Page 24 of Owned By The Cowboy
I place my hands on his shoulders to “test the fit”, but really it’s more because I need to touch him. Even through the fabric, I can feel the solid muscle underneath, the heat of his skin. His shoulders are impossibly broad, and when I run my hands along the seam, I have to bite my lip to keep from swooning.
“The shoulders are actually perfect,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Any looser and it would look sloppy.”
“You sure?”
I nod, very aware that my hands are still on his body, that he’s standing perfectly still and letting me touch him. When I look up, he’s watching me with an expression that’s dark, hungry and makes my knees feel weak.
I should step back. I should maintain a professional distance. Instead, I let my palms slide down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under. The fabric of the jacket is smooth under my fingers, but I can feel the warmth of his skin underneath, the solid reality of him.
“I need to check the fit through the torso,” I say, which is only partially a lie. I do need to check it. I just don’t need to take quite this long doing it.
My hands span his ribcage, and I can feel him tense under my touch. His breathing has gotten shallower, and when I glance up at his face, his jaw is clenched like he’s fighting for control.
“Reggie,” he groans my name, sounding rougher than his normal tone.
“Yeah?”
“You’re killing me here, sweetheart.”
The admission hangs between us, heavy with possibility. I know I should step back. Instead, I let my hands slide back up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under my palm.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because you’re killing me too, handsome.”
His large hands come up to cover mine, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arms. His palms are warm and callused, completely covering my smaller hands, and when he laces our fingers together, I forget how to breathe.
We’re standing so close now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his sky-blue eyes. His face is inches from mine, and I can see the flecks of darker blue in his pale eyes, can count the long, thick lashes that frame them.
“This is a bad idea,” Blayne whispers, but he doesn’t step back.
“Probably,” I agree, but I don’t move either.
“You just got divorced.”
“That was months ago.”
“I work with your father.”
“So?”
“So this could complicate things.”
“Life’s complicated,” I reply. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
He laughs, a low rumble that I feel everywhere, the sound going straight between my thighs.
“You sure?” he asks.
“I’m not sure about anything,” I admit. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you, Blayne.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, something hot and possessive that makes my stomach clench with anticipation.
“How long?” he asks.
“How long, what?”
“How long have you wanted me?”
The question catches me off guard, but his hands are still covering mine, his thumbs stroking over my knuckles, and the gentle contact is making it hard to think straight.
