Page 57 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Pleasure coils tight, burning, unbearable, until it snaps. I cry out, trembling around him, my body shattering in his arms. He follows with a guttural sound, burying himself deep as he loses himself in me.
For a long moment, we’re nothing but ragged breaths and pounding hearts, tangled in sweat and sheets, the world narrowed to this bed, this man, this impossible, dangerous thing between us.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to think. I just want to stay in the afterglow of him—warm and raw and utterly undone.
He shifts, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his touch tender now, almost hesitant. His lips part, and I see it in his eyes—he’s about to say something, something real.
But before he can, I blurt the truth that’s been eating at me for years.
“Do you remember Landon’s birthday a few years back?” My voice cuts through the quiet like glass breaking.
Beck hums. “Sure. The big bonfire one. Why?”
I swallow hard, heat rising to my face. “That night… we… we slept together.”
The silence that follows is deafening. My stomach knots, memories flooding back whether I want them to or not—the smoke of the fire clinging to my hair, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the way his laugh slurred as he pulled me away from the crowd.
He’d kissed me like a man unraveling, hands desperate, tugging me against him until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. Clothes had come off in a blur, laughter turning into gasps, every second reckless and burning. I remember the feel of his body, the way he said my name like he was drowning.
And then I remember him passing out, his head dropping against my shoulder, the weight of him heavy and still.
“You were drunk,” I whisper now, pulling back to look at him. “Drunker than me. I don’t think you even remembered it happened. But I did. I always have.”
His body stills against mine. The hand on my cheek drops away, fingers curling into the sheets instead. His eyes widen, searching mine, confusion flashing before it hardens into something unreadable.
“What?” The single word cuts sharper than a shout.
The warmth between us evaporates. The intimacy that felt unbreakable seconds ago shifts into a fragile silence, one wrong move away from shattering completely.
Beck pulls back, just enough that the absence of his body feels like a chasm. His jaw clenches, eyes shadowed. Whatever words he was about to give me, whatever confession I just stole, are gone.
And all I can do is lie there, staring at him, knowing I’ve ruined something I don’t even have a name for yet.
22
BECKETT
I lie still, counting the slow, even rise and fall of Quinn’s back. Every time she breathes, I think I’ll hear the answer I want. But the room stays stubbornly quiet—the kind of quiet that presses through my ribs, knocking the breath out of me.
I haven’t slept a wink, just laid awake thinking, planning, regretting.
Her hair fans the pillow, smelling divine and looking soft to the touch. The sheets smell like sex, and I can still feel the echo of her aftershocks as she clenched around me. I should be satisfied. Instead, I’m hollowed out with a question I can’t shake: how do I not remember?
I replay that night in my head, and all I get are flashes. Lots of laughter, the bonfire, too much whiskey, and of course her presence that night. But the thing that matters most—what should have anchored me to that night—is gone. It’s like someone took a razor and ran it clean through the memory, leaving the edges ragged.
Shame crawls under my skin and settles behind my sternum. It’s a low, greedy animal that won’t let me be still. I recall how it sounded when she said it, the way her voice trembled on the word remember, and my gut twists. No wonder she’s always hated me, but now a part of me hates myself more for not remembering. If I had remembered, held on to that night the way she did, maybe I would have seen her differently sooner.
The sky is only just starting to pale when I finally make my move. Her lashes flutter with each dream, her mouth parted in the faintest sigh. She looks younger, softer, as though none of the weight she carries when she’s awake has ever touched her. I can’t stop myself. I lean in and press my lips to her temple, slow and reverent, like a man asking forgiveness without words.
She stirs. A wrinkle forms between her brows, and I smooth it away with a kiss to her cheek, then another at the corner of her mouth. Her lips twitch—half-asleep, half-aware.
“Beck?” Her voice is hoarse from sleep.
“Morning, sunshine,” I whisper against her jaw, letting the stubble of my chin graze her skin. “I need you to get up.”
Her eyes crack open, confusion swimming in them. “What time is it?”
“Early.”
