Page 93 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That sounds good.”

His lips curled into a smile, and he tipped his head back. “Alright, Cowgirl—er, I mean best friend⁠—”

I laughed, shaking my head.

“See you tomorrow, then,” he said, stepping back.

I nodded. “See you then, Banks.”

I closed the door behind me, pressing my forehead against it as I let out a slow, shaky breath. My fingers twitched. I could feel the dirt beneath my nails, the idea that a bug could have landed on me, crawled up my arm or burrowed into my hair.

I rushed to the bathroom and quickly flicked on the light. My hands met the sink in an instant as I twisted the faucet on and let the water rush over my skin. I didn’t even hesitate before grabbing the soap, scrubbing, lathering, rinsing, repeating. The water was too hot, but I didn’t care. My skin burned, the rawness a familiar ache that told me I was clean.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

The anxiety, the obsession with being clean, with controlling what little I could when the rest of my mind spun out of control. When my parents died, it got worse. When I got engaged, it got worse. When I lost everything, it swallowed me whole. I scrubbed and scrubbed, convinced that if I erased the dirt, I could erase the memories, the pain, the way my stomach knotted when things felt out of place.

But tonight, with Beau . . . it hadn’t been like this.

I didn’t think about the dirt when I was touching Ginger. I didn’t think about my hands when I was sitting with him on that porch, rocking, listening to him talk about his mom, his life, the way he chased something bigger than himself. I wasn’t obsessed with washing my hands when I was with him.

And that scared the shit out of me.

I turned off the water, staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes were glassy, my lips parted as I dragged in a deep breath. I wanted to run, to push him away before he could leave me first. But the truth was, I needed him.

I needed his help, even if he didn’t know it.

I needed the ease of being around him, the way he made my world slow down, the way he saw me but never made me feel broken. I needed to figure out how to be his friend, just his friend, because losing him wasn’t an option. I couldn’t want him the way I did.

I had to learn how to do the rest on my own.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turned off the bathroom light and grabbed my pajamas. I had to be his friend even though the ache between my legs wanted so much more.

30

Beau

The second the door slammed shut, I was already ripping at my belt and yanking down my zipper. My cock was hard and fucking leaking.

I gripped myself tight, stroking slowly. I could still hear her moans from that night in the hotel, the way she’d taken every filthy word I fed her and loved it. The way her body had shuddered, stretched for me, the way she’d fucking begged as I made her mine for the night.

I pumped faster, chasing the memory of her coming undone beneath me, on me, because of me. Her name slipped from my lips like a prayer, and my body tensed as thick, hot ropes of cum spilled over my fist.

“Fuck being friends.”

31

Beau

“You look like shit,” Fable mumbled from the top of the chute, gripping the gate as I guided the bull inside.

I felt like shit too—probably because I hadn’t slept. Instead, I spent half the night jerking off to the memory of her, over and over again. I had to wake up this morning and face the reality of being friends with her. I promised myself last night would be the last of it. I’d get it out of my system—get her out of my system before I had to return to see her and be friends.

She needed my friendship, and quite frankly, I needed her too. If I could only fuck her one more time, then maybe . . .

“Fuck,” I mumbled as the bull kicked the back of the gate, making me go flying. “Fucking shit.”

“You okay?”