Page 44 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Color floods her cheeks, and I can practically hear the sputter behind her pressed lips. “That’s not my job.”
“It is now.” I take the bottle, walk it over, and press it into her hand. My fingers linger a second too long around hers, just enough to spark. “C’mon, Atwood. Don’t leave me hanging.”
The photographer, oblivious, is thrilled. “Yes, perfect! Very authentic—let’s roll with this.”
Quinn mutters something I can’t catch under her breath, but she uncaps the oil. Her hands hesitate in the air before finally landing on me.
Cold slickness spreads across my chest as her palms move slowly, tentative at first. My skin heats under her touch, every glide of her fingers like gasoline on an open flame.
“Gotta get the shoulders too,” I murmur, leaning closer, voice pitched low for her ears only.
Her eyes flick up, warning sharp, but she obeys. Oil slicks over my collarbone, her thumbs brushing too close to my throat.
“You’re enjoying this,” she hisses, still working over my arms.
“Damn right I am,” I whisper back, letting my breath graze her temple. “Question is, are you?”
Her hands falter, just for a heartbeat, before she forces herself steady. Her lashes are lowered, mouth pressed tight, but her blush betrays her.
The photographer’s snapping away, crowing about chemistry, while the only thing I notice is Quinn’s hands gliding slow, deliberate, everywhere I want them.
Her hands skim lower, brushing the ridges of my stomach, before she suddenly jerks back like she’s been burned.
“That’s enough,” she mutters, wiping her palms down the sides of her jeans. “You’re shiny enough to blind half of Texas.”
I catch her wrist before she can escape. My fingers wrap around her, firm but easy, pulling her a half-step closer. “Funny,” I drawl, letting my grin sharpen, “’cause I think you missed a spot.”
Her eyes flash up, narrowed, defensive. “You’re just intolerable.”
“Maybe.” My thumb strokes once against the inside of her wrist, slow and deliberate. “But don’t act like your hands weren’t shaking.”
Her mouth parts, ready to snap back, but no words come. Just a quick swallow, her pulse fluttering hard under my thumb.
“I love this,” the photographer shouts from somewhere behind us. “The tension is gold. Stay right there—don’t move!”
Neither of us does.
Her face is inches from mine now, caught between fury and something she doesn’t want to name. I dip my head, so close my breath brushes her cheek. “Relax, Atwood,” I murmur. “You’re doing a damn fine job.”
Quinn flushes and looks away, but not before I see the heat creeping up her neck.
Another pose. Another flash. My gaze slides back to her. She’s chewing her bottom lip now, determined to ignore me. But when I tilt my head, slow and deliberate, her eyes lift. Snap—caught again.
I hold her stare this time, long enough for the room to thin, for the rest of them to fade into background noise. My smirk softens into something heavier, hungrier.
Her breath hitches. I see it. And damn if it doesn’t make me burn hotter under the lights.
“Careful,” I murmur, low enough only she hears. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start thinking you want more.”
Her glare could cut steel. But her eyes tell a whole other story.
The photographer claps, satisfied. “That’s a wrap. Thank you so much, everyone. Beck, you were great. Give me a call if this cowboy thing doesn’t work out.” He smirks, handing me his card.
“Maybe,” I smirk even though we both know I’ll never call.
The crew scatters, laughter and chatter spilling toward the snack table. I towel the oil from my neck, though my chest still gleams under the light. My gaze tracks Quinn—always her—from the corner of my eye, her heels clicking too fast against the floor, running away from me. Not a chance. Not after the way she looked at me—hungry, furious, undone.
Chasing after her, I snag her wrist just as she passes a storage door. With one tug, I drag her inside the dim room, the heavy latch thudding shut behind us. Shelves stacked with farm equipment loom around, shadows thick enough to hide us away.
