Page 8 of Claimed By the Cowboys

After a long moment, he rolls us, pulling me into his chest and stroking my back in, soothing sweeps. I’m trembling. Floating. The constant knot in my chest is gone with the magic of his mouth, his hands, and his dick.

And more. With his focus and care. I swallow down the lump in my throat.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his skin, with a voice so hoarse and awed, it sounds like another woman.

I was hopeful he had it in him to rock my world, but Bo exceeded every expectation.

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. Night’s not over.”

I smile, already half-asleep and more relaxed than I’ve been in years, safe in the arms of a man I barely know but somehow trust completely.

For tonight, I don’t have to be strong.

I get to be his.

Chapter 3

Brandy

I creep up the porch steps like a teenager who stayed out past curfew, even though I’m thirty-one years old and this house has my name on the lease. The sky is starting to lighten, taking on the soft gray-blue tinge that emerges before true dawn. It reminds me of Bo’s eyes and how melty and soft they made me feel inside.

My body is wrecked: muscles I forgot I had ache in the best way, and between my legs, I’m sorer than I have any business being. But instead of feeling tired and well used, I’m strangely light and alive, as though Bo pried loose the tightness inside my chest. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at me. One night shouldn’t be so transformative, but here I am, transformed.

I slip my key into the lock and turn it slowly, wincing at every tiny click. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the hallway clock. I toe off my shoes and pad inside, still wearing last night’s clothes.

In the hallway, I pause outside Naomi’s room first. The door is cracked. I push it gently and peek in. My eight-year-old niece is curled up with her stuffed astronaut bear, one arm flung over her head, as if she’s reaching for the stars even in her sleep. Mama has braided her hair in an intricate style she used to do for me and Jasmine when I was the same age. My heart aches for my sister more as her daughter grows and their resemblance strengthens. Naomi’s science project poster leans against the desk, half-finished. Guilt tries to creep in, but I push it back. She’s safe. She’s loved. That has to count for something.

Next door, Elijah’s room smells like baby shampoo and the faint plastic of too many dinosaur toys. My five-year-old nephew is sprawled across his bed like he fought a war in his sleep, tangled in his comforter with one leg hanging off the mattress. His little mouth is open, and soft snores puff out. I smile despite everything.

These babies are my heart walking around outside my body. They are my life and my purpose.

I ease the doors shut and head toward my own room when the kitchen light flicks on.

“Brandy?”

Mama’s voice stops me cold. She stands in the doorway in her robe with her hair wrapped in a satin scarf, and her arms crossed over her chest. The look on her face is equal parts worry and disappointment, which is the combination that always affects me the most.

“You only now getting home?” she asks, keeping her voice low so she doesn’t wake the children.

I rub the center of my chest out of habit. “Yes, ma’am.”

She studies me for a long moment. Her eyes flick over my messy curls that I was unable to tame with my fingers, the tank top that still smells faintly of Bo’s skin and motel soap, and the lack of makeup on my face.

“You were with a man.”

It isn’t a question, and I don’t bother lying.

“I was.”

Mama exhales sharply, the sound full of scripture and fear. “Baby, I didn’t raise you to be gallivanting all night when you’ve got responsibilities. Those children need you present. I need you present. The care home needs you with your mind on the work. The Lord needs you focused.”

The glorious, bone-deep relief Bo gave me when he pinned my wrists and told me to just be starts tightening again, twisting back into that familiar anxious knot pressing behind my ribs.

“I know, Mama.”

“Do you?” Her voice is still quiet and measured but it carries the weight of her disapproval all the same. “After what happened with your sister… I can’t lose you to bad choices, too. You need a good, steady man from church. Someone who understands duty and family. Not some stranger who keeps you out until dawn, away from your family and responsibilities. Not someone who’s going to put your life in danger.”

The words land like stones in my stomach even though I know they come from love; twisted, scared love, but love all the same. Still, they sting.