Page 87 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Show me what needs fixing," she says, reaching for the bridle at the same time I do.
Our hands brush over the leather, and electricity shoots up my arm like I've been struck by lightning. She jerks back like she's been burned, but I catch her wrist, holding her in place.
Her skin is warm under my fingers, soft despite the calluses she's developing. I can feel her pulse racing, can see her pupils dilate when I touch her.
"Trent—"
"Don't." My voice is barely controlled, rough with want and frustration and everything I'm trying not to feel. "Don't say whatever you're about to say."
"I was just going to ask if you're okay. You've been... different today."
Different. That's one way to put it. I've been going slowly insane watching other men touch what I can't have. What I gave up. What I walked away from like an idiot because I was too scared to believe in something good.
"I'm fine."
"Liar." She steps closer, close enough that I can count her eyelashes. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Isn't there?" Her free hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart, and I wonder if she can feel how fast it's beating. "Becauseyesterday?—"
"Yesterday was a mistake." The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I force them out anyway. Because they have to be true. Because the alternative is too terrifying to consider.
I see her flinch, see the way my words hit her like a physical blow. But she doesn't pull away, doesn't retreat. If anything, she steps closer.
"Was it?" she asks quietly. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like?—"
"Like what?"
"Like coming home."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Coming home. That's exactly what it felt like, having her in my arms, inside her, claiming her in every way that mattered. Like every broken piece of me suddenly fit together again. Like I'd been holding my breath for eight years and could finally breathe.
But that's the problem, isn't it? She's not home. She's temporary. A beautiful distraction that's going to rip my heart out when she leaves.
"It can't happen again," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I'm moving closer. Crowding her against the workbench where I had her yesterday, where I made her mine.
"Why not?"
"Because you're leaving. Because this is temporary. Because I can't—" I stop, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to admit how much power she has over me, how thoroughly she's destroyed every wall I've spenteight years building.
"Can't what?"
"Can't watch you go." The admission feels like it's being torn out of me, like I'm bleeding words. "Can't pretend I don't want you when I see other men's hands on you. Can't be smart about this when all I want to do is lock you in this room and make you forget everyone exists but me."
Her breath catches, and I realize how close we are now. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to lose myself in her again. Close enough to forget every reason why this is a bad idea.
"Trent," she whispers, and my name on her lips soothes me.
"I know. I know it's fucked up. I know I'm the one who pushed you away. But seeing Gavin with you today, watching Asher make you laugh—" My hands find her waist without conscious thought, and she doesn't pull away. "It's making me crazy."
"Then do something about it."
"What?"
"Kiss me. Touch me. Stop pretending you don't want me and just take what you want."
For a moment, I'm tempted. God, I'm so tempted. She's looking at me like I'm everything she wants, and it would be so easy to lean in, to close the distance between us, to take her mouth and remind her how good we are together.
