Page 14 of An Angel for the Cowboy
By mid-afternoon, I'm organizing the tack room when he finds me. We're alone in the barn, the horses quiet in their stalls, dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The smell of leather and hay fills the air, familiar and comforting.
"Anita." The way Chance says my name sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I turn to face him. "Yes?"
He crosses the space between us in three long strides and pins me against the wall. His hands bracket my head, his body caging me in while his arousal presses against my stomach.
"I can't stop thinking about how you felt under me last night. I want to taste you again and hear the sounds you make when I please you."
My breath catches. "Me too."
He cuts me off with a kiss, hard and claiming. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back, pouring all my love and desire into it. His hands slide down to cup my rear, lifting me. I wrap my legs around his waist. He groans into my mouth.
"God, I want you."
"Mel will be home soon."
He drops his forehead to mine, breathing hard.
I slide down his body slowly, deliberately, and watch his eyes darken further.
He adjusts himself with a wince. "You're going to be the death of me, woman."
I smile, feeling powerful and desired.
TheweekbeforeChristmaspasses in a blur of work and stolen moments. We're careful around Mel, but the air between us crackles with electricity. Every look is charged; every accidental touch sends sparks through my body. I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, and the hunger in his eyes makes my knees weak.
At night, after she's asleep, I slip down the hall to Chance's room, and we lose ourselves in each other. We make love quietly, desperately, trying to be silent while pleasure overwhelms us.
He's generous and creative, always making sure I find my pleasure before his own. Sometimes we're gentle, taking our time to explore. Other times we're urgent and needy, unable to get enough of each other. But he won't say the words I want to hear.
"Stay," he whispers one night as I start to leave. "Just for a little longer."
I curl back into his arms, resting my head on his chest. "I should get back to my room before Mel wakes up."
He tightens his arms around me. "Five more minutes."
Five minutes turns into an hour. We talk in the darkness, sharing stories from our childhoods, our dreams for the future. He tells me about his mother, how she used to sing while she worked. About his father, who taught him everything about ranching. About Zeke before he left, when they were close.
I tell him about growing up as an only child with parents who loved me fiercely. And the loneliness after they became missionaries, even though I knew they were doing important work. About Grumps and how losing him felt like losing a piece of my heart.
"When my mom died, it felt like all the color drained out of the world."
"But it comes back." I touch his face. "Slowly."
He kisses me softly. "You brought the color back."
It's the closest he's come to saying he loves me, and I hold those words close to my heart.
I tell myself it's enough for now. The physical intimacy and growing connection between us will eventually break down whatever is keeping him from fully committing to us.
But there's a small voice in the back of my head that whispers doubts. I shove down the small voice that asks what if he never lets himself fully love me?
During the day, I throw myself into more preparations for Christmas. I plan traditional Mexican Christmas dishes with Mel's help, teaching her to make tamales and empanadas.
"Tell me about your Christmases," she says one afternoon as we roll dough.
We go to midnight Mass, break piñatas and stay up until dawn with cousins, aunts and uncles. Our kitchen is filled with the scent of spices and chocolate.
