Page 53 of Haunted Spurs

My leg is hooked over his waist. Before I woke up, I was moving in my sleep. I was grinding my pelvis against his thigh, desperately, pathetically seeking any kind of friction to soothe the throbbing, wet ache tormenting my lower belly. Through the thin silk of my shorts, I could feel the heat of his body, and my own body was begging for more. I was practically humping his leg like a cat in heat.

Jesus Christ.

I jerk back. I scramble over to my side of the mattress, completely disgusted with myself.

Why can't I resist him?

He is sleeping soundly. His breathing is deep, slow, and steady. His chest rises and falls in a hypnotic rhythm. Apparently, I'm the only one who can't keep it together. Oh, the bitter irony... considering I was the one who listed the unbreakable rules.

I keep looking at him, completely unable to look away.

His features are relaxed. His dark hair falls messily across his forehead. He's got a shadow of rough stubble along his jawline, but his face is so peaceful, so vulnerable.

He's sleeping so... sweetly.

Fuck. I bite my lip, feeling a dangerous pang right in the center of my chest.

I can't let myself just sit here and look at him like this. It's... too much.

I slip out of bed.

Ollie lazily lifts his head. His soft ears perk forward. He stares at me for a second with his big, dark eyes in the gloom, but when he sees I'm just heading to the other side of the room, he lets out a silent yawn, rests his snout back on his front paws, and returns to dreamland.

I make my way over to the window and sit on the window seat, pulling my knees to my chest.

It's pouring outside. The tree branches twist like ghosts.

A harsh, raspy, eerie caw slices through the sound of the rain. A raven, hidden who knows where in the dark.

A second later, lightning splits the sky. The flash lights up the bedroom like daytime for a fraction of a second.

I rest my forehead against the cold glass. The chill soothes my skin, but the heat in my lower belly refuses to fade. I can still smell Ron on me, can still feel the solid weight of his body under my leg.

I'm not going to be able to sleep.

I might as well open my laptop and get some writing done. Hoping the shadows of my novel will be enough to swallow the blinding light of that cowboy.

My phantom cowboy is fiercely making out with my heroine while pinning her against a barn door with an obscene, delicious erection.

The scene is thick with danger; the imminent risk of being caught by someone and sparking an unprecedented scandal is sky-high... and yet he doesn't care. She doesn't care. They just want to consume each other.

I take a shaky breath, completely sucked into the scene I'm creating, when I feel a shadow looming behind me.

Annoyingly, I don't even need to turn around to know who it is. My stomach tying itself in knots speaks for me.

My senses go haywire. The air is instantly saturated with the heat radiating off his body and that heavy, sleep-warm scent.

"What are you doing?"

His voice is a low, raspy, sleep-thickened murmur. It hits me straight at the base of my spine.

I jump, my fingers slipping across the keys and mashing random letters, and with a sharp clack, I slam my Mac screen down forty-five degrees, terrified he might read the absolute smut that he, unfortunately, inspired.

Ron is rubbing one eye with the back of his hand, his hair gloriously messy. He is the exact picture of sin and temptation.

"I... um..." I stammer, hating how my voice shakes. I clear my throat and try to scrape some composure together. "Is the typing bothering you? Or the screen light? I can move to the bathroom if you want."

He drops his hand from his face and looks at me. He leans one shoulder against the wooden frame of the window nook, crossing his arms over his chest.