Page 51 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
The jukebox in the corner is playing something by Garth Brooks, and the whole place hums with conversation and laughter. It’s Friday night, so the place is packed. Families occupy the larger tables, couples share intimate corners, and a group of ranch hands from the Morrison ranch has claimed several stools at the bar.
But none of that matters, because I’ve spotted my target.
Sophia and June are tucked into a corner booth near the front windows. The warm light from a vintage lamp has Sophia’s red hair resembling liquid fire, and she’s wearing a yellow dress and has her back to us. She leans forward to say something to June, and I get a glimpse of the pale skin of her arm that makes me want to mark her up with my teeth.
I guide my packmates to a table in the back corner, positioning myself so I have a perfect view of her profile. She’s animated tonight, talking with her hands, throwing her head back when she laughs at something June says. Every gesture makes that dress shift and cling in new ways.
“Well, this is pathetic,” Ridge mutters as we settle into our chairs. “Three grown men stalking a woman during her girls’ night out.”
“We ain’t stalking,” Walker protests. “We’re… observing.”
“That’s the definition of stalking,” Ridge points out.
“Ain’t always clean work wranglin’ what you care about,” I say, which makes both of them look at me sideways. “What? It’s good advice. Sometimes you’ve got to embrace the uncomfortable position to get what you want.”
A waitress appears at our table, a young blonde with pigtails and a smile that says she’s probably working her way through college. “Evening, gentlemen! What can I get started for y’all?”
“Three beers,” I say immediately. “Coldest you’ve got.”
“And food, please,” Ridge adds. “I’ll take the sixteen-ounce rib eye, rare, with loaded mashed potatoes.”
“Make that two steaks,” Walker says. “But I want the porterhouse, same temperature, with the works.”
“Meatloaf special for me,” I finish. “With butter biscuits and extra gravy on the side. And keep those beers coming.”
The waitress scribbles down our order. “Y’all must work up quite an appetite.”
“You could say that,” I reply with a grin that makes her blush, then she heads off.
“So, about those new horses coming in next week,” Walker starts.
“Nope,” I interrupt. “We’re not done talking about your afternoon adventure. I want to know everything about you breaking your word. What was she wearing under that little sundress? How loud did she get? I need to be able to picture it in my head like a movie.”
Ridge leans forward, interested despite himself. “Go on, I’m invested now. Don’t leave us hanging.”
Walker glances around to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in closer. “She was wearing this little white lace thing that barely covered anything. And when I got my mouth on her…” He closes his eyes for a second. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Like vanilla and rain and something that was just purely her.”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Just then, our beers arrive, and we all fall silent while the waitress is there. “Food’ll be out real soon,” she says cheerfully. “Y’all need anything else right now?”
“We’re good,” I tell her, already reaching for my beer as she leaves. The cold liquid hits my throat like salvation, helping to cool some of the heat that Walker’s story has stirred up.
Then he leans in again. “And she got so loud I had to press two fingers into her mouth. Same ones I’d just been using inside her.”
He lets that sink in, his grin slow and wicked. “Swear to God, it was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever experienced. The way she moaned around them? Likeshe couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or keep suckin’—”
I choke on my beer.
My hand jerks under the table, adjusting myself before I embarrass us all. Because that image? It detonates in my head like a wildfire.
Sophia, mouth open and gasping, her legs trembling, dress hiked to her waist while I drop to my knees between them. Her taste on my tongue. Her fists in my hair. Her slick heat coating my fingers while she makes those sounds for me. Just for me.
Fuck!
I press my palm hard against my thigh like it’ll ground me. It doesn’t. The overhead fan is rattling too loudly, and the damn lights feel like spotlights aimed right at my guilty conscience.
This is a public diner. There are grandmas eating cobbler a couple of tables over. And here I am, two seconds from unzipping and making a damn fool of myself because I pushed Walker to share.
