Page 41 of Dirty Cowboy

His pupils flare. “Really?”

He moves closer, his breath hot against my lips, his fingers trailing lightly up my arm, the touch leaving a path of fire in its wake. His fingers reach my collarbone and draw over my sunflower pendant—a gift from my mom.

I swallow hard as my knees threaten to buckle.

Then, just like that, he’s kissing me.

His lips crash against mine, stealing my breath, and setting fire to every nerve in my body. I let out a small gasp, and his hands tighten around me, pulling me deeper into his heat.

The kiss is reckless, hungry, and so damn good I could die right here and have no regrets.

I press against him, my hands sliding up his chest, and my fingers threading into his hair. He groans into my mouth, his grip flexing, sending an electric thrill through my limbs.

And then—he stops.

Just like that.

His breath is ragged, his forehead resting against mine.

“What was that for?” I whisper, my heart still galloping.

His lips brush over my cheek, his voice rough and edged with desire. “I’m never embarrassed when I kiss. I take what I want. I do what I want. And I fuck what I want.”

Heat explodes through me, pooling between my legs. I’m shaking, aching, and ready.

This is it.

This is the moment.

And then?—

"Goodnight, Emma."

He steps back.

What?

He turns, strides down the hall, and disappears into his room, closing the door behind him like the final punctuation on a sentence I don’t want to end while I stand there, completely dumbfounded.

What. The. Actual. Hell?

Fuming, I spin on my heel, stomping into my room, shedding my slippers and yanking the covers over my head. My entire body is a live wire of frustration and need. The moment my body hits the mattress, I pull the blankets tightly around me, but it does nothing to stop the shivers of need rolling through my body.

It’s too late to call my father, and I’m too exhausted to think straight.

But sleep won’t come.

The country air clings to my skin, thick with the scent of hay, wood…—and him. It’s messing with my head, turning thoughts into dangerous whispers, blurring the already fragile line between reality and this reckless game we’re playing.

Because this isn’t real.

It can’t be real.

Except it feels more real than anything I’ve ever known.

I stretch out against the cool sheets, my breath uneven, my body wound tight with a tension I don’t know how to name—except, I do.

The memory flashes behind my eyes, vivid, and unrelenting.

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