Page 79 of Cowboy
Caoimhe turns to me in the dim light of the hallway, her eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming through the windows.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For tonight. For everything."
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you for trusting me."
She steps closer, tilting her face up to mine. "I do trust you. More than anyone."
When our lips meet, it's different from our previous kisses. There's a new certainty in the way she presses against me, a quiet confidence in her hands as they slide up my chest.
I pull back slightly, searching her face. "Caoimhe..."
"I want this," she whispers, her eyes clear and sure. "I want you."
Still, I hesitate. "We don't have to rush anything."
"I know," she says, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "This isn't rushing. This is... reclaiming something. Something they tried to take from me."
I understand then what this means to her. Not just desire or affection, but an act of defiance against everything she endured. A declaration that her body is her own again, to give freely where once it was taken.
I take her hand and lead her upstairs to our bedroom. We've been sharing a bed for weeks now, but always chastely, my presence a comfort against the nightmares. Tonight feels different, charged with possibility.
As we cross the threshold into our bedroom, I pull her into my arms, kissing her deeply but unhurriedly. There's no rush, no pressure. Just us, finding our way together.
"If anything feels wrong, or you want to stop," I murmur against her lips, "just say the word. We go at your pace. Always."
She nods, then surprises me by reaching for the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. She stands before me in simple black underwear, vulnerable but unashamed. The moonlight streaming through the window casts her skin in silver, highlighting the gentle curves of her body, the scars that tell her story of survival.
"Your turn," she says, a hint of challenge in her voice.
I oblige, stripping off my shirt, then my jeans. When I'm down to my boxers, I step toward her again, careful not to crowd her.
"Can I touch you?" I ask, my voice rough with wanting.
She takes my hand and places it on her waist, her skin warm under my palm. "Yes."
I trace my fingers along her side, savoring the softness of her skin. Slowly, I let my hands explore higher, watching her face for any sign of discomfort as my thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts. Her breath catches, but she nods encouragingly.
"Still good?" I whisper, needing her certainty.
"Yes," she breathes, her eyes darkening. "Don't stop."
I unhook her bra with careful fingers, drawing it away from her body. The sight of her bare before me sends heat coursing through my veins, but I control it, refusing to rush this moment.
"You are so beautiful," I tell her, meaning every word.
My hands cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they harden under my touch. She gasps, her head falling back slightly, exposing the elegant line of her throat. I lean down, pressing my lips to her pulse point, feeling it race against my tongue.
Her hands aren't idle, moving across my chest, tracing the lines of my tattoos, exploring the ridges of muscle beneath my skin. When her fingers dip below the waistband of my boxers, I groan against her neck.
"Bed," she whispers, tugging me backward until her legs hit the mattress.
I follow her down, covering her body with mine but supporting my weight on my forearms. The feeling of her skin against mine is intoxicating—warm and soft and real.
"Can I taste you?" I ask, pressing kisses down her sternum, between her breasts.
She tenses slightly, uncertainty flashing in her eyes.
"We don't have to," I assure her immediately. "Nothing happens that you don't want."
