Page 54 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

He manages it one-handed, his thumb hooked through my belt loop while his index finger pops the button. The anticipation alone sends a shiver through me because holy hell, he’s about to peel me like a stubborn clementine.

By the time he gets the zipper down, cold brushes across my skin while his mouth finds my jaw, all heat and intent. The combination crashes together inside my head and takes out whatever rational thought I have left.

I make a halfhearted attempt to shrug out of the jacket, but my hands are occupied with gripping his back, so Willy takes care of it himself. He strips it from my shoulders in one smooth pull, then catches sight of the faded tee underneath.

“Stay Weird?” His fingertip traces the lettering with the seriousness of an archaeologist uncovering a priceless relic. “Yeah, that tracks.”

I bark out a laugh. “You make that sound like a character flaw…”

The rest disappears when he turns me around and catches me beneath the thighs.

One instant I’m standing in front of the tack trunk, and the next I’m sitting on it. The speed of it steals another laugh from me.

There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in the way he touches me. He acts like I’m the best thing that’s happened to him all week, maybe all year.

My knees part on instinct, and when his mouth finds mine again, I can’t stop smiling against it because the entire situation feels mildly inadvisable and completely worth it.

His hands can’t seem to settle on a strategy. They slip beneath my shirt, then back over it, as though he’s stuck between taking his time and consuming every inch of me at once.

I have absolutely no complaints.

He presses his face against the underside of my jaw, his breath warm against my skin, and a ridiculous certainty settles over me: If he stops touching me right now, I may actually perish from disappointment.

I hook my legs around his waist and drag him closer.

The sound that leaves him isn’t quite a growl and isn’t quite anything else either. It lands somewhere in the territory of a man hanging onto the last threads of his self-control.

“Okay,” I whisper.

The word barely resembles language. It comes out more like permission, or surrender, or maybe both.

Willy’s hands slide beneath my thighs and lift me higher. I nearly send a saddle crashing off the trunk in the process. The whole world starts to feel strangely fluid, as if gravity has decided to sit this one out.

He kisses me again. His tongue is velvet, his teeth catching just enough to leave me dizzy.

I want his shirt gone, but my fingers keep bunching the fabric instead of cooperating, so I settle for dragging it free from his waistband.

As I work it upward, he breathes, “Jeez,” against my neck.

I get it halfway over his chest before his patience snaps and he yanks it over his head himself.

And now he’s shirtless.

We tug each other loose in a hurry that feels completely mutual. Willy yanks the “Stay Weird” shirt over my head and launches it somewhere behind him. My bra follows the same trajectory.

The damp wind sneaking through the barn raises goosebumps across my skin and tightens my nipples. His attention lands on them at once.

He bends his head and traces each peak with his tongue, taking his time in a way that feels downright unfair.

I arch into him, caught between the chill on my skin and the heat of his mouth. The corner of his mouth lifts when he notices my reaction, and then he catches the edge of my areola between his teeth before kissing a trail across my chest.

Any lingering skepticism I once had about the erotic value of biting has officially been eliminated. Apparently, I want teeth marks. Apparently, I want evidence.

Given the choice, I’d happily spend the next week carrying reminders of his mouth everywhere I go.

Willy attacks my jeans with the same practical confidence he brings to every other task. There’s nothing careful about it.

He strips them away like they’re inconveniences rather than clothing, and I help by kicking off the last stubborn sock.