Page 71 of The Cowboy's Second Chance Bride

“It’s just an ankle. I have another one.”

He smirked. Leaning in, he whispered gruffly, “I might have to take your pants off to see the whole ankle.” His hand brushed against my leg, going under my knee. “Let the wall support you.” He lifted my leg, running his big hand up the back part of it, and held it up.

If I’d been limber enough, I would have thrown that leg over this man’s shoulder, because I suddenly wanted his hands everywhere, not just on my leg. I sagged against the wall, letting go of his shoulders to place my hands on the wall behind me.

The hand on my hip slid up and under my wet shirt. He shifted toward my injured leg and moved his hand to my ankle, sliding into my boot, my calf on his forearm. He didn’t even look like he was straining from the weight.

“Maybe we should leave all this on. What if keeping the boot on is helping with the swelling?” His fingers lightly probed my ankle.

I hissed, and his eyes went to mine. “Just tender,” I said.

Then his eyes dropped to my lips, and he leaned forward and lightly brushed a kiss across them. A wave of desire slammed into me so hard I gripped the wood wall, my nails digging out splinters. This man, this idiot who’d broken my heart and left behind an emptiness I hadn’t yet found a way to fill—he simply did it for me. There was no greater truth than that. It was the way he moved smoothly and with ease, the touch of his hands, soft yet firm, and his outdoorsy yet manly smell with a top note of cedar and a down note of bergamot.

“I’m so wet,” I said. Heat flushed my face when his gaze snapped to me. “My clothes. My clothes are wet from my shirt to my jeans. It’s not comfortable.”

His hand was still under my thigh as he slowly straightened, holding my gaze. “I don’t want just this, Reenie. This one time. I want no regrets. I want to put my hands on you so damn much it’s making me insane. But I want us to be on the same page.”

I’d seriously underestimated my feelings. I’d thought time had dulled us to a pale black-and-white. But the last few weeks together had painted over the old us with new, shiny, bright colors, and in this space, with him so close, his hands on my body, I could barely breathe for wanting him.

“We are on the same page,” I whispered.

“It might kill me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t. I have never regretted you, Cal, and I have no regrets now, nor will I tomorrow.”

His breathing was shallow, his pupils dilated. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

He slanted his mouth over mine hesitantly, but when I raked my teeth across his lower lip, he went all in. He kissed me like there was no tomorrow. As lightning flashed outside, our hands reacquainted themselves with each other’s bodies, finding all the favorite parts and making hasty reintroductions. He dropped to his knees, bracing my leg against his shoulder, and undid the buttons to my shirt. He spread it wide.

“I have to get a condom.” His mouth grazed my belly button.

“You brought condoms?”

He stared up at me. “I was hopeful.”

I bit my lip and smiled. “There’s one in my front pocket.”

His nostrils flared, his eyes going wide.

“What?” I said. “I was hopeful too. Though I’m not really worried about getting pregnant, and I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. Clean doctor reports. In case you were wondering.”

I ran my hands over his shoulders, then made hasty work of releasing all the buttons. He pulled both his flannel shirt and T-shirt off. His chest, no lie, was unreal—all defined muscle. To say he had a twenty-four pack would be an exaggeration but would paint the correct picture. The man was ripped.

He had beautiful carved muscles and tanned skin. I ran my hands across the hard planes, pausing at the healing wound, which was a healthy pink scar. I dropped a kiss onto it.

“Same, though I’m certain I can’t get pregnant,” he said with a chuckle.

His eyes asked the question, and I nodded. Consent.

In a flash, he’d flipped out the blanket and had me on the floor in the middle of it. Cal knelt between my legs, drew off my shirt, and tossed it to the side. His hands went to my boobs and cupped them. “I love when you wear red. Holy fuck, I missed these.”

And he buried his head between them. All I could do was cling to him for dear life because I was spiraling out of control. He pulled away and put his hand on my thigh.

“I have to take the boot off.” He cupped my booted foot. “If you want to take those wet jeans off.”

The way he said wet was so dirty I nearly unraveled and tore my jeans from my body like the hulk rips off his shirt. “Hurry,” I said.

And in one swift motion and a hiss from me, he tugged my boot off and eased my leg back down, rubbing my calf to take my mind off the ache. I’d taken the other off at the same time. I went to the snap on my jeans, but he knocked my hands away.

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