Page 81 of For Cowgirls and Kings
“Okay, I agree.” There’s a hint of reluctance in his voice, but it’s firm and determined, and I have to trust that he’d say otherwise if he didn’t actually agree. That’s what this will be for us—the ultimate act of trust.
I exhale, some invisible weight lifting from my chest, “Now stand up and kiss me Mateo, like your life fucking depends on it.”
He doesn’t hesitate, his eyes never leaving my face as if they’re magnets for my own. He stands up, graceful and lyth like a panther, towering over me. I don’t know if I’m still breathing any more, and I don’t fucking care.
He leans in, both hands sliding torturously slow up my arms bringing with them a wave of goosebumps, until they land on either side of my neck. He looks at me hungrily, like he’s set to devour me, and fuck I hope he does.
Lowering his face to mine, his lips only millimeters from my own, I can feel him breathing, and the cinnamon scent of him is so thick around me I’m almost dizzy from it.
“Yes, cowgirl.”
I snort at that, caught off guard by the name. “Shouldn’t it be Mistress? Or something?” I babble nervously because he’s just hovering above my face like a brat.Like a brat not doing what they’re told.
He shakes his head slightly, his nose brushing my own. “Maybe, for others. But in my world, the cowgirl is the one in control, the one with the reins, the one on top.”
I suck in a shaky breath—fuck.He’s so fucking hot, and even if it feels funny, I can’t think about it anymore. We’re teetering on the edge, and I’m desperate to be drug under the current.
“If you don’t fucking kiss me—” Before I can finish the threat, his lips crush into my own.
I remember our first kiss like it was yesterday, and I fully expected it to be the best kiss of my life.
But this one, this is something different. Where he was tender and soft last time, it’s replaced with an edge, with firmness and strength. He’s always been big and strong, but he’s so much more now.
His lips move against my own, somehow both soft and firm, pulling and tugging at my own, urging me to join him—no, take over him, consume him.
I slide my tongue along the bottom seam of his lips, and he groans, the sound sending a shiver to race through my body, my remaining composure snapping. My hands race up his front, feeling his impossibly hard muscles flexing beneath my hands. One hand fists in his shirt, while another one pushes into his perfect, fucking hair—I’m met with silky strands. I groan back, pushing into him, pulling his face closer to mine with the roots of his hair.
I spear my tongue into his waiting mouth, and he wastes no time nipping and tugging at it with his teeth. It spurs me on, and I return fire, biting and pulling at his back. He willingly lets me have it, our tongues and lips impossibly tangled.
My clothes feel tighter and tighter around me, scratching and itching at my overly sensitive skin.Am I on fire?
I pull back only a fraction and he growls pulling my face back with a firm hold on either side of my neck.
“Take me to your room,” I mumble against his lips.
I wait, heart in my throat. I’ve never been inside his room, and he’s never offered. Not that I’ve been to his house more than a handful of times, but something about it feels like seeing beneath his mask.
Maybe it’s because I know how precious I hold my own space.
What if he denies me?
He pulls away, his eyes wild—the brown swallowed by his glittering black pupil. He looks as out of control as I feel, and something about that both soothes and electrifies my already racing heart.
He doesn’t waste a second, scooping my small body into his enormous arms, and carries me to the opposite end of the hallway,to his room. He doesn’t release his hold on me to open the door, instead kicking through it, the latch cracking, the door swinging open with a bang. I stare up at him, mouth ajar.
He’s insane.Why do I fucking love seeing him so out of control?
I greedily take in his room, surprised by almost everything I see. I expected black and gold, or red and gold—something befitting a king. But I’m met with blue and warm tans. It’s a humble room, with wooden furniture, a brown cowhide rug and a denim looking quilt over an enormous bed. There’s frames littering the walls, pictures too small for me to see their faces.
It’s warm and inviting, and the simplicity of it makes my heart ache.How misunderstood is this incredibly powerful man?
I’m snapped from my assessment, when he tenderly sets meon the bed, like I’m made of glass, and then straightens, towering over me.
“What now?” I squeak. He just shakes his head, and I remember what he said. I have total control. This is my game.
I scramble onto my feet at the edge of the bed, facing him, and I see his hands fisting and relaxing at his side.
“Are you fighting the urge to take over?” I tease, my brow quirking. His face doesn’t relax—if anything it looks darker. It’s the only encouragement I need, reaching out a finger to trace over his shirt buttons. “I want to undress you.”
