Page 8 of Take Me, Tex

Oh. My. God.It feels too fucking good. I could let go… could come right now. But I force myself to take a deep breath before gently pushing her away.

She pouts, but only for a moment. And when I position myself at her entrance, she moans. “Tex…”

“Are you ready, sweetheart?”

She licks her lips. “Yes.”

When I finally sink into her, I swear I lose my damn mind. She's soft and warm and perfect, her body welcoming me like she was made for this, made for me. The feeling of being inside her is so intense it steals my breath, and I have to brace my hands on either side of her head and close my eyes to keep from losing control completely.

I thrust slow at first, savoring every inch, every breathy gasp she gives me, every flutter of her muscles around me. The couch creaks softly beneath us, and outside the rain patters against the windows like nature's own percussion section. But all I can focus on is her—the way she feels, the way she smells, the sounds of sweet pleasure on her lips.

But it doesn't stay slow. It can't.

She's grabbing at my back, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, her cries getting louder and more desperate with every roll of my hips. The sound of her voice, breathless and wanting, drives me higher until I'm moving faster, deeper, chasing something that feels bigger than both of us.

I brace a hand on the couch arm and tilt her hips just right—and that's it. She shatters.

I feel her break apart under me, her body clenching around me like she's trying to pull me deeper, and I hear her cry outmy name as she pulses and trembles in my arms. The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her pleasure rippling through her body, pushes me over the edge with a growl and a promise I don't mean to say out loud.

"You're mine now."

The words hang in the air between us, rough and possessive and completely honest, and when she looks at me with those dark eyes still soft with pleasure, I know she heard every word.

Chapter 6

Nora

Iwakeupwarm.

That's the first thing I notice. Not just from the heavy quilt or the soft heat of Whiskey curled at my feet, her fur tickling my ankle, but from the furnace of a man wrapped around me—one strong arm slung across my waist like he's staking a claim, his chest pressed to my back, his breath slow and steady against the curve of my neck.

Tex.

Last night comes rushing back in a dizzy, delicious flood. The way he looked at me like I was something sacred and wild all at once. The way he touched me like he meant every second of it,like he was memorizing me with his hands. The way I shattered in his arms—and the way he held me together after, whispering things against my skin that made me feel precious and wanted and completely his.

The way he fed me dinner and then carried me to his bed to make love to me again.

And again after that.

My whole body aches in the best way, a pleasant soreness that reminds me of every touch, every kiss, every moment of connection that felt like coming home.

I try to shift gently, but his arm tightens instinctively, pulling me even closer against the solid warmth of his chest. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, steady and sure, and smell the lingering scent of woodsmoke and pine on his skin.

"You tryin' to sneak out on me already?" he murmurs, his voice all gravel and heat, rough with sleep and something deeper.

I smile into the pillow, the fabric soft against my cheek. "Didn't think you'd want to cuddle."

"I just spent half the night inside you," he says, pressing a kiss to the back of my shoulder that makes me shiver. His lips are warm and slightly rough, and I can feel the scratch of his beard against my skin. "You think I'm lettin' you go that easy?"

A happy sigh escapes me before I can stop it, the sound practically purring with contentment.

We stay like that for a long time—wrapped up in each other, letting the world drift by outside the windows. No deadlines. No schedules. No expectations. Just warmth and safety and the perfect weight of his arm around my waist.

The morning light filters through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and I can hear birds singing outside—a cheerful chorus that sounds like celebration

Eventually, I peel myself away from his warmth and wander into the kitchen, wearing his T-shirt again and nothing else. Thefloorboards are cool beneath my bare feet, and I can feel his eyes following me as I move around his space like I belong here.

I find a sticky note on the counter, written in bold, masculine handwriting that somehow manages to be both confident and careful.

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