Page 99 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

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He ran his hands down her thighs, gently unlocking her ankles from around his waist, and helped her to stand. He slid his fingers under her waistband and peeled her shorts down inch by torturous inch—over her hips, down her legs—until she was standing in a scrap of red lace that barely qualified as clothing.

His breath bottomed out completely.

"Tell me you wore these for me," he rasped, staring at her like she was a miracle wrapped in sin.

"I wasn't sure when I put them on," she murmured. "But I'm sure now."

"If I'd known you DIYed in dental floss and daydreams, I would've started playing Guess-What's-Below-the-Line a long damn time ago." He cupped her backside and yanked her to him in the same breath—then gently wrapped his fingers around her ankle and pulled it up, resting her foot—still wearing those pink boots—on the arm of the chair.

He dropped his mouth to her inner thigh. It was hot, open-mouthed, and close enough to her center that she gasped—but not close enough to give her what she wanted.

Yet.

He shifted to the other thigh, nipping the sensitive skin, kissing away the sting, feeling her muscles jump under his mouth. Then he moved lower—at a torturous pace—and practically heard her toes curl.

"You're going the wrong way, Cowboy," she complained, voice thin with need.

He looked up at her, smug as sin. “Remember that little saying about the best things in life? I’m a man of principle."

He slid her thong down even further, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin as he went, taking his sweet time while she trembled under every brush of his mouth. He worked it off one leg, then the other, making sure her foot never touched the floor. He wanted all of her—open, vulnerable, and entirely his.

He ran his tongue from her ankle to that soft curve between thigh and hip, then glanced up. She looked wrecked. The best kind of wrecked.

She exhaled like she was bracing for the main event and he went right back down.

"Boone," she pleaded, the word barely holding together. "I'm more of a show-don't-tell kind of woman. Why don't you skip to the showing part?"

His grin was feral. "You might want to grab onto something because I'm about to demonstrate just how talented my mouth is."

She leaned forward until her cleavage was right in front of his face and wrapped both hands around the back of the chair.

Without another word, he lowered his head and licked her right up the center.

One slow, deep stroke of his tongue. Her head rolled back, a choked sound breaking from her throat. But she didn't close her eyes. Hell no—his woman liked to watch. And if she liked to watch then Boone would give her the best damn show of her life.

Bracing his hands on her bent knee, he nudged it wider and buried his face between her legs—kissing her southern lips—slow and reverent, then faster, dirtier, his tongue and teeth working her until her hips were moving like she was trying to take him hostage.

"Boone," she gasped, fingers yanking his hair, thighs quivering around his head. "I'm about to⁠—"

He clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes glinting like he’d just stolen the best prize in town. “Remember, the ranch hands are right outside that damn door.”

"I don't care," she whispered, muffled and completely defiant.

"You will tomorrow." His voice came out low and rough. "So, keep quiet or I stop. And you know I don't do half-measures."

"Quiet," she gasped, tilting into him. "I promise. Just go faster."

She arched, pressing into his mouth like a demand, so he added a teasing finger and felt her whole body answer.

"Yes," she breathed. "More of that."

He groaned against her, letting the scrape of his teeth and the flex of his fingers chase every reaction off her body. Her thighs were shaking, her hips rolling, her hands gripping the chair like it was the only fixed point in the universe. He'd memorized what she liked the first time she'd looked at him like he was equal parts trouble and salvation—and he was making her love it, one delicious curl, one teasing swirl at a time.

Her voice cracked when she said, "I need to come."

He slowed his pace, teasing just enough to make her wait, torturing her with a brush of lips, the press of fingers, until her eyes, wild and glazed, bore into his. She was ready to combust, and he wanted to be the match, but dammit, she had to admit he’d won the war first.