Page 15 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
She swallows hard, searching my eyes like she’s terrified to believe me. “If you’re only saying that so you can stay the nightand disappear in the morning… I might not have experience, but I’ve seen movies.”
That cracks me open. A small, disbelieving laugh slips out, soft and aching. I cup her cheek, thumb brushing her skin, then thread my fingers into her hair like I’m anchoring us both. “Sweetheart,” I breathe, voice low, “I didn’t come here for one more night. I came because being away from you felt wrong.”
Her breath catches.
“And I am sorry,” I add, pressing my forehead to hers. “For those days. For making you doubt something that was real. I wasn’t pulling away from you. I was trying to figure out how to deserve you.”
She blinks fast, eyes shining, and I feel everything inside me tighten.
“I don’t want to run,” I whisper. “Not from you.”
Layla keeps staring at me, weighing every word, like she wants to trust me but is scared to fall all at once. I take a breath and let the last of my pride drop.
“I’m sorry you had to sit in doubt. I’m sorry you felt alone in this while I sorted myself out. You deserved reassurance and I didn’t give you any. That wasn’t fair.” I touch her cheek, gentle. “You’ve been steady. I’m the one who needed to catch up.”
Her voice is small, fragile with hope. “Catch up to what?”
“To us,” I say softly. “To the fact that you matter. That this matters. I want to be good to you, Layla. I want to make you happy. I want to keep going — not just because of what we shared, but because it feels like the beginning of something real.”
My voice drops, low and rough. “I’m not here for one night or to disappear again. If I was only thinking with my body, I’dalready have you against my door and we wouldn’t be talking.” A faint smile touches my mouth. “And trust me, that temptation is not small.”
She blushes, the prettiest shade I’ve ever seen.
“But I’m here,” I finish, brushing my thumb across her jaw. “I walked to you. I chose you. And I’m going to keep choosing you. Not quietly, not secretly. Not once. Every damn time.”
Layla’s breath stutters, and she leans into me, uncertain and wanting. “Jace…”
I slide my nose along hers, slow, reverent, like I need the contact more than air. “Talking to you right now feels better than any life I thought I wanted without you. And I don’t plan on going anywhere unless you’re coming with me.”
Her fingers curl in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I kiss her — not rushed, not greedy, but with the hunger I’ve been trying to cage for days. It builds slow and sure, heat curling between us until she’s pressed against me like she can’t stand even an inch of distance. I hold her face in my hands and kiss her like I’m learning her, claiming her, promising her all at once. And when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes shining like she’s seeing her future in mine… I know there’s no going back.
“I think we should go inside. The guest room is available,” she murmurs, voice soft and loaded with meaning.
“Oh? You didn’t replace me the second I walked out?” I tease, watching her cheeks warm.
“It was tempting,” she mutters, looking away. “But it wouldn’t have felt the same. And…” she swallows, nervous but excited, “Dad’s not home. He left early to help a neighbor with fence repairs.”
That knowledge hits like a match tossed onto gasoline.
The second we step into the hallway, I scoop her into my arms, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Any distance between us feels offensive.
She gasps, fingers flying to my shoulders. “Jace!”
“Shh.” My voice drops, low and commanding. “Noise carries in this house. Especially moans.”
Her face goes scarlet, which means I get her into the bedroom, get the door shut and locked and have myself half-stripped by the time she recovers. I steal her mouth before she can say a word, kissing her with every ounce of hunger and need that’s built up over the last five days – six – six days without her. I groan against her lips as I pull my shirt off her.
She’s bare, beautiful. Her skin lifts in goosebumps under my palms, and her breath stutters when my thumb brushes the soft curve of her breast. For a second I just look at her — flushed, nervous, trusting — like she’s the most impossible thing I’ve ever been given.
She swallows hard. “Wait,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I just need to say something first.”
I freeze, immediately ready to pull back. “If you want to stop—”
“I don’t.” She blurts it, cheeks flushing deeper. “I don’t want to stop. I just… I don’t want this to be something you walk away from again.”
There it is. Her fear. The part that matters more than anything.
