Page 100 of Owned By The Cowboy
“You’re so cocky.”
“I’m also so hard I’m seeing stars. You want it or not?”
“I want it,” she whispers. “God, I always want it.”
I sink in deep. Her mouth falls open. Her nails rake down my back. I bite her shoulder to keep from coming too fast because fuck, she’s tight. I move slow at first, rocking into her, kissing her like I’ll never get enough. Then she wraps her legs around my waist and says “harder” in that voice that ruins me, and I lose the last of my patience. I pound into her. The headboard knocking. She comes again with a cry that’s half sob, half scream.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I rasp, pinning her wrists to the mattress.
“I’m yours, handsome,” she gasps. “I’ve been yours since you fixed my damn sewing machine.”
I laugh, dark and low, and kiss her again.
“Good. ’Cause you’re not getting away.”
Later, after I’ve come inside her so deep I swear she’ll be full of me for days, we lie tangled up, sweaty and blissed out, her head on my chest and her thigh thrown over me.
The room smells of sex and lavender detergent. It smells like home.
Reggie hums, trailing her fingers over my stomach. “You know,” she says, casual as hell, “for a man who didn’t say more than six words to me for years, you sure got a lot to say in the bedroom.”
“Years of restraint built up. I gotta make up for lost time.”
“Mmhmm.”
Twenty Eight
Reggie
I’m still naked when he does it.
Which, to be fair, is not unusual in this house. But still. You’d think a man might wait until I at least found my damn underwear.
Blayne doesn’t wait. Not when he wants something.
I’m stretched across our bed, boneless and thoroughly wrecked, watching him walk around the room buck naked like modesty’s never once occurred to him. He’s got a lazy, satisfied look on his face. The one that says, “I just rearranged your internal organs and now I’m gonna make you a sandwich.”
I throw a pillow at his ass. “You really just gonna leave me here dripping and glowing while you go raid the fridge?”
He catches it midair, grinning. “You look good glowing.”
“Uh-huh.”
He doesn’t answer. Just crouches next to the dresser on his side and rummages around in the drawer. Then he stands up and turns, holding something small and black in his palm.
“What’s that?” I ask, propping myself on my elbows. “Tell me that’s not another toy. Because I need a minute here, buddy. And maybe some electrolytes.”
“It’s not a sex toy.” He rolls his eyes, grinning.
He walks toward me slowly, all long, built body, swagger, and unfair handsomeness, blue eyes, tanned skin, tattoos and scars on full display, clouding my mind… Then my heartbeat triples when I realize what’s in his hand.
“Oh, my God… Blayne…”
He climbs on the bed, on top of me, straddling my thighs like a man who has no intention of letting me run. But I’m not going anywhere.
“Baby…”
“I’ve been carrying this around for two months,” he says, flipping open the box.
