Page 32 of Special Delivery Cowboy
I did, and his touch found me—already wet again. He stroked slowly, building me up.
"TJ, please—"
"Patience."
But there was strain in his voice. He was hard against my back, and I pushed into him.
"Need you."
He entered me from behind in one smooth thrust. The angle was deep, and I braced harder against the tile.
"Okay?"
"More than okay. Move."
He set a steady rhythm, one hand gripping my hip, the other working my clit. The shower amplified every sound.
"So good."
He increased his pace, thrusting deeper. His fingers worked expertly and the pressure built fast.
"Come on," he growled. "Give me another one."
I shattered, crying out. He followed seconds later, my name rough on his lips.
After, we actually showered—washing each other's hair, trading gentle touches. By the time we got out, our fingers were wrinkled.
Dressing in comfortable clothes—me in fresh pajamas and my oversized Montana State sweatshirt, him in his jeans and henley—we headed downstairs.
I started dinner while he checked on Twinkle.
"What are we making?"
"Spaghetti carbonara, Caesar salad, garlic bread."
"Sounds wonderful."
He appeared in the kitchen. "What can I do?"
"Tear lettuce?"
We moved around each other easily. He tore lettuce while I made dressing. I grated cheese while he set the table. When we both reached for the pepper mill, our hands collided.
"Sorry."
He didn't let go. Just held my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles.
The timer dinged. I stepped back, grinning.
Dinner was simple but exactly right. We ate by candlelight with holiday jazz playing softly. When he told me about a cow that once chased him across a field, I laughed so hard I had to set down my fork.
After dinner, we moved to the couch with wine. I pulled upMiracle on 34th Streeton the computer—the movie I'd watched every year since childhood.
"You know every scene," TJ observed as I mouthed along to the dialogue.
"Family tradition. We watch this every year."
"That's nice."
