Page 92 of 11 Cowboys

That’s it, Gracie. Enjoy my little show. Imagine all the things I could do to you with this body, these hands, this mouth. How hard this cowboy could ride you after months of a dry spell.

She takes her phone from her back pocket and snaps a few pics. My instinct is to tell her no, but she’s just doing her job. I trust her to give us first refusal over what gets published, and if she thinks I look good enough to be featured in her magazine right now, I’m taking it as a compliment.

Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison are watching, and I hope they’re catching on to what I’m trying to do. Time’s running out for all of us to prove to Grace that we’re worth her trust—worth her choosing us.

"You sure you don’t want to join me, darlin'?" I call out, my voice low and teasing. "This water feels damn good after all that heat and sweat."

She shakes her head as Lennon approaches to take the hose for himself. One by one, each man washes off, using their hands to clean away the work and exhaustion of the afternoon. McCartney’s last, and when he’s done, he turns the hose on Grace, showering her from head to toe. She yelps, jumping back, but her shirt’s soaked through, revealing a scarlet push-up bra beneath. The sight renders us all still and stupid for a moment before McCartney remembers what he was doing and sprays the rest of us. “Oh, it’s on,” she laughs, trying to snatch the hose, but McCartney’s too quick, dodging her as water arcs in silver ribbons, catching the light and splattering our waiting boots, clothes, and hair. We run, chasing Grace, until I finally catch her around her middle, hauling her slippery, wet body against mine.

She’s breathless and laughing, and when I hold her so McCartney can offer her a refreshing shower, she tilts her head back and lets the water pour over her face and throat, arms spread wide like she’s flying.

The sight of her drenched and glowing in the sun hits me low in the gut. She’s radiant—more than beautiful. She’s moonlight and stardust and an ache in my heart I want to hold close and push aside all at once. Ducking my head, I whisper in her ear. “You like that?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I like it.”

I press my forehead to the back of her head, panting and cool in the afternoon sun, and laugh.

I laugh in a way I don’t remember ever laughing before. It bubbles up from a deep, forgotten place where joy has been smothered by all the trials and tribulations that life has heaped in my direction. I laugh despite the harshness of my past and the uncertainty of my future. I exist in this present space with a woman who’s wrapped herself slowly and steadily around my heart and the hearts of all the men at Cooper Hill, even Brody, though he won’t admit it.

“I want to take you to bed,” I tell her, holding her so tight her rib cage strains against my bracketing arms.

“Now?” she whispers.

I look at each of the men standing in front of us in turn, seeking their agreement, and receive three nods in response.

“Now,” I say. “Let us show you how hard us cowboys can graft for you, even after a long, working day.”

She arches her neck to look up at me, eyes gleaming, eyelashes beaded with diamond water droplets. “Okay,” she whispers before pushing up on her toes to press her full scarlet lips against mine.

I lift her so that her legs hook around my hips, and she gasps against my mouth. Her hands are in my hair now, tugging and grounding us both.

When we break for breath, she’s flushed and wild-eyed, and I swear to God I’ve never seen anyone I want more.

“I can give you this,” she whispers. “I can give you what you need.”

“Yeah?” I press my lips to her jaw. “What about what you need?”

“I guess that’s your job.”

I smirk at her sass. “I’ll have you know I take my job very seriously.”

“Me, too,” she says, grinning, nipples pebbling into tight little points beneath her sodden, clingy shirt. “Me, too.”

“All of us like to put in an A plus for effort and performance,” Harrison says.

“Lennon can write you a list of all the body parts he wants to put his tongue on,” McCartney jokes.

“Harrison can give you a critique of how poetic your dirty talk is,” Lennon laughs.

“McCartney will paint you naked if you let him,” Harrison says.

“Enough jokes,” I growl. “Let’s get this woman inside and strip off these clothes before she catches a cold.”

She arches a brow and cups my face between her hands. “Of course, this is all about making sure I don’t get sick.” I squeeze her tighter and press hard kisses to her lips. She laughs, saying, “Dylan Delaney, time to show me what you’re made of.”

She doesn’t need to ask twice.

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