Page 13 of Rough Cowboy
I don’t like it one bit.
I lower her to a chair and kneel in front of her. “You alright?”
That sly, cocky smirk of hers rises the edges of her lips. “Aw, Silver, deep down, you do care about me.”
She’s just fine.
The panic swooshes out of me and in dives my sexual appetite. Suddenly, the innocent way my hand rests on her knee doesn’t feel so innocent.
Heat sizzles between us.
There’s no disgusting it.
This is the first time we’ve been alone in this house. While my dick is acutely aware, so is another part of me—one I blatantly ignore. I crave answers to questions I have no right asking.
How are you?
Are you feeling alright?
What can I do to ease whatever is troubling you?
Of course, I don’t dare. I push all those pesky feelings deep down and only allow my sexual appetite to control me.
I scoff. “I care ‘bout as much as I care to be here. Sit tight. I’ll get you some water.” I cross the kitchen and pour water into a glass of ice cubes.
I resist the urge to splash water on my face. I could use a cool down. I’m rock fucking hard whenever she’s around, and clearly, nothing will transpire. I’m just left with smurfstickles. I understand why Grouchy Smurf was so damn grumpy all the time. Blue balls will do that to a guy.
When I turn around, she’s right behind me. How the hell did I not hear her cross the room? My concentration is impeccable. It has to be for climbing on a bull for a career.
“Thanks.” She takes the drink and brings the glass to her luscious lips.
Lips I’ve kissed, bitten and sucked until she moaned in pure delight. Before my brother knocked her up. Yes, keep reminding yourself she’s off limits.
But is she?
I’d take her right here in the kitchen if she showed a hint of interest.
She doesn’t step back or offer an inch or room between us.
Her big round eyes watch me. “Let’s play a game.”
My dick twitches. I love this woman’s games.
“Alright.” That single word comes out way calmer than I feel inside.
“Hypothetically speaking, what would you do if you were the father of this baby?”
Son of a bitch. Why is everything about the damn kid? My ma has been baby this and baby that. Even my pa had custom cowboy boots made for the kid. Honestly, the entire ranch has been a drag since we returned.
Engagements.
Marriages.
Baby shit.
What happened to herding cows and riding horses all day?
“I’m not the father.” My statement is harsh, stern, and grim.
