Page 28 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
My blood heats instantly, every nerve strung tight as a bull rope. I don’t argue. I just let her grab my wrist and drag me past the crowd, down the narrow hallway where the music dulls to a thrum.
She pushes open a door into one of the private rooms—a plush couch, dim lighting, a curtain drawn tight over the entrance. Then she lets me go, spins around, and fixes me with a look that’s half warning, half challenge.
“Sit.”
I do, sprawling back into the couch like a king who already knows he’s won the crown. My hat tips low over my eyes, but I keep them locked on her as she exhales slowly, steadying herself.
Then, with a lift of her chin, she starts.
At first it’s just the sway of her hips, the slow slide of her hands down her own body, testing me, teasing me. But when her fingers catch the hem of her top and peel it over her head, the air in the room shifts. My mouth goes dry.
She’s fire and defiance wrapped in silk skin, every move a dare. And damn if she doesn’t own me already.
By the time she climbs into my lap, grinding down with that smug little twist of her hips, my restraint’s hanging by a thread.
“You wanted your prize,” she whispers against my ear, her breath hot, her body hotter. “Don’t say I never keep my word.”
I grip her waist hard, pull her flush against me, and growl low enough that only she can hear, “Sweetheart, I’m about to collect every last bit of it.”
The rest of the world—music, noise, the bet itself—falls away when her mouth finds mine. Heat crashes between us, fierce and reckless, and before I know it we’re tangled, desperate, giving in right there in the dark.
She’s in my lap, heat and silk and a wicked little smile, rolling her hips like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. The music outside is a dull throb; in here it’s just her breath and mine, tangling.
“I want to taste you again,” I rasp out.
“Again?” she questions, looking confused.
“Yes, you taste really good,” I smirk.
“But you said we didn’t have sex,” she reminds me.
“We didn’t.”
“Then how do you know what I taste like? Do you remember?” she asks hopefully.
“I said we didn’t have sex, but I didn’t say we didn’t do other things,” I inform her.
Her face falls, but only for a bit, and before I can ask a follow-up question, her mood shifts, eyes lighting up with molten desire.“Say it,” she murmurs, palms braced on my shoulders, eyes locked on mine. “You won.”
I tip my head back, grin slow. “I won.”
“Good.” Her mouth grazes my jaw, a tease that steals the ground out from under me. “Collect.”
My control shreds. I catch her face in my hands and kiss her hard, and she answers with a little sound that turns my bones to smoke. She tastes like mint and stubbornness. When I slide my hands down, memorizing the curve of her waist, she arches into it, fearless as ever.
“Quinn,” I rasp, because there’s one line I’m not crossing without hearing her say it.
She holds my stare. “Don’t stop.”
Clothes go in a careless trail—her fingers skimming my ink, my hands learning every place she softens and sharpens. She guides me back to the couch, straddling me again, and when our mouths meet, the kiss goes slow, then deeper, until neither of us is pretending this is just a bet anymore.
“Tell me if—“ I start.
“If I want more?” She smiles like sin. “I will.”
We come together, a hot, clumsy rush that turns deft in seconds. She finds a rhythm and I match it, hands anchoring at her hips, feeling the flex and power in every move. She’s not shy aboutchasing what she wants, not shy about taking it, and it undoes me more than any sweet little surrender ever could.
“Beck,” she breathes against my ear, and the sound of my name on her tongue is a brand.
