Page 36 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
“Tell me what you need,” I say, unravelling for my woman.
“Harder,” she gasps.“Say I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” I growl, gripping her hips.“All mine.Show me.”
I lift her an inch and let her fall.We find a pace.I make her say my name.I make her tell me what she wants.She asks for more.I give it to her.
And when she breaks, clenching around my cock, she chants my name like a vow.
I come with her, swearing into her shoulder, arms crushing her close, hips jerking once, twice, as I empty inside her.
We ride the aftershocks, breathing hard, foreheads together, sweat cooling.I keep her on my lap because I like her there.She kisses me slowly.I wipe a tear off her cheek with my thumb.
“Hey,” I murmur.“You good?”
She laughs shakily.“Good is the smallest word I have.”
“Say a big one.”
“Home,” she whispers.
My chest does the thing it does now every time she looks at me.“I love you.I’m yours.”
“I love you,” she answers, eyes steady and full of everything.
We laze in bed for a while, making plans between kisses.We decide on a JanuaryCinnamon & SnowFridayatMistletoe Mugwith live music, cocoa, and s’mores kits.I pencil in my hours at the ranch.She steals my pencil and writesAngel’s Grumpy Cowboyon a sticky note, sticking it to my forehead.I leave it there because she laughs, and I want that sound in my bones forever.
Later, I carry Angel to the shower and turn the water hot until steam curls against the glass.The warmth seeps into us, washing away the old and leaving only what’s new—clean, quiet, and steady.She leans into me, eyes closed.I run my hands through her hair, rinse away the soap, and kiss the places where water beads along her collarbone.
When the steam thins, I wrap her in a towel and pull her close, her skin flushed and soft from the heat.We don’t rush.The cabin is dim except for the fire still burning low in the hearth, its light flickering over the walls.Outside, the wind picks up—but the walls hold.The fire holds.So do we.
I make us tea while she sits on the couch in one of my shirts, legs tucked beneath her, blanket draped over her lap.I hand her the mug and sit beside her.She smiles at me over the rim, that small, beautiful smile that lights up my heart.
For the first time in a long time, Christmas feels like a holiday I’m going to love on purpose, because it’s the one where I learned how to stay.
Epilogue
Grady
Christmas Day
Morning comes slowly.First light slips through the frost on the window, painting the cabin in quiet gold.Angel’s still asleep beside me, tangled in the blankets, her hair a wild halo against my arm.Outside, the snow lies smooth and bright and untouched.
For a long minute, I lie there and listen.The soft tick of the stove.The distant creak of pines.Her steady breathing is soft and sure and feels more like home than anything I ever knew before her.
When she finally stirs, she blinks up at me, a sleepy smile curving her mouth.“Merry Christmas,” she murmurs, her voice scratchy from sleep.
“Merry Christmas, Shortcake.”
We don’t rush.The day stretches ahead like blank parchment—ours to fill however we want.Cocoa on the stove, the promise of snow angels later, maybe sledding later.But right now, it’s just us and a quietness that feels like a gift.
Angel sits up, tugging the blanket around her shoulders as she peers out the window.“It’s beautiful out there.”
“So are you,” I say, because it’s true and because she still blushes every time I do.
I get up before she can protest and stoke the fire, then pour coffee into mismatched mugs we rescued fromMistletoe Mug’soverflow box.She takes hers with too much sugar, makes a face at how hot it is, then curls back against me on the couch, toes tucked under my thigh.
“I’ve got something for you.”
