Page 67 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Before I can breathe, I’m tugging at his belt, desperate now. I shove his jeans down, and his cock springs free—thick, heavy, already slick at the tip. I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his face twist with need.
“Quinn, fuck.” His voice is ragged when I take him into my mouth, sucking deep, swirling my tongue around the head before sliding down as far as I can. His hands fist in my hair, pulling, guiding, his hips jerking forward helplessly. I hollow my cheeks, bobbing faster, loving the way he groans my name like a prayer.
“I need to be inside you now,” he growls, his voice breaking, yanking me off him before he can lose control, dragging me up and spinning me against the beam. His mouth crashes back to mine, filthy and urgent, his cock grinding against my soaked core.
“Yes,” I gasp, clutching at him. “God, yes.”
He thrusts into me in one hard stroke, and I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. The world disappears. It’s only him—his rough rhythm, the wet slap of our bodies, the guttural groans spilling from his throat as he drives deeper, harder, as if he’s trying to brand me from the inside out.
Every thrust feels like surrender, worship, and ruin. He whispers my name again and again, breaking me open, and I give him everything back—my body, voice, soul—because I can’t give him the words I’m too afraid to say.
We collapse together, bodies shaking, breath ragged. His forehead rests against mine, both of us trembling from the storm we’ve just unleashed. The barn is silent except for the pounding of our hearts and the soft creak of the rafters above.
But Beck doesn’t let go. His hands are still on me, roaming, gripping, as if he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he stops touching me. His cock is still hard inside me, twitching, pulsing, not finished at all.
“Jesus, Quinn,” he mutters against my throat, kissing me roughly. “One time isn’t enough, not tonight.”
Before I can catch my breath, he shifts, hauling me up higher against the beam, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. I gasp as he slams back into me, harder this time, rougher, the kind of pace that makes the beam rattle against the floorboards.
“Beck!” I cry, arms tightening around his neck as he pounds into me, each thrust brutal, relentless. My back scrapes against the wood, my thighs burn from holding on, but I don’t care. I want it, all of it, every filthy, punishing inch of him.
“You feel so fucking good,” he snarls in my ear, his voice guttural. “So tight around me. You were made for me, Quinn. Say it—say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I moan, nails clawing down his back. “All yours.”
He growls, biting down on my shoulder, and the sting only makes me wetter. He fucks me until I’m shaking apart again, until I can’t tell where pain ends and pleasure begins. When he finally pulls out, I’m about to whimper in protest, but he spins me around, bending me over the nearest hay bale before I can blink.
“Don’t move,” he orders, his voice a dark growl.
The rough straw scratches my palms as I brace myself, my ass high in the air, exposed and aching for him. He smacks me once, hard, claiming, and I moan, shameless and wrecked. Then he’s shoving back inside, deeper this time, hitting me at an angle that makes me see stars.
“Fuck, Beck!” My scream echoes through the barn, filthy and desperate.
He slams into me over and over, one hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back so I can’t look away from him. “Look at me while I ruin you,” he growls, his eyes blazing.
The world narrows to the sharp slap of his hips against mine, the barn shaking with every thrust, the slick, obscene sounds of us. He doesn’t let me breathe or think, only feel. And when I comeagain, it’s violent—my body convulsing, vision blurring, a cry ripped from my throat that doesn’t even sound like me.
Beck follows with a roar, thrusting deep as he spills inside me, his whole body shuddering against mine. He slumps over me, chest pressed to my back, both of us panting, ruined, drenched in sweat and hay dust.
And still, even then, I feel him kiss the back of my neck, as though the filth we just made together is holy.
Afterward, I lie tangled in his arms on the soft bed of hay, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. His hand strokes slowly down my back, gentle now, reverent.
“I love you, Quinn,” he whispers into my hair.
My throat tightens, the words trembling on the edge of my tongue. I want to tell him. I almost do. But instead, I press a kiss to his chest and whisper, “I know.”
And I hope, somehow, he understands everything I’m still too scared to say.
26
BECKETT
Today, County General doesn’t smell like fear. It still has the usual cocktail of antiseptic and overworked air conditioning, but there’s also a cheerful hum in the lobby—volunteers in red vests and a folding banner with a cheerful blood-drop mascot.
For most of my life, hospitals meant bad news—stitches after dumb decisions, detox, and waiting rooms where the clock didn’t move. Today I’m walking in to do something good, on purpose, and that sits strange and clean in my chest.
Quinn is three steps ahead, moving like a small, efficient storm. She’s got her tote bag on one shoulder and her infamous checklist clipped to a hardboard, titled “THE LIST” in capital letters, underlined twice.
