Page 63 of Claimed By the Cowboys

“You didn’t,” I mumble.

She pulls back, her eyes shining. “Tell the truth.”

Fuck. She caught me there. “I thought you might like them more.”

Goddamn it. That truth fuckinghurts.

Piper’s eyes are round. “Dalton. No.”

“You… we… there’s no schedule, and no rules, and?—”

The rest of my words are lost. Taken. By Piper’s lips on mine.

At first, I’m so shocked that she’s kissing me that I don’t know what to do. Then, I figure it the fuck out.

My hands hold her close, tugging her scalp so that I can pull her head back and deepen the kiss. In my arms, Piper moans, and the sound goes straight to my cock.

She pulls back, and I reluctantly let her. Piper smiles, rubbing the tears off of her cheeks. My thumb follows, wiping away the last line of them.

I look at her. “I thought you said no kissing.”

“I did.”

“You kissed me.”

“I did.”

I feel like there’s something I’m missing. “Why?”

“Because Dalton, I think that kissing is probably not the thing that’s going to change our relationship. I almost ruined it by not talking to you. And you need to tell me when you’re feeling like this,” she murmurs. “I know that sometimes it’s hard for you to express how you feel. But I’m not psychic. If you need something from me, or want me to tell you what’s going on… you have to ask me.”

I gulp. “What if I don’t?”

Piper frowns. “Like, what if you forget?”

I nod.

“Then I’ll be here when you remind me.” Piper puts her hands around my neck again, and she pulls me in close. “But you have to tell me, Dalton. I’ll never know unless you do.”

I breathe in Piper’s smell. The voice inside me goes quiet. And in my heart, I feel something else.

Peace.

The sleeping bag gets bundled up. Piper holds my hand as we walk back to the house. And inside, Tate’s made some kind of chicken that smells incredible. I toss the sleeping bag down on the couch, and Brent gives it a look.

“Going camping?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Piper smiles. “Dalton was convinced that he would be better off sleeping in the barn.”

“He does smell like a horse’s ass about thirty percent of the time,” Tate yells from the kitchen.

“Fuck you, Kirkland,” I yell back.

“Not your job, Winchester, but I appreciate the offer.”

Brent raises his hands. “Jesus. Can we have a civil dinner without the two of you hurling insults?”

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