Page 29 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
“Yeah,” I grit out, rolling my hips up to meet her. “Right there, sweetheart. That’s it.”
Her nails bite into my shoulders; I swear and kiss her again because I need something to hold onto besides the way she’s breaking me open. The room blurs to heat and breath and the slick slide of skin. She’s a wildfire in my hands—focused, relentless, beautiful—and for once I don’t fight the burn.
It builds, tight and dizzy. She clenches around me, eyes going wide, lips parting, and I feel it hit her first, a shiver that tears a gasp from her throat. I chase her over the edge, swearing into her mouth, the world dropping out from under us until there’s only the two of us and the frantic pound of our hearts.
She collapses against me, cheek to my shoulder, both of us breathing like we just outran a storm. My hands smooth down her back on instinct, soothing, claiming, maybe both.
After a beat, she huffs a laugh into my neck. “Smug looks terrible on you.”
“Liar,” I say, voice wrecked. “You love it.”
She lifts her head, eyes still glazed and dangerous. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Her mouth twitches. She slides off my lap with a wince that hits me low—the satisfied kind—then reaches for her clothes. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before I can stop myself, and she stills, something soft and startled flickering across her face.
It’s gone in a blink. She clears her throat, straightens her top. “Debt paid.”
She cracks the door, checks the hall, then glances back at me like she’s already ten steps ahead. And just like that, the spell shifts, still hot, still humming, but threaded with something I don’t have a name for.
I drag my shirt on and settle my hat, watching her with more than victory thrumming in my veins. Yeah. I won. So why does it feel like I’m the one who just surrendered?
Maybe working with her won’t be so bad after all. I should give her a chance and see where this will go.
11
QUINN
With a frustrated groan, I rip another shirt off its hanger and toss it into the suitcase, the fabric landing in a heap on top of the mess that’s already in there. My hands move fast and angrily, head pounding—not from a hangover, but because of him. From that stupid, smug grin plastered across his face when I yielded.
I still can’t believe that I lost yesterday. I was so confident that I was going to beat him; otherwise, I would not have agreed to the challenge in the first place. But I should have known better than to goad Beckett Morgan, one of the best bareback riders in the country, to a mechanical bull challenge. In my defense, he pushed me, but I should not have given in. I was banking on the fact that he’s been out of the game for a while, so it was going to be an easy win for me, but oh how wrong I was.
I can still see that smirk carved across his face, smug and slow, when he realized that he’d won. Cocky bastard. I am a woman of my word, so of course I had to honor my end of the bargain and give him a lap dance.
At first, I was scared, but I shook it off and decided that if I was to lose, I might as well lose with grace, so I gave the show of a lifetime, urged on by the intense look he was giving me.
Even now, hours later, it’s as if the heat of his stare is stitched into my skin.
And the worst part? I liked it. How he didn’t look away, didn’t blink, didn’t give me the mercy of indifference. My body kept moving to the beat, but inside I was unraveling, thread by thread, until it escalated to something more.
Beck watched me as if he wanted to devour me whole, and I allowed him.
I slam a drawer shut hard enough to rattle the mirror on the dresser. The vibration hums through the room, matching the pulse hammering in my throat. I don’t regret having sex with him. God, no. I’d be lying to the heavens if I tried. If I start regretting that, I might as well regret breathing.
No, what eats at me is the fact that I lost. Losing to him means I lose everything. Iron Stallion isn’t just a place—it was my fight, my chance, my stubborn grip on something that was finally mine. And now I have to leave.
I shove a pair of boots into the corner of the bag harder than necessary. My jaw aches from grinding it. My palms sting where I’ve clenched my fists too tight. I hate this. I hate that he beat me fair and square. I hate that I can still feel his hands on me if I stand still too long.
The zipper jerks as I drag it closed. Lifting my suitcase, I set it down at the foot of the bed as my eyes scan the room one last time. It’s been forty-eight hours, give or take, and I’m already leaving. It feels akin to a dream vacation that has been cut short abruptly, leaving an empty feeling in my heart.
I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’ve got no choice but to leave, which brings about another hurdle: informing his family. I have to let them know that I failed before I even got to start the task they so kindly bestowed upon me.
Deciding that there is no point dragging this out any longer, I roll my suitcases out of the room. I need to face this head-on because every second I stay, I’m circling the drain of humiliation. Beck won, I lost. Those are the facts. I can hate it all I want, but I won’t cower away like some coward.
The suitcases thud against the banister as I drag them down the stairs. It’s too loud, too obvious, but they are too heavy to carry. I manage to make it to the bottom without attracting any attention.
Cursing under my breath, I nudge them into the narrow space beneath the staircase, out of sight. Oh, how I wish my shame could be stuffed into the shadows too.
