Page 74 of Cowboy

“If you’re comparing us to farm animals . . .” Her breath catches as I surge forward, filling her. Her elbows bend, but her hands keep her from colliding with the cabinets. She’s bent over and braced while I pull back and rush forward again.

“We are animals, Scarlett. Wild and reckless and crazy about each other.”

“Crazy,” she mutters, adding that little noise she makes that lets me know how thrilled she is with what I’m doing to her. I wish I could make a sound to let her know how happy she makes me. As our skin slaps and the suction sound slurps, I realize this is our harmony, our rhythm, and our music. This is the song that Scarlett and I sing, and I want to belt it from the mountains around us. I want the world to know how I feel about her.

“God, Scarlett, I love . . . being with you.” Scarlett dips forward, her head lower between her outstretched arms as she groans and stills. Her knees give, and the telltale signs of her breaking around me occur. My fingers dig into her hips, slamming into her two more times before I find my own release. Sated, I slip my hands up her back and along her arms, entwining my fingers with hers. With erratic breaths, my forehead lowers to her back.

“Got nineteen more rounds in you to live up to that namesake?” she teases of me. At least, I hope she’s teasing me.

“Any day that ends in day, I’m good to go.”

Scarlett laughs. Slowly, I stand and slip out of her, reaching for the towel draped over the sink before bringing it between her legs. With a hand on one hip, I guide her to stand.

“I don’t think I need it twenty times in a day,” she says. “But I’m happy to do it every day ending in day with you. Especially on your birthday.”

Scarlett turns to face me, her flannel pants still down at her ankles. “And I love . . . being with you, too.” She smiles up at me, and I’m curious if the repetition, and pause of my words, was intentional. Could she mean something more? Could she want something else with me? It’s more than sex once a day with Scarlett. It’s everything about her that I love. As archaic as it sounds, I love the way she looks in my kitchen. The scent of her lingering in the bed we share. The eagerness with which she faces each day on this farm. Admittedly, this is one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, and I’d do it every day, ending in day, as long as we could do it forever.

“Happy Birthday, honey,” she says. Tipping up on her toes, she kisses me long and lazily as if we have the rest of the day to celebrate, which we don’t.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I promise her.

“I’ll be here waiting on you.”

I love the thought. I love that she stuck around—staying power, as she called it.

“You never told me what you’d like for your birthday,” she teases, wrapping her arms around my neck, making me linger just a little longer. Can I tell her the truth? The thing I want most is for her to marry me. I want her to be my wife, yet even thinking about it makes me edgy. Proposing to her would ruin everything we have that’s going so well.

“You don’t have to get me anything, sweetheart. I already have all I ever wanted.” My hand falls to her belly before I lean down for a kiss on her covered skin. The baby kicks back as if it felt my touch.

“Sprout can hear you,” she whispers as I stand upright but still cover her swollen stomach.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Say something to my belly.”

Lowering again, I lift her shirt to make contact with her extended stomach. Pressing my lips to her skin, I feel a little silly, but I speak. “Hey, baby. I can’t wait for your birthday. I’m gonna love you like crazy.”

A little nudge at my face against her tummy has me standing quickly again. Scarlett laughs at my widened eyes. “He knows you’re his daddy and you’re waiting on him.”

Jesus. My eyes burn. My nose prickles. Every birthday wish I’ve ever had is standing right in this kitchen, and I love it. I love them both, but I’ll keep that sentiment on lockdown. I won’t risk giving it up.

“So birthday,” she interrupts my thoughts. We’ll just be having a family dinner at the main house and then return here.

“Maybe you can be my cake?” I tease, and Scarlett laughs.

“You like cake?” she teases, slipping her arms down to my chest.

“I love Scarlett cake.”

Her breath catches, and I realize how close I came to slipping up.

“If I say I love Bull cake, that just sounds wrong somehow.” She chuckles, dismissing the panic I’m certain has spread across my face.

“Well, it’s better than liking Bull’s stick,” I state.

“Is that something related back to the insemination expert? Because if it is, I’m definitely liking Bull’s stick.”

“Scarlett, you’re crazy.” I laugh.