Page 69 of Taming the Billionaire Cowboy
“You… love me?” I whisper.
“More than I thought possible,” he says, stepping even closer. “And if you’ll let me, I want to show you how much every single day.”
Something inside me breaks. It’s the wall I’d built around my heart since he left. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m in his arms, my fingers tangled in his hair, my lips pressed against his in a desperate kiss.
He responds immediately, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me against him like he’s afraid I might disappear. The kiss is hungry, passionate, filled with all the longing and frustration of our time apart.
When we finally stop kissing, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed as if he’s savoring the moment.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.”
He pulls me in for another kiss, gentler this time but no less passionate. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, mirroring what I feel burning inside me.
“I should get to the chores,” I say, though my body is screaming for a different kind of attention.
“Already done,” he says, his voice husky. “I got here at dawn and did it all with Miles.”
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “Well, I’m impressed.”
“I aim to please,” he says, his hands sliding down to my hips. “Speaking of which…”
My breath hitches as his fingers slip beneath the hem of my shirt, tracing the skin of my lower back. “The tack room,” I suggest, my voice already breathless. “It locks.”
His eyes darken further, and he takes my hand, leading me toward the small room at the back of the stable. Once inside, he slides the bolt home, the sound of metal clanking against metal oddly thrilling.
The room is small, filled with saddles, bridles, and the rich scent of leather. Early morning light filters through the dusty window, casting golden patterns across his face as he turns to me.
“I’ve thought about this every day since I left,” he says, his voice low. “About you.”
Then his mouth is on mine again, hungry and demanding. I respond with equal fervor, my hands sliding under his shirt, exploring the hard planes of his chest. He groans into my mouth when my fingernails scrape lightly across his skin.
“Off,” I command, tugging at his shirt. He complies immediately, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.
I take a moment to admire him — the broad shoulders, the defined muscles, the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. He’s even more beautiful than I remembered.
“Your turn,” he whispers, his fingers finding the buttons of my flannel shirt.
One by one, he undoes them, his eyes never leaving mine. When the last button gives way, he pushes the fabric off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
His gaze drops to my breasts, covered only by a simple cotton bra. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out to trace the curve of one breast with a gentle finger.
I shiver at his touch, my nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric. Emboldened, I reach behind me to unclasp my bra, letting it join my shirt on the floor.
“God, Carly,” he breathes, cupping my breasts in his hands. His thumbs brush over my nipples, sending shocks of pleasure through my body.
I pull him closer, needing to feel his skin against mine. The contact is electric, and I moan softly as his chest presses against my sensitive breasts.
His mouth finds my neck, trailing hot kisses down to my collarbone. I tilt my head back, giving him better access as his hands explore my body, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot.
When his lips close around one nipple, I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He lavishes attention first on one breast, then the other, until I’m whimpering with need.
“Oliver,” I breathe, “please…”
He lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine. “What do you want?”
“You,” I say simply. “All of you.”
