Page 9 of Dirty Sweet Cowboy

"Heard you cry out," he says.

"I'm sorry." I wipe at my face, realizing there are tears on my cheeks. "Didn't mean to wake you."

He steps into the room, closing the door partially behind him. The mattress dips heavily as he sits on the edge of my bed. This close, I can smell him—sleep-warm skin, a faint trace of soap, pure male. His heat radiates toward me like a furnace.

"Nightmare?" he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. Can't talk about it. Can't explain the shadows that chase me, the reasons I ran. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Okay." He doesn't push, and gratitude floods through me. Instead, he reaches out, hesitates, then gently brushes a strand of hair from my face. The simple touch sends electricity skittering across my skin. "You're safe here, angel. No one's gonna hurt you while I'm around."

I believe him. That's the crazy thing. I've known this man barely a week, and I believe with absolute certainty that he would protect me from anything. Anyone.

"Thank you," I whisper. "For everything. For letting me stay."

His eyes, silver-green in the dim light filtering through the partly open door, search mine. "You don't need to thank me."

"I do." I lean forward slightly, drawn to him like a magnet. "I don't know what I would've done if you'd turned me away."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a tightening of his jaw. "Never would've happened."

The conviction in his voice makes my breath catch. Like the universe simply wouldn't have allowed such an outcome. Like we were meant to find each other.

We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound our breathing, gradually synchronizing. My trembling has stopped. The nightmare feels distant now, chased away by his presence.

"Think you can sleep?" he asks.

"I don't know." The thought of closing my eyes, of falling back into that darkness, makes my stomach twist. "Maybe not yet."

He nods, understanding. Then, so slowly I have time to count my heartbeats—one, two, three—he leans toward me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my lower lip. My pulse skyrockets.

"This is a bad idea," he murmurs, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't pull away.

"Why?" My voice is barely audible, even to my own ears.

"Because once I start, I don't know if I can stop."

The words hang between us, heavy with promise. With warning.

And then his lips are on mine.

Oh.

The kiss is gentle at first—a question, an exploration. His lips are softer than I expected, contrasting with the scratch of his beard against my skin. I freeze, unsure what to do, how to respond. I've been kissed before, but not like this. Never like this.

He pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine. Whatever he sees there must reassure him, because he makes a low sound in the back of his throat and kisses me again. Deeper this time.

His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, holding me steady as his mouth claims mine. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking for entrance. I open for him without hesitation.

The first touch of his tongue against mine sends a shock of pleasure straight between my legs. I whimper, hands flying up to grip his bare shoulders. His skin is hot under my palms, muscles like steel beneath velvet.

Wayne groans, the sound rumbling from his chest into mine where we're pressed together. He tastes like mint and man, and I'm instantly addicted. His tongue strokes mine, teaching me the rhythm, showing me how our bodies could move together in other ways.

The kiss turns hungrier, more demanding. His other hand finds my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh, almost bruising in their intensity. I don't care. Want more. Want him to mark me, claim me, make me his.