Page 117 of Perfect Cowboy

“It’slife, babe. Just passing most people by while they don’t even realize it until it’s too late to go back. Those little moments aren’t something to just rush through so we can get to the good part. Theyarethe good part.

“So, to answer your question, what I’m thinking about is you. And how I want you at the center of my world. I did in high school. I still do now. And I will in fifty years from now, too. It’s you. Always you.”

I’m crying and it’s not a pretty Hollywood cry. It’s a gasping, sobbing cry and Gavin sets down the roasting stick so he can pull me onto his lap, kissing the top of my head while he rubs my back and arms.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“No, don’t be sorry. That was the sweetest and most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m so grateful.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Gavin says. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything, but I can’t lie to you. It’s circling my mind because of course it is. It’s our future, our life, and it’s going to be decided in a matter of days.

“But all I truly want is for you to be happy and fulfilled. With or without me. And I’m so thankful for the precious moments of your life that you’ve given to me. I’ll always cherish them, even if they just become my favorite memories.”

My eyes and throat burn so badly that I may not survive this conversation. Walking away from him is impossible. Staying is impossible. So, what am I supposed to do?

“It’s not you,” I say, trying desperately to explain why it’s so hard for me to just say yes like any normal woman would do. “If we could both live here, I would be so goddamn happy. I just… I hate Montana, Gav. I hate it. There are no good memories for me there other than you. But I can’t separate you from the state, and I just feel so… I don’t know. I’m scared. Confused.”

“You know where to find me if you ever change your mind,” Gavin says, and his voice is so sad and resigned that my heart breaks. “Let’s just enjoy this trip together, okay? The end of the week will come soon enough.”

The end of us.

That’s what he’s saying without saying it.

He thinks he already knows my decision, and I have no idea if he’s right.

After a buffet dinner by the fire pit where we keep the conversation a whole lot lighter, we head back to the suite and immediately change so we can soak in the hot tub under the stars.

Part of me wants to let Gavin fly back home and stay here in California by myself for a while to experience living on my own somewhere new. But it’s completely unfair to ask him to wait around for me, even though he would.

Grown-up relationships don’t work that way, and I need to figure out what I want and be honest with him. We’ve had plenty of time apart, and we couldn’t fully recover from another long separation where I prove – yet again – that I’m not sure about him.

I step into the hot tub, and the water turns my body into liquid heat. It’s ironic how relaxed my muscles are feeling when my mind is a damn mess.

Gavin pulls me onto his lap, and I rest my head on his shoulder as his hands explore my body. I wiggle my ass against him while he kneads my breasts and nips at my neck.

“You should always wear bikinis,” he murmurs.

He’s hard underneath me, and there’s something about him that makes me insatiable. When I was with my ex, the only reason I ever had sex was if there was a chance to get pregnant. With Gavin, I crave giving him pleasure and can’t get enough of how he makes me feel.

“One of my friends in Chicago said there’s no better orgasm than the one you get from a hot tub jet,” I say.

“Is that so?”

“Mmm-hmm. Should we try it?”

“Absolutely not,” Gavin growls, nibbling on my neck and ear while his hand glides down to the apex of my thighs. “If you need to come, it will be from me.”

He starts slow, massaging between my legs and heating my body well beyond the capabilities of a hot tub.

I’ve always loved my neck being kissed and Gavin knows it, so he devours my sensitive skin with his lips, teeth, and tongue while keeping up his slow, consistent strokes on my pussy.

“More,” I complain, wiggling desperately against his hand.

“Say sorry for pretending to prefer Jerry Jet to me.”

“How will I ever know who is better?”

“You fucking know.”

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