Page 7 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Somehow my hands end up beneath his shirt. One kiss turns into another, and then I’m lost in hard muscle and the ridges of his body, grabbing at him with more desperation than dignity while he pins me against the railing at the edge of the porch.

His stubble drags across my jaw, my cheek, then down my throat. The scrape sends a shiver through me.

I want more. I’ll take more if he’s reckless enough to give it.

Turns out he is.

Turns out I am, too.

His fingers sink deeper into my hair as he tips my head back and finds my throat with his mouth. He kisses and marks me with the focus of a man who hasn’t eaten in days, like he’d happily haul me back to his cave and devour me where nobody could interrupt.

I let him.

More than that, I press into his touch and grind against him as though every part of me was built specifically to make terrible decisions with this particular cowboy.

At last he breaks away enough to look at me. His eyes are dark and untamed beneath the neon spilling across the porch. “My truck’s right there.”

I waggle my brows. “Sounds good to me.”

He makes an effort to act casual, but we’re well beyond casual. We’ve blown past caution and are racing toward spectacularly bad judgment, and I can’t find a single reason to care.

He catches my hand and pulls me after him.

When he yanks open the passenger door, it smacks against the side of the next truck with a bang. Before I can reconsider my taste in men, locations, or life choices in general, he’s ushering me inside.

The cab smells like hay, tobacco, and him. Sweat, leather, maybe cologne. The kind of scent a man wears when he never expects anyone to get close enough to notice.

He’s close enough that there’s no space left between us, and when he kisses me again, he drags me halfway onto his lap as though that’s where I belong. His hands disappear beneath my shirt, sweeping over my ribs and waist with a confidence that makes my pulse kick harder.

There’s nothing tender about the kiss.

It’s hungry and demanding, and after spending so much of my life pretending sweet was enough, I discover I have very little patience left for it.

He doesn’t seem interested in restraint either. Every touch tells me he wants more, and the dangerous part is that I want exactly the same thing.

His hands find the waistband of my jeans, and instead of stopping him, I help. I lift my hips so he can work them down my legs before tossing them into the footwell.

The bench seat has seen better decades, but he pushes me back against it like he’s claiming territory, crowding over me until the cracked vinyl presses against my skin.

I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle while my knuckles bump against the hard planes of his stomach.

He watches me with an intensity that would be intimidating if the pulse hammering in his neck didn’t give him away. His breathing turns uneven as I finally get his jeans open and slide my hand inside.

He’s hot, hard, and thick enough to make my mouth water. The sound that tears out of him when I squeeze sends a thrill straight through me.

He captures my mouth again before I can enjoy it for long, kissing me hard enough to leave me dizzy. Then his teeth catch my lower lip, and the sting sparks through me in the best possible way. I answer in kind, dragging my teeth along his jaw.

His head tips back slightly as he mutters, “Jeez.”

There’s no room for elegance inside a truck cab, and neither of us seems interested in trying. His hand closes around my thigh, pulling my legs farther apart before he drives into me in one hard stroke.

The stretch burns and satisfies all at once, drawing a groan from deep in my chest. He’s bigger than most men I bother with, but instead of making me retreat, it only makes me want more.

I roll my hips against his, chasing every inch of him while my nails dig into his back hard enough to leave evidence behind.

He notices. I know he does.

His movements turn harder, more focused, as though he’s finally given up pretending he’s in control of himself.