Page 31 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
“The kind that ends with you inside me,” I say, shameless now because that’s what he’s made me.“And you telling me what a good girl I am while you do it.”
His jaw clenches.“Lock the door.”
I flip the bolt, turn the sign, kill half the lights.The back room glows gold.He moves with me, palms my hips, then backs me to the prep counter I spend half my life at.The familiar becomes something else in his hands.
“Words,” he murmurs, touching my mouth with his thumb.“Tell me.”
“I want your mouth,” I say, blood beating hard between my legs.“On me.I want your fingers inside me slowly, then rough.I want to come on your tongue and your hand, and I want you to call me Shortcake while I do it.”
His eyes darken.“Good girl.”He squeezes the back of my knee and lifts, setting my heels on the lower shelf.“Dress up.Panties off.”
I obey, greedy for his praise.He drags my panties down slowly, as if the act itself is a ritual.He kisses the inside of my knee, and my breath trips.He kisses higher, leaves his mouth open and hot where my skin is sensitive, and by the time he settles between my thighs, I’m shaking.
“Open for me,” he instructs.“Look at me while you let go.”
I do.He tastes me like he’s been starving.The dirty things he says are soft-edged and reverent.The praise is filthy because of how much he means it.
“Sweet girl,” he murmurs against me.“Pretty little sounds.That’s it, ride my mouth, take what you want.Look at you.Look how good you give me yourself.”
I shatter, and he holds me there with his hands on my thighs, thumbs stroking me down, talking me back to earth with a steady stream ofyou’re okayandI’ve got youandthat’s my girl.It feels like floating and falling and landing exactly where I meant to.
“More?”he asks when I can breathe.
“Yes,” I gasp.“Please.”
“Touch your tits for me.”
My body lights at the command.I obey, nipples tight under my fingers, and he watches, eyes hot enough to scorch.He slides two fingers inside me slowly and curls them.My hips jump like he shocked me.His smile is wolfish and tender as he sets a rhythm that dismantles me one gasp at a time.
“Good girl,” he says, like it’s my name.“Gorgeous when you take it.Say please.”
“Please,” I pant.“Please, Grady.”
“Again.”
“Please.”
“Good.Come for me.Shortcake.”
I do.Hard.It arches my back and rips a moan I don’t recognize from my throat.He kisses me, swallowing my whimpers like trophies while I tremble apart.The aftershocks hit, and he stays, easing me through every last one like a man who takes pride in the details.
When I finally slump, boneless and dopey, he stands and brackets me in with his arms, forehead to mine.He doesn’t push for more.His mouth brushes my lips, cheeks, jaw, the pulse at my throat.
“Thank you,” he says, wrecked and sincere.“For trusting me.”
“I like trusting you,” I whisper, hands fisted in his shirt because gravity is winning over my shaking muscles right now.“I like… everything.”
He huffs a laugh that sounds like a man who found a warm room after a winter he thought would never end.He kisses me properly then—a slow, deep, lazy kiss, like we have time, like he’s banking it.I taste myself on his tongue and the intimacy of it makes me dizzy.
“Your turn,” I murmur, reaching for his belt.
He catches my wrists and lays them flat on the counter, fingers threaded through mine.“Later.”I want to argue until he adds, soft and dirty, “Because when we get to my place, I’ll sit you in my lap with my cock deep inside you, and I’ll let you hear how crazy you make me.For now, it’s enough that you’re sated and smug.”
I grin, drunk on power and pleasure.“You’ve created a monster, Grady Cross.”
“It’ll be my pleasure to housebreak you,” he deadpans.
I laugh so hard the back room light flickers like it wants to join in.
