Page 45 of Branded By the Cowboy

His tongue slides deep into my mouth, and I whimper, arching into him as he presses me backward onto the bed.

“Need you,” he mutters into my mouth, voice cracked and ragged. “God, I need you so fucking bad it’s making me insane.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him closer until his weight presses me into the mattress, and my thighs fall open for him instinctively.

“You drive me crazy in the best way possible,” I breathe. “I love you so much it hurts.”

Yeah, I said it first. And it feels raw and terrifying and perfect. I pull my heart out and hand it to him—no instructions, no guarantees.

His breath catches. His whole body stills. Then he pulls back to look down at me. His eyes are wild—dark, hungry, and glassy with emotion. “You’re my whole damn world, Luna. I’d burn down this house to keep you warm.”

I smile, breathless. “Okay, let’s not go that far. The whole point of this”—I wave a finger between us—“was tosavethe house, remember?”

His grin is spontaneous andbeautiful. “Fine. Let’s set the sheets on fire instead, like we did on our wedding night.”

My breath catches, heat shooting straight between my legs. “Angus…”

He dips his head, lips brushing mine with infuriating softness. “I may have married you because of a sub-clause in a will, but I was already halfway in love with you when you fixed those fence posts. By the time you helped deliver that foal, it was game over. You were elbow-deep in horse, but you looked so damn fierce and beautiful.”

My heart does something stupid and fluttery in my chest. “I’m not sure when it happened for me. Probably the fourth or fifth time you grunted at me.”

He lets out a low, husky laugh. “So you liked my manly, rugged love language.”

I roll my eyes. “If ‘ugh’ and ‘hmph’ count as love language, then yeah—you swept me off my feet.”

He chuckles again, but heat simmers behind his smile. “You liked my grunts just fine when I was buried inside you on our wedding night.”

“Angus,” I whisper, thighs clenching around his hips.

His gaze darkens. “Say my name like that again, Mrs. Sutton.”

“Angus.”

A growl vibrates in his chest. “Fuck. You don’t even know what that does to me.”

I reach for the buttons on his shirt, fingers trembling but greedy. “Take it off,” I whisper. “I want skin. I want you.”

He rips it over his head, tossing it aside.

My breath catches.

That hard, work-hewn chest—familiar now, but no less breathtaking—bears the proof of the life he lived before me. Scars crisscross his torso, some faded silver, others more recent, all of them carved into muscle thick from years of labor and war. One long line slashes over his ribs, another jagged scar near his shoulder, and the bullet wound puckered beneath his collarbone.

The room was dim when we made love in the dark on our wedding night, the shape of him more felt than seen. But now, in the lamplight, I see himclearlyfor the first time.

And he’s devastating.

Broken in places but beautiful. Alive.

I trace the closest scar with my fingertip. He flinches slightly.

I bite my lip. “Is it… Are you okay with me touching them?”

His voice is low, raw. “They’re yours to touch. All of me is.”

I lean up and press a kiss over the worst of them. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper.

He exhales like I knocked the wind out of him. “Luna…”

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