Page 21 of Dirty-Talking Cowboy
“I can take care of myself later. Or you can watch me take care of myself, if you want. Might be educational.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
I turned my head to look at him. “Watch you?”
“Would you like that?” His eyes were dark, intense. “Would you like to watch me stroke my cock while I think about being inside you? While I tell you all the filthy things I want to do to you once you’re not sore anymore?”
My breath caught. “Yes. I think I would.”
“Fuck.” He groaned, his hips flexing against me involuntarily.
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a hell yes.” He kissed me hard, then pulled back. “But first, I’m feeding you breakfast. You need to eat.”
“Rhett—”
“Food first. Then I’ll give you a show. Then maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll let you touch me while I do it. Would you like that? Want to feel how hard I am for you?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good girl. Now let’s get you dried off and dressed. I’m making you pancakes.”
Breakfast was surreal.
Sitting at Rhett’s kitGarrison table, wearing one of his t-shirts that swallowed me whole, watching him cook while shirtless and completely at ease. He moved around the kitGarrison with the same confidence he had on a horse, and I couldn’t stop staring at the flex of muscles in his back, the way his jeans hung low on his hips.
“You’re staring,” he said without turning around.
“Can you blame me? You’re walking around half-naked.”
“You’re one to talk. You’ve got nothing on under that shirt.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze heated. “And I’m very aware of that fact.”
“Should I put my dress back on?”
“Don’t you dare.” He brought over a plate stacked with pancakes, setting it in front of me. “I like you in my clothes. Like knowing you’re bare underneath. Makes me think about all the things I’m going to do to you later.”
“Later as in...?”
“Later as in after you eat, after you watch me get myself off, after your body’s had more time to recover.” He sat across from me with his own plate. “I’m a patient man, Maggie. And I plan on making this good for you. Not rushing, not pushing. We’ve got time.”
We ate in comfortable silence, and I marveled at how easy this felt. How natural. I’d been terrified last night—not of him, but of being inexperienced, of not knowing what to do, of disappointing him. But he’d made it all feel effortless. Had takencare of me, guided me, made me feel cherished and desired in equal measure.
When we finished, he cleared the plates, then held out his hand. “Come on. Bedroom. You’ve earned your show. And I can’t wait any longer to feel those hands on me.”
My heart kicked into overdrive as I followed him back upstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling me down beside him.
“I want you to watch,” he said. “I want you to see what you do to me. I want you to understand how much I want you. Okay?”
I nodded.
“And if you want to touch—anywhere, anytime—you just do it. This is your show as much as it is mine.” He leaned over, kissing my thoroughly, his hand on the back of my head. Once we were both breathless he leaned back on his hands, watching me. “Now, take off that shirt. Let me see you.”
My hands shook slightly as I pulled the t-shirt over my head, sitting naked beside him. His eyes went dark, tracking over every curve.
He reached down, popped the button on his jeans. “Every time I see you naked, I can’t believe you’re real. I can’t believe you’re here, in my house, in my bed, letting me touch you.”
He worked his zipper down, and I watched, fascinated, as he freed himself. He was already hard, thick and flushed, and seeing him like this—knowing I’d made him that way—sent a thrill through me.
“See what you do to me?” He wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slowly. “This is all for you, Maggie. All because of you.”
