Page 6 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
I told myself last night that everything would feel easier in the morning once the sun came up. But it doesn’t. Because morning is here now, and Layla is still just a couple of doors far from me, from my hands and my mouth.
She just as accommodating, sweet, and keeps riding that same line between kindness and flirting that’s making it impossible to tell how to behave around her. When she mentioned pleasing me with breakfast, all I imagined was her in an apron and nothing else, there for me to devour in every way I wanted.
Which is why I banished myself to the living room to find something to clean, anything to do, to stop the fantasies of her. It didn’t last long since she served breakfast here and has included me ineverything she possibly can.
It is only lunchtime and she has already asked what I want to put on the TV, checked twice if her music is too loud, and offered to make more coffee since the pot ran dry. She keeps acting like she is the guest and I am the one who lives here. But every time she speaks to me, every time her voice slips into the space between us, I notice it.
The way she looks at me.
Her eyes find mine and linger, soft and curious, and that tiny flush rises in her cheeks like she is trying to hide something she does not understand yet. There is a pull there, warm and quiet, a hunger she does not know how to disguise. Her pupils wide, her gaze open in a way that feels almost intimate. Like if I stepped closer, if I asked in the right tone, she would fall straight into whatever truth she has been holding back.
“I can make coffee this time,” I assure when she asks about coffee again.
“You don’t like it my way, Jace?” she asks.
“Your way is …”perfect, mouthwatering, delectable.“Very good, but I’m plenty capable of taking care of myself… and you.”
I get up to do exactly that, but Layla follows me to the kitchen. “It doesn’t smell Christmas-y enough in here. We need cookies or pine. Or maybe … more of your cologne?”
Pausing, I glance at her from the corner of my eyes. “I’m Christmas-y?”
“You remind me of presents,” she answers, blushing, but not backing down.
“How do I manage that? Just with my presence?”
She giggles. “I can think of a few more ways.” Her eyes coast over me.
“The best part of presents is unwrapping them,” I say, trying to sound playful but too worn out from this back-and-forth to pull it off.
She bites her bottom lip and nods. I nearly spill the coffee out of the filter when she doesn’t disagree and keeps eyeing my belt like it’s a bow she wants to tug. I’m sure it’s the same way I’m eyeing her very thin, veryeasy to tearclothing.
“It sounds like we have options to bring out the Christmas spirit then,” she murmurs, edging closer to me and running her pinky over mine.
I nod. “Plenty of ways. Some better than others.”
My brain reaches for anything that is not her mouth, her warmth, her scent right next to me. A tree. Right. A Christmas tree. Something safe and normal and not the curve of her lips.
“I should go into town later,” I say, grounding myself in the idea. “Pick up a tree, decorations.” I clear my throat. “If you want, you can come with me.”
“Do youwant meto join you?”
I smirk. “Of course I do. You’re the Christmas expert. I’d clearly be lost without you.”
Her hip brushes mine as she sets the oven to preheat. I glance at her, not familiar with the casual, innocent touch. Her eyes flick up to mine and she stands up slowly, putting her palms on the edge of the oven. I shut the door, making my fingers brush across her wrist. Her pulse is racing, her breath catches, but she digs her teeth into her bottom lip like she’s trying to hide something she knows she shouldn’t say.
The moment stretches into something that opens up more possibilities. She’s hinting without saying a word and my whole body feels the tug of her attention, the flare of her touch across my skin. It reminds me of what I heard last night when I went upstairs to check on her. The heavy breathing, the soft, barely muffled whimpers.
Heat laps at my lower belly and something prods my heart forward.
“You’re the guest, you know? I’m supposed to make you comfortable and do things for you as a thank you. You make that kind of hard,” she murmurs, turning to face me fully.
I arch an eyebrow. If she only knew that’s not the only thing getting hard right now…
“You do things before I even notice they need to be done. Next, you’re going to end up making my bed the second I get up in the morning or preparing a shower the second the idea pops in my head,” she hints.
It’s not dirty, not really, but the implication of me being in her bedroom, of me being there when she showers is more potentthan half the flirting I’ve heard in bars. It’s more damning than plenty of things I’ve had whispered in my ear off of drunk lips.
Does she mean it like that?
