Page 20 of My Cowboy Temptation

My energy is different when I pick up the brush again and stare at my painting.

It’s only in the beginning stage right now, but in the next few days and weeks, it’s going to take shape and be something beautiful. Reminding me of my relationship with a certain cowboy, one that if he would just give it a chance, could one day really be just as beautiful.

* * *

Brody

Five days.It’s been five days since I left Callie sleeping peacefully in the cabin, and despite my best effort to keep her from my mind by taking this last-minute business trip to Bozeman, there has rarely been a time that she hasn’t taken up residence there. Remembering how responsive she was to my slightest touch. How sweet she tasted as I buried my face between her thighs. And how fucking much I wanted to sink balls deep into that sweet, tight pussy until we both reached our release together.

I’m still amazed by my restraint but also my stupidity. Because having a taste of that sweet pussy is like a drug, and now I only want more.

I’m a bad, bad man.

Something I’ve come to realize and accept over the past few days since our last encounter. Because when I left her in bed that morning, I should have felt shame. Disgust. Horror, even, for what I did to her.

But I only felt excitement and relief that I made my decision.

At least until I finished my morning duties and headed up to the main house for my usual cup of coffee with the boss. While sitting with Lucas, knowing that just hours before I’d been tasting the delectable nectar of his daughter’s hot, wet pussy, guilt finally hit me. And a sense of loss.

Up until that night, I was loyal to Lucas just as I was to his father. Earned his trust with my work ethic and allegiance to him and this ranch. Fucking—or near-fucking his daughter was in opposition to that, and I couldn’t help but feel I had betrayed him and the trust he put in me.

And yet I still wasn’t taking the prospect of fucking Callie off the table.

So I figured that before I do something that I can never take back, changing my relationship with him and Callie to the point of risking losing everything I’ve worked for nearly my entire life, it would probably be best that I take a few days, get some space, and make sure as hell that I don’t make my decision using the wrong head. Which is why I volunteered to head to Bozeman to conduct ranch business—both on and off the books.

And after the last few long, torturous nights of remembering how sweet Callie tasted, how fucking amazing she looked as she climaxed with my face between her thighs, and how much I would probably die if I never made her mine, I know I have only one thing left to do.

Take everything she’s offering me. For as long as it might last.

Aside from my thoughts about Callie, over the past few days, I not only managed to meet up with a few potential buyers and wholesalers, but I also found the man I went to Bozeman to look for in the first place. Arnie Jackson.

Arnie was less than happy when I caught up to him last night coming out of a strip joint where he was conducting Palmer business and where I made him an offer that, with a little persuading, he came around to accepting. Persuading is the key word here, since I knew that Chief McCall wouldn’t take kindly to hearing about witness intimidation.

So I “persuaded” Arnie Jackson that it would be in his best interest—and his wife’s, brother’s, and sixteen-year-old son’s, all of whom I had hard proof of their criminal entanglements in the Palmers’ enterprise—to return to Castle Falls and give Chief McCall the evidence he would need to put Cody Palmer in jail where he belongs.

With business settled, I left Bozeman this morning and started the near six-hour drive for home with only one person in mind to see. About an hour away from the ranch, I made a quick call to check in, which was when I heard some unexpected but not unwelcome news. Seems like Callie decided to go into the town of Kalispell tonight, and according to Childs, who is her security for today, she was attending some fancy art gallery exhibit.

So I take a short detour and head to Kalispell. You know, just to check in on the brat, make sure everything is okay.

Finding a parking spot a block away, I head down the sidewalk toward my destination, nodding briefly at Childs when I see him leaning against his truck as he has a smoke, waiting for Callie to do whatever business she is doing. Business I’m kind of curious about myself.

The sign inside the door talks about the artist whose work is on display tonight, which I don’t bother to read since I’m only here for one reason, and it doesn’t involve looking at art.

The gallery is deceptively larger than I expected from the storefront. There are high open ceilings with wide wooden beams, shiny polished wood floors, and white walls that give the place an open, airy feeling. There are also more people milling around than I would have expected in a small northern town in Montana, people speaking reverently as they stare at the art on the walls.

Not seeing Callie, I continue into the next room, smaller than the first, where the lighting is lower, and I have to adjust my eyes as I scan the space. I don’t have to see her face to know that the petite woman in the white backless dress that flows over her delicious curves is Callie. The sexy way she holds herself, confident and strong, is impossible to miss.

She’s talking to a tall woman with short platinum hair, both of them so caught up in describing the painting in front of them that they don’t notice my approach, giving me a little more time to observe Callie completely in her element.

“The bold strokes here lend to the action, making it feel like they’re going to run right off the canvas,” Callie says, turning to the woman and offering me a better view of her profile.

She’s wearing a deep red lipstick that offers a striking contrast to her bright green eyes and raven-black hair that she’s braided and has wrapped like a crown around her head. She’s the epitome of grace, class, and easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Heck, maybe I’m better at this art appreciation stuff than I thought. If Callie is the art, that is.

“You have a great eye for this. You know, if the assistant job for De Longer doesn’t work out, you should come talk to me about working here,” the woman says and turns around to gaze over the exhibit, stopping when she sees me. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding apologetic. “Were you needing some assistance?”

Callie follows the woman’s gaze, her own green eyes widening in surprise as she sees me. “Brody,” she says, her voice all breathless and sexy before she checks herself and smiles at the woman. “He’s probably here for me. Brody, this is Natasha Stokes, the owner of the gallery.”

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