Page 13 of Her Jolly Cowboy
The timer dings. She freezes. I pull the cake out. It’s golden, level, and perfect. She stares at it like it’s a unicorn.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
Grandma claps flour off her hands. “Told you. Carson women don’t fail at cake.”
Holly’s eyes fill. She blinks hard, turns away to hide it.
I set the cake on the rack, wipe my hands on a towel, and crook a finger at her. “Come here.”
She hesitates, then walks over. I pull her into my arms, flour and all, and just hold her. She buries her face in my chest, hands fisting my shirt.
“You did it,” I murmur into her hair.
“We did it,” she corrects, voice muffled.
Grandma slips out quietly, closing the door behind her. We stand there until the cake cools and Holly’s breathing evens out. When she pulls back, her eyes are clear, determined.
“Thank you,” she says. “For everything.” Then she kisses me.
It’s not like the frantic, desperate kiss from the mistletoe. This one is slow, deliberate, like she’s memorizing the shape of my mouth. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my hair. I let her lead, let her set the pace, even though every cell in my body is screaming to take over.
She tastes like vanilla. I groan into her mouth, hands settling on her hips, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin where her tank top ends.
She breaks the kiss, rests her forehead against mine. “I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
“But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this.”
I pull back just enough to see her face. “And what is this, Holly?”
“You,” she says simply. “Me. Whatever this is when it’s not snowed-in and temporary.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “You mean that?”
She nods.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, backing her up until her hips hit the counter. The cake is forgotten. The world narrows to theheat of her mouth, the way she arches into me, the soft little sounds she makes when I nip her bottom lip.
I lift her onto the counter, step between her thighs. The flannel rides higher. She’s wearing tiny shorts underneath. They’re pale blue, and already damp at the crotch.
“Luke,” she breathes, legs wrapping around my waist.
I slide my hands under the shirt, palms skating up her ribs to cup her breasts. No bra. Her nipples are hard against my thumbs. I roll them gently, then harder when she gasps and rocks against me.
“Been dying to get my mouth on these again,” I mutter, pushing the flannel off her shoulders and her tank top up to her neck. Anyone could walk in at any moment and I couldn’t care less.
I close my lips over one nipple, suck hard. She cries out, fingers digging into my shoulders. I switch to the other side, teasing with my tongue until she’s writhing, hips grinding against the bulge in my jeans.
I drop to my knees, yank the shorts down her legs, and spread her wide on the counter. She’s glistening, pink and perfect. I drag my tongue through her folds in one slow lick.
“Fuck—Luke—”
I do it again, then circle her clit with the flat of my tongue. She’s already close, I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble. I slide two fingers inside her, curl them, and suck her clit hard.
She comes with a sharp cry, back bowing, hands fisted in my hair. I keep going, licking her through it until she’s pushing at my head.
I stand, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and kiss her so she can taste herself. She moans into my mouth, fingers fumbling with my belt.
