Page 27 of Dirty Sweet Cowboy

. . .

Judy

Six months later

Six months married, and I still get butterflies when Wayne looks at me from across the room. Six months of wearing his ring, sharing his name, warming his bed, and I've never felt more certain of anything in my life. The ranch feels like it's always been mine—the sprawling house, the endless land, the horses that now nicker in greeting when they see me coming. But it's him—my husband, my protector, my lover—who truly makes this place home. The way he touches me like I'm precious. The way he fucks me like I'm made for it. The way he growls "mine" against my skin every night before we sleep. I am utterly, completely his.

Nothing more ever came of the man my uncle sent. Either Wayne scared him good and my uncle got the message or my uncle is dead. Either way I don’t care.

I’m safe. With Wayne. He’ll never let anyone hurt me again.

The morning sun streams through our bedroom window, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Wayne is already awake beside me—he always rises with the sun, ranch habits ingrained in him after years of solitude. But he doesn't get up right away anymore. Not since I came into his life. Now he lingers, one strong arm draped possessively across my waist, his warmth seeping into me like the most delicious blanket.

"Morning, Mrs. Campbell," he murmurs against my ear, his beard tickling my skin. The name still sends a thrill through me—Judy Campbell. His. In every way possible.

I turn in his arms, pressing myself against the solid wall of his chest. "Morning."

His hand slides up my back to cup the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. In the months we've been together, he's learned exactly how to touch me, how to hold me. Knows every sensitive spot, every place that makes me melt.

"Sleep well?" he asks, but there's a glint in his eye that says he's thinking about more than just my rest.

"Mmm," I hum, stretching against him like a cat. "Someone wore me out pretty thoroughly last night."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. "Not too worn out, I hope."

His morning erection presses insistently against my thigh, hot and hard even through his sleep pants. I've grown to love this daily ritual—waking up to his desire, to the knowledge that he wants me as desperately now as he did that first time in the grove.

"Never too worn out for you," I assure him, sliding my hand down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, to the waistband of his pants.

His eyes darken as he watches me, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of green remains. He still looks at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Like he can't believe I'm really his.

"Such a good girl," he says, the praise still affecting me as strongly as it did the first time. "My good girl."

Heat blooms in my belly at the words, at the possessive edge to his voice. I may be his wife now, but I'll always be his good girl too. Will always crave his approval, his praise, his dominance.

Without breaking eye contact, I slide down his body, pushing the sheets out of my way. His sleep pants come next, tugged down just enough to free his cock—thick and flushed and perfect. My mouth waters at the sight of it, at the memory of all the pleasure it's given me.

“I want to taste you," I say, voice dropping to a whisper.

He groans, one large hand coming to rest on top of my head. Not pushing, not demanding. Just connecting. “Oh, fuck, angel. I don’t deserve you.”

I take him in my hand first, stroking the velvet-soft skin stretched over rigid hardness. He's so big, my fingers barely meet around his girth. A bead of moisture forms at the tip, and I lean forward to lick it away, savoring the salty-sweet taste of him.

His breath hitches as my tongue swirls around the head of his cock. Six months of practice have taught me exactly how he likes it—firm pressure on the underside, gentle grazes of teeth along the shaft, one hand cradling his heavy balls while the other works what won't fit in my mouth.

"Fuck," he hisses as I take him deeper, relaxing my throat to accommodate his size. "Look at you. Taking Daddy's cock so well."

The words send a jolt of heat straight between my legs. I moan around him, the vibration making his hips buck slightly. His hand tightens in my hair, guiding me now, setting the pace. I surrender to it, to him, letting him use my mouth while I look up at him through my lashes.

"That's it," he praises, voice strained with pleasure. "That's my good girl. Open that mouth wide for Daddy. Suck my good. Get it all nice and slippery.”

I redouble my efforts, hollowing my cheeks as I suck, using every trick I've learned to drive him crazy. His breathing quickens, thighs tensing beneath me—signs I've come to recognize as him getting close.

Just when I think he's about to come down my throat, he pulls me off him with gentle hands.

"Need to be inside you," he growls, already flipping me onto my back. "Need to fill that sweet pussy."

I go willingly, eagerly, spreading my thighs in welcome as he settles between them. I sleep naked now—his preference—so there's nothing between us as he positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against my already-slick folds.