Page 10 of Her Jolly Cowboy
Outside, the storm keeps raging. Inside, the only sound is our breathing slowing together.
She traces idle circles on my chest. “So much for behaving.”
I laugh into her hair. “Told you it was a bad idea.”
She presses a kiss over my heart. “Best bad idea I’ve ever had.”
I tighten my arm around her, feel her relax completely, and realize I’m in deeper than I thought, way deeper, and for once in my life, I don’t want out.
Chapter five
Holly
I have officially lost control of my life, my libido, and possibly my heart.
Two days. Forty-eight hours snowed in with Luke Carson, and I have had more orgasms than I’ve had in the entire previous year. My thighs are sore, my lips are swollen, and I’ve discovered that the man can do things with his tongue that should come with a warning label and a safe word.
We finally dug out this morning. The county plows made it through at dawn, and the ranch is suddenly crawling with staff and the first wave of wedding guests who managed to four-wheel their way in before the next storm hits. I’m back in wedding-planner mode: clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, hair in a knot that says I mean business.
I should feel calm, organized, in control. Instead, I feel like I’m wearing a neon sign that flashes LUKE CARSON FUCKED ME SIX WAYS TO SUNDAY across my forehead.
Every time I catch sight of him, my stomach flips like a teenager. He hasn’t touched me in public since we crawled out ofhis bed this morning, but his eyes keep finding mine across the yard, dark and knowing, and I want to drag him into the hayloft.
Focus, Holly.
The barn looks like a Christmas fairytale exploded in the best way. Pine garland everywhere, fairy lights twinkling, a twelve-foot noble fir in the corner waiting for ornaments. The staff and early guests are buzzing around with ladders and extension cords, and I’m directing traffic like a deranged air-traffic controller.
“Lanterns go on the shepherd hooks, not the fence posts!” I yell at a cousin of Frankie’s who clearly thinks “symmetrical” is a suggestion. “And somebody find me the box labeled ‘mistletoe’ before I—”
I walk straight under the archway we just hung.
And right into Luke’s arms.
He catches me by the waist like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, spins me once, a full pirouette, my boots leaving the ground, and sets me down under a sprig of mistletoe the size of a small shrub.
“Tradition,” he says, grinning like the devil himself, and kisses me. Not a peck. Not a cute holiday smooch. A full-on, bend-me-over-the-nearest-surface kiss.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head exactly how he wants it. His mouth opens over mine, hot and deliberate, tongue stroking once, twice, like he’s reminding me exactly how good he is at this. My clipboard clatters to the floor. Someone whoops. Someone else whistles.
I forget how to breathe.
When he finally pulls back, my knees are jelly and my panties are a lost cause.
The barn has gone suspiciously quiet.
I stare up at him, lips tingling, heart trying to punch through my ribs.
Luke’s eyes are dark, satisfied, and just a little smug. “Merry Christmas, Boss Lady.” Then he lets me go and saunters off like he didn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire in front of twenty witnesses.
I stand there under the mistletoe like an idiot while blood rushes in my ears.
Frankie appears at my elbow, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
“That was—”
“I said shut up.”
