Page 14 of Her Jolly Cowboy
“Bedroom,” I growl. “Now.”
I carry her down the hall to the room I use when I stay here in the main house, her legs locked around my waist, mouths fused. We don’t make it to the bed.
I pin her against the wall, yank my jeans open, and roll on a condom with shaking hands. She’s clawing at my shirt, trying to get it off. I rip it over my head, then lift her higher, lining up.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does, eyes dark and dazed.
I thrust in to the hilt.
We both groan. She’s tight, hot, clenching around me like she was made for this. I pull back, slam in again, setting a slow, deep rhythm that has her head thumping against the wall.
“Harder,” she pants.
I give it to her, hard, fast, relentless. The hallway echoes with the slap of skin, her moans, my curses. I hook one of her legs over my arm, opening her wider, hitting deeper.
She comes again, nails raking down my back, and I follow her over, burying my face in her neck and coming so hard I see stars.
We slide down the wall in a tangle of limbs, breathing ragged. I’m still inside her, softening slowly. She’s trembling, clinging to me.
I kiss her temple, her cheek, her mouth. “You okay?”
She laughs, shaky and stunned. “I think you broke me.”
“Good broken?”
“The best.”
I carry her to the bed, lay her down gently, and clean us both up with a warm cloth. When I crawl in beside her, she curls into my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Luke,” she whispers into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t break my heart.”
I tighten my arm around her, press a kiss to her hair. “Never.”
Chapter seven
Holly
I wake up wrapped around Luke like a koala, his heartbeat thumping steadily under my ear, his hand possessively cupping my bare ass.
For exactly three seconds, everything is perfect.
Then reality slams into me like a freight train made of guilt, deadlines, and self-preservation.
The wedding is tomorrow, and the rehearsal dinner is tonight.
I check my phone for an update. Guests are pouring in by the hour. The cake is frosted, the barn is perfect. The string quartet is on its way, and I am the hired help who spent the week screwing the best man in every room with a flat surface.
I ease out of bed without waking him, grab yesterday’s clothes off the floor, and tiptoe to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror shows sex hair, beard burn on my neck, and a hickey the size of Texas just above my left breast. I look like a very enthusiastic cowboy has mauled me.
Which… accurate.
I splash cold water on my face until the panic recedes to a manageable roar, pull my hair into the tightest knot known toman, and march out to do what I do best: pretend I have my shit together.
