Page 20 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
“Not gonna last,” I warned, my voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot deep inside me again and again. “Too good… fuck…”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice rough, guttural. His hand tightened around my length, squeezing rhythmically.
His words, the raw demand, pushed me over. I cried out his name, a ragged sound, as my orgasm crashed through me. White-hot waves of pleasure.
My body clenched around him, milking him, gripping him tight. Wyatt followed seconds later, driving deep one last time, holding himself there, pulsing inside me, his groan a low, visceral rumble against my back. His larger body curved protectively over mine.
We stayed like that for several long moments. Connected. His chest heaving against my back. The only sounds the drumming water and our ragged gasps for air.
Eventually, he withdrew carefully, turning me gently to face him. His expression… it was softer than I’d ever seen it.
So open. Vulnerable.
He leaned down and kissed me then.
A sweet contrast to the raw passion of moments before. We finished showering, taking turns washing each other’s hair, sharing lazy, water-slicked kisses under the hot spray. A comfortable intimacy settling between us.
Clean, wrapped in thick, fluffy towels, we returned to his bedroom.
Wyatt dug through a drawer, pulling out clothes for me. A plain white t-shirt and dark gray sweatpants. The shirt hung mid-thigh, the sleeves ridiculously long. I had to roll them up a few times. The sweatpants required cinching the drawstring tight just to stay on my hips.
He stood watching me struggle, dressed now himself in dark wash jeans and a fresh navy t-shirt that strained across his broad shoulders.
A smirk played on his lips. “You’re adorable.” His amusement was poorly hidden.
“Hey, not all of us are built like lumberjacks,” I shot back, rolling up the cuffs of the sweatpants. They still threatened to swallow my feet. “What do you even eat to get this big? Small livestock?”
“Mostly beef.” He chuckled, the sound warm. “Speaking of which, you hungry?”
My stomach answered with an embarrassingly loud growl. Wyatt laughed again, gesturing for me to follow him. “Kitchen’s this way.”
Family photos lined the hallway walls–younger Wyatt, his stern father, Travis grinning awkwardly in teenage snapshots. It felt… permanent. Lived in.
The kitchen was modern. Stainless steel appliances, dark granite countertops, a big island. It contrasted with the rustic, scarred wooden table, and chairs tucked in a breakfast nook overlooking the pastures.
“Coffee?” Wyatt offered, already scooping grounds into the machine. The rich aroma began to fill the air.
“God, yes.” I hopped onto a tall barstool at the island. He moved with an easy, efficient competence. Cracked eggs into a bowl, chopped peppers and onions on a thick wooden cutting board, whisked everything together with practiced speed.
There was something impossibly attractive about it. This big, powerful man, who’d completely wrecked me twice already, now making me breakfast with quiet focus. Domesticity looked dangerously good on him.
While the coffee brewed, I slipped off the stool and wandered over to the massive refrigerator. It was plastered with more photos, held by dusty magnets shaped like cows and tractors.
Wyatt and Travis at a rodeo, grinning widely. Wyatt on horseback, looking impossibly regal against a backdrop ofrolling hills. Wyatt accepting some kind of plaque beside a massive, prize-winning bull.
“Your whole life is right here, isn’t it?” I observed, tracing the faded image of a much younger Wyatt, arm slung around his father’s shoulders. Both wore identical serious expressions.
“Pretty much.” He glanced up from the sizzling pan, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Dad built most of it. I’m just trying not to screw it up.” A weight settled in his voice, subtle but there. The burden of legacy.
I leaned against the cool metal of the fridge. “Do you ever think about doing something else? Being somewhere else?”
He was quiet for a moment, carefully pouring the egg mixture into the hot, oiled pan before answering. The sizzle filled the silence. “Used to.” He kept his eyes on the omelet. “Especially right after Dad died. Got overwhelming. Thought about selling, maybe moving to Austin. Houston, maybe.” He shrugged those massive shoulders, the movement making the muscles in his back shift under his shirt. “But this place…” He finally looked at me. “It’s in my blood, I guess. Couldn’t imagine just… handing it over. Letting strangers have it.”
I nodded, understanding the pull, the obligation. But also seeing the constraint. The sheer, unshakeable permanence of it felt… huge. Almost suffocating from my perspective. “Must be nice, though,” I said, voicing the thought aloud. “Knowing exactly where you belong.”
His blue eyes met mine across the kitchen. “Most days.” He admitted, surprising me with his candor.
I’d always perceived Wyatt as the immovable object. The steady center. Completely at home in his skin, in his role. That he sometimes might have felt confined, trapped by the life I envied for its certainty. It added another layer to the man I was rapidly starting to have… well, feelings for.
