my thumbs. Looking into her beautiful green eyes, I feel more loved than I have in my entire life, though I have yet to hear those three words on her lips.

For one moment, the world and all its cares disintegrate…time stops…and I lose myself so completely in her that I can’t tell where I end and where she begins.

Afterward, the room falls somber and silent. I lie back on my pillow, breathing hard as the magnitude of what’s happening between us sets in. I couldn’t be separated from Lesley now if my life depended on it. It’s a scary feeling for the woman I considered my sworn enemy less than twenty-four hours ago…

She rests her chin and arms on my chest, looking at my face with something like adoration. And my heart swells and pumps for her, transformed by the tenderness in her eyes. I want to be her everything—her lover, her husband, the father of her children, her protector.

Whatever she asks of me… I want to be a better man for her. With the fingertips of her left hand, she traces the hard, angular planes of my chest, love pouring from her gaze. Although she doesn’t verbalize it, her eyes tell me everything I need to know. In my wildest dreams, I never thought I could feel this happy or complete.

Chapter Thirteen

ROWDY

“When’s the last time you went horseback riding, Red?”

She giggles, looking up at the ceiling as if she’ll find the answer there. “I have no idea. I think it’s been three or four weeks.”

“Really? So, you ride in New York?”

“Of course. I visit Island in the City Stables as often as I can. Especially when I’m stressed out or feeling depressed. It’s thirty minutes from downtown, a little slice of heaven in the City.”

Feeling depressed? Does this have to do with her divorce or something else she’s not telling me?I keep the questions to myself, not wanting to ruin the moment. But I make a mental note to return to them later.

“So, youarestill a country girl in the city? Even though you refuse to admit it.”

She frowns. “I admit I like horseback riding. It grounds me.”

“You feel up to it today? Even though I ravaged the hell out of your pussy last night and this morning?”

“A real cowgirl never let riding a cowboy keep her out of the saddle.”

“I didn’t know you still considered yourself a cowgirl,” I reply, running my hand through her hair.

She ignores my last statement. “Tell me about your horses.”

“I have a real gentle palomino mare named Ginger. Sweet as can be. A fire-blooded Arabian gelding called Sterling and two Quarter horses I’ve started but wouldn’t call ready to ride.”

“I want Sterling,” she says without hesitation.

“Of course you do. You’re the only creature I know more hot-blooded than that horse.”

“Fight fire with fire, as they say.”

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