Landry’s brows arch as he chews his bite. I have to draw my thighs together beneath the table from watching his jaw torque as he chews. I think I’d orgasm watching the man shave, if he ever did.
Sadie shakes her head. “Snickerdoodle wants to wish for a husband because she’s lonely like you, Daddy.”
Landry looks at me, then at his daughter. “I’m not lonely.”
Sadie’s grin is wide. “Not anymore. But before you married Miss Quinn you were.”
“Sadie,” Landry starts, concern woven through his features. “We talked about this, me and Miss Quinn?—”
There’s a knock at the back door, and I squint to spot Petunia and Alice Collier’s little faces pressed up against the screen. “Mr. Landry,” Alice calls, both girls in boots and nightgowns. “Can Sadie sleep over tonight? Mama says yes and to let her and Daddy be tonight.”
Landry twists in his chair, and I take in the sight of his muscular back in his filthy white T-shirt and I’ve never wanted to be ridden and impregnated as badly as I do now. “Hi, girls, come on in.” He looks at Sadie. “You wanna sleep over?”
She nods vehemently and abandons the rest of her vegetables, flying up the stairs to grab herFrozensuitcase. Within five minutes, Sadie is gone, and Landry and I are standing on the steps of the back porch, watching the three of them traipse through the lawn toward the Colliers’. Love opens the door, and we exchange waves, then it’s just us.
I don’t want to think tonight. Not at all. I only want to be here with him. Slowly, I walk my hands up his forearms, overhis biceps, onto his shoulders, linking them behind his neck, fingers playing with the ends of his long hair.
“How about a shower and a rub of those sore muscles, cowboy?”
He stares down at me as we sway together beneath the twinkle lights. “I ought to rub your neck, with all the looking down at that laptop you do at night.”
I shake my head. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re sore.” I step onto the toes of his boots and tip my face up for a kiss. His lips are soft, but the moans that fill my mouth are tender, malleable, and full of adoration. I could eat up his moans all day and all night. I’d never need real food again.
His training has picked up the pace, and with the exhibition ride and pre-rodeo festivities in the next few days, he needs downtime. He needs relaxation, and his body needs a break. I see how hard he trains. How each time he’s bucked off Tate’s bronc, each time he gets up, he has to work harder to get back up, to try again, to keep fighting.
“Hm,” he hums, moving his lips to my cheek, then to the back of my ear. He leaves rough but gentle kisses against my flesh, lighting up my insides. “I shouldn’t get used to you takin’ care of me that way.” Another kiss, this time along my throat, over my pulse, then another along my collarbone. “But I’m a fool, because I can’t say no to you.”
I reach down, cupping my hand over his cock as I walk him back into the house, his shoulders knocking the screen door open. “You really can’t,” I remind him playfully. “Remember? I get what I want. Free use of my favorite cowboy.”
He tosses his hat onto the table, knocking off a small pile of opened bills, all covered in scary red ink. My stomach tightens at the sight, and at everything Landry has to worry about, and will still have to worry about when I leave. “Useme then, baby,” he teases as I tug at the hem of his T-shirt, tucked into his Levi’s.
We find ourselves tangled in one another as we climb the stairs, kissing and laughing, his hands up my shirt, my hands struggling with the fly on his jeans. Once we’re in his room, we don’t bother with the door as he takes off my shirt and we both step out of our pants. We clamber into the shower stall, and he twists the lever, the immediate cool spray causing me to suck in a breath.
Landry stands in front of me, shielding me while the water warms up, tenderly stroking his thumbs over the stiff peaks of my breasts. “Old farmhouse,” he says, a rivulet of water traveling over his shoulder, carving out a path of clean skin. “Water takes a second to heat up, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
I reach behind him and grab the soap, rolling it around in my palms. “Tell me where it hurts the most.” We stand there, those words hanging in the quick rising steam, staring at one another. His blue eyes glitter and I want to say more, I want to turn my bag of feelings inside out and share everything with him, how I feel, my fears, what I hope, what I realistically expect… everything. But doing so would be selfish, and it would ruin this moment I’ve been waiting for since the last time I got to have him.
His voice is rough when he answers. “Here.” He drops his hand to his hip and thigh, where purples and pinks kiss his flesh, marks of his hard work. I run my soapy fingers over the marred flesh and hate how much of a toll this sport takes on his body.
“Tell me about it,” I urge as I gently knead around the mark, smoothing my fingers up and down his thigh as I drop to a crouch at his feet. His large body shields my eyes fromthe water, and I blink up at him, my stomach tightening when I find him already watching me.
He’s not hard.
In fact, he’s soft. Because this moment of me crouched at his feet, tenderly kneading his flesh, asking to hear about his training, his day—his life—this isn’t sexual. This is the passive and casual way we can be naked and intimate together without it being sexual.
This is us, and as his blue eyes search mine, I think he’s realizing that.
I know I have.
Reaching down, he strokes one rough thumb over my bottom lip. “I was positioned well in the chute. Felt good. It was the second ride of the day,” he starts, and I remember exactly what ride he’s referring to, because I’ve proudly been there for nearly every single moment. Since moving in, I haven’t missed much. This is the most intimate documentary I’ve ever filmed.
I nod. “I remember the fall.”
He releases my face but keeps one finger wrapped in my hair as I massage his sore spot, my fingers expanding the canvas as I rub his thigh and knee, too. “I gotta say, I’m a little nervous to watch the final cut. To see myself the way you’ve seen me. Tumbled, filthy, worn out.” He strokes his hand through my hair tenderly.
“Shoulders?” I offer, and he nods and helps me get back to my feet. I run soapy hands up and over the mountainous range of his shoulders, and dig my hands into the tight muscles I find there, loving the way he groans his delight in response.
He tips his face toward the spray, and I can’t help but watch the water pooling at his feet, tinged with dirt andleaves. “You looking forward to being done with training?” I ask.
