Page 8 of Her Jolly Cowboy
Holly is curled on my couch under that flannel blanket, legs tucked beneath her, hair still damp from the shower and falling in waves over one shoulder. The fire’s throwing gold light across her face, and every time she lifts the cocoa mug to her mouth, I have to look at the ceiling so I don’t do something stupid like crawl across the couch and lick the whipped cream off her lip myself.
We’ve been talking for hours. She told me about her mom, and I told her about mine. She laughed at my story about the Christmas the goats got into the eggnog and chased Rhett around the yard, drunk. I laughed until my ribs hurt when she admitted she once planned a wedding with several backup venues and a drone to make sure everything went off without a hitch.
She laughs with her whole body when she lets go. Her head thrown back, hand on her stomach, eyes squeezed shut. I’ve heard it twice tonight, and I’m addicted.
Eventually, she yawns, tries to hide it behind her mug, and fails.
“Bedtime, Boss Lady,” I say, standing before I lose the very last of my self-control.
She stretches, blanket slipping off one shoulder, and I get a flash of collarbone that short-circuits my brain.
“I still don’t have pajamas,” she mutters, like it’s my fault. “I was so worried about everything, I didn’t pack any.”
I clear my throat. “I’ve got T-shirts.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You offering?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a woman wore my shirt to bed,” I say, then immediately want to bite my tongue off.
Holly’s eyes narrow, but there’s amusement in them. “Lead the way, cowboy.”
I grab the softest shirt I own, an ancient gray high school track team shirt that’s been washed a thousand times, and hand it over. She disappears into the bathroom.
I use the thirty seconds she’s gone to adjust myself, take a deep breath, and remind my dick that we are behaving like gentlemen tonight.
The bathroom door opens.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The shirt hits her mid-thigh, sleeves rolled to her elbows, neckline slipping off one shoulder. Her legs go on for miles. She’s not wearing a bra, I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin cotton, and I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing anything else underneath at all.
She catches me staring and smirks. “Problem?”
“Several,” I rasp. “All of them mine.”
She pads past me into the bedroom like she owns the place. I follow like a dog on a leash.
The bed is king-sized, but it suddenly looks tiny. She climbs in on the left side, pulls the quilt up to her chin, and looks at me expectantly.
“We’ll stay warm if we share the bed, but only if you promise to be on your best behavior.”
I nod as I strip down to my boxer briefs and slide in on the right. The mattress dips. She scoots a respectable six inches away.
We lie there in the dark, firelight flickering through the cracked door, snow hissing against the windows.
“You cold?” I ask, voice rough.
“A little.”
I reach over, hook an arm around her waist, and haul her across the bed until her back is flush against my chest. She lets out a startled squeak that turns into a sigh when my body heat hits her.
“Better?” I murmur against her hair.
“Much,” she whispers.
We stay like that for two minutes or maybe two hours. Time has stopped making sense.
She shifts, ass brushing my groin, and I bite back a groan.
