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“We got time,” Cash says softly. “All day, as a matter of fact.”

Swallowing, I manage a scoff. “You’re really good at that.”

“Good at what?”

“Reading my mind.” I put my hands on his shoulders.

He helps me get down from the counter, hands still on my hips. “I pay attention.”

Stickiness runs down the inside of my leg. My eyes catch on my bruised wrists. The bite on my shoulder smarts.

This man is wrecking me. Claiming me so that every time I move—every breath I take—I think of him.

I’m hit by the urge to cry. Not because I’m sad, butbecause I’m just so overwhelmed by Cash’s ardent attention. The things he makes me feel are big and loud, and it’s terrifying to think I’ve stepped over some kind of boundary, walked off some kind of cliff, without even realizing it.

And I know it’s too late to go back, because the last thing I want to do is the sane thing—the safe thing—and leave.

I turn back to the stove and light the burner. I don’t have to ask Cash if he wants cheese in his omelet or hot sauce on the side. He doesn’t have to ask me if I want cream and sugar in my coffee.

We know each other now.

Ilikeknowing Cash this way.

I manage a smile. “I love it.”

CHAPTER 25

Cash

BEAUTIFUL MESS

We’rein the bathtub a week later when I fall in love with Mollie.

It happens all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s been happening all along, and it only takes some bubbles and a good, hard laugh for the realization to finally crystallize.

She’s on my lap, facing me. The water is hot. Small mountains of bubbles float on its surface, slicking her skin with bits of foam. Mollie insisted on the bubbles, and my girl gets what she wants.

But being an adult male, I don’t have bubble bath. I ended up squeezing some of my body wash underneath the running faucet while the tub filled up. It worked a little too well, and now we’re surrounded by bubbles.

So many fucking bubbles.

I swat them away. “I feel like I’m five again.”

“That’s a problem because?”

“Because they’re messy.” I glance at the floor, which is also covered in bubbles. “And ridiculous.”

Grinning, Mollie loops her arms around my neck and presses her tits against my chest. “Shame you don’t like messy and ridiculous things, because I am one.”

We’ve fucked five thousand times this week, our last round being twenty minutes ago in bed (we skipped Frisky Whiskey’s Friday night set at The Rattler). But my dick still twitches.

Touching this girl, fucking her, only seems to deepen my hunger for her. Because that’s what this feels like—physical hunger I can only satiate by being inside her, near her. With her.

What if she doesn’t want to stay the night again? Granted, she’s slept here every night since I brought her home from The Rattler last Friday. We’ve worked out a great little system: I’ll sneak her over an hour after supper wraps up. Lucky for us, it’s getting dark earlier now, and far as I can tell, no one has seen us.

The second we’re through the door, we’re ripping each other’s clothes off. Then we’ll either take a bath or hang in bed, where Mollie often pulls out her laptop and works while I try not to hump her leg like the horny dog she’s turned me into.

I love watching her work. She’s thoughtful, thorough, and insanely talented. I love watching her work on the design of her boots the most. I also love when she asks for my input on things—from a possible collection of more functional boots for riding and working on a ranch, to the design of Bellamy Brooks’s website. Makes me feel like she appreciates me for something other than my Stetsons.