Page 9 of Claimed By the Cowboys

Bo isn't a church man. He's a white cowboy with rough hands, firm commands, and praise that made me feel soft, sexy, and safe all at once. He’s about as far as a man could get from the respectable Black churchgoing husband Mama has pictured for me.

Strangely, the white part bothers me less than I would've expected. It's just another box he doesn't tick on Mama's list.

And last night, I didn't care about lists.

The contrast of his hands against my thighs when he spread them wide had been beautiful in the lamplight. Different. Electric. He’d traced his fingers over my dark brown skin like he was memorizing it, murmuring how soft I was, how perfect my curves felt under him, how he loved the way I looked and trembled when he held me down.

I didn’t mean to tremble, but I couldn’t help it. The release I felt was so cathartic, I couldn’t hold myself together.

I swallow hard. “It was one night, Mama. I’m home now.”

She watches me for another beat, then sighs. “Get some rest before your shift. And fix your face and hair before the children see you. You look like you’ve been up to no good.”

I nod and slip past her into my room before she can say anything else that might crack the fragile glow I’m still carrying.

Alone, I peel off my clothes and catch my reflection in the mirror. I touch my thighs gently, a secret smile tugging at my lips. Bo had been thorough. After the first time, I’d dozed against his chest, boneless and safe. He’d ordered burgers and fries from some late-night place, then fed me bites between kisses like it was the most natural thing in the world. In the shower, he’d washed my body with big gentle hands, cleaning me between my thighs before pressing me against the tiles and taking me again, telling me how pretty I looked falling apart for him and how good I felt clenching around his cock.

It was the best sex of my life. Probably the best I’ll ever have.

I slather on lotion, put on fresh scrubs, and unpick the knots from my hair as best as I can. I tie my curls into a neat bun, slicking it with product to smooth it down and tying a scarf in place to add pressure while it dries. I need a haircut, and maybe some box braids with extensions that will remove the daily maintenance that I have less and less time for. Still, the expense would take money out of my pocket that I’d rather save for the kids and emergencies. The responsible Brandy slides back into place like armor. By the time I wake the kids, I’ve got lunches packed and smiles ready.

Naomi pads into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Auntie Brandy, you smell like outside.”

Elijah barrels in next, dinosaur pajamas askew. “Did you bring me nuggets?”

I laugh and pull them both into a hug, breathing in their sleepy warmth. “No nuggets for breakfast, little man. But I made your favorite oatmeal. And Naomi, we’ll finish that solar system after school, okay?”

They chatter while they eat. I listen, make the right noises, pour juice, tie shoes, pack backpacks. The knot in my chest grows tighter with every ordinary minute. Last night is already like a dream. One perfect, reckless dream I could slide into over and over. I close my eyes and find myself immediately transported to that strange bed with Bo above me, working his way inside me like a man who had found his one purpose in life and was determined to excel at it. I recall the feel of his stubble against my hand and the soft longing in his expression when I kissed him goodbye.

Before I leave for the care home, I pull out my phone. Bo’s number sits there as a new contact. He’d put it in himself after the shower, kissing my temple and saying, “Use it, sweetheart. Any time.”

My thumb hovers over the screen.

I want to. God, I want to text him right now and ask when he can give me that relief again. I want to find out more about him than we had time to share, but Mama’s words echo. The kids’ laughter echoes louder. My double shift looms. Responsibilities stack up like the bricks of a well, all around and pressing close.

I close the contact and slip the phone into my tote bag.

One night. That’s all it was. That’s all it can ever be.

Even if it was the best night ever.

I kiss the top of Naomi’s head, then Elijah’s, and rush out the door into another long day.

But for the first time in forever, a small, secret part of me wonders what it might be like to have something more in my life than family and duty.

Chapter 4

Brandy

Sixty-three days have passed since I was last at the Dusty Boot. I’m embarrassed to know exactly how much time has passed, but I guess it says something about how little else is interesting in my life. Sixty-three days since I slipped out of that motel room before sunrise, still tasting Bo on my lips and the ghost of his hands on my skin. Sixty-three days of telling myself to delete his number from my phone because keeping it is foolish and dangerous.

It’s Annie’s birthday, and she declared the Dusty Boot non-negotiable. Half the care home staff have come along; basically anyone not on shift is now laughing too loudly and already on their second round. I’m nursing a margarita, and smiling when I’m supposed to, but my mind keeps drifting to another night that tasted of margaritas.

Then the door opens, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.

Bo walks in like he owns the place, with the same broad shoulders, the same dark-blond hair falling into those stormy blue-gray eyes, a white tee stretched across his chest, and a broad smile he never wore the last time I saw him.

Heat floods my face as a confusing mixture of emotions tangles through me. Every urge and need I’ve tried to bury for the past two months rushes hot between my thighs. I press them together on instinct, recalling the weight of him, the slow, thick ease of his dick, the low rumble of his praise, and the delicious way he pinned my wrists and told me to let go.