Page 23 of Claimed by the Cowboy (Havenstone: Mail Order Brides #3)

Tom

Six months of marriage to Kitty, and I still wake up every morning wondering how I got so damn lucky.

I reach across cold sheets to where my wife should be, finding nothing but rumpled cotton and the lingering scent of her skin.

The bed is empty, which means she’s stolen another one of my shirts and is padding around our kitchen barefoot. The thought makes my cock twitch with interest.

Humming drifts from the kitchen, mixed with the smell of cinnamon and coffee and the faint crackle of logs in the woodstove.

Snow dusts the windowsill, turning the whole world white.

I pull on yesterday’s jeans—no point in a shirt when I plan to get her out of mine—and follow the scent of cinnamon and woman.

Kitty stands at the stove wearing my blue flannel and nothing else. The shirt hits her mid-thigh, and when she stretches to reach something on the high shelf, I catch a glimpse of bare ass that makes my mouth water.

Her blonde hair tumbles loose down her back, and she’s swaying to music only she can hear while she ices freshly baked cinnamon rolls.

Behind her, the little tree we cut from the pasture glows in the corner, covered in mismatched ornaments and too much tinsel.

The cabin smells like cinnamon and pine and Kitty—sweet and perfect.

Mine. All fucking mine.

“Morning, darlin’.”

She glances over her shoulder, and the smile she gives me could power the whole state. “Morning, baby. Coffee’s?—”

I’m on her before she can finish, spinning her around and lifting her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around my waist automatically, and the feel of her bare skin against my jeans makes us both groan.

“Forget the coffee.” I bury my face in her neck, breathing in the scent that’s pure Kitty—vanilla and wildflowers and home. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

“I need to finish icing the rolls,” she protests, but her hands are already fisting in my hair.

“They can wait.” I bite down on the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder, marking her the way I do every morning. “I’m hungry for something else.”

She shivers, nipples hardening against my chest through my shirt. Christ, knowing she’s not wearing anything underneath makes me growl against her throat.

I pull back to look at her—flushed cheeks, lips still kiss-swollen from last night, brown eyes dark with the same need burning through me. “You’re beautiful, Kitty. So damn beautiful I can barely think straight. ”

“Even with morning hair?” She tries to smooth down the wild tangles, but I catch her hands.

“Especially with morning hair. You look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked by your husband.” I press my forehead against hers, breathing hard. “Which you were. Twice last night, if memory serves.”

Her cheeks flame red, but she doesn’t look away. Even after six months, she still blushes at my dirty talk.

“You’re insatiable,” she whispers.

“Only for you.” My fingers trail up her bare thighs, stopping short of where she’s already wet for me. “Always for you, Mrs. Sutton.”

Her breath hitches as my fingers skim higher. She arches into my touch, lips parting, and for a second, I forget about cinnamon rolls, coffee, or the rest of the world.

“Tom…” she breathes, voice shaky with want.

I grin, cock throbbing against her soft belly. “Say the word, darlin’, and I’ ll take you right here. Counter, table. Hell, under the tree if that’s what you want.”

Her nails dig into my shoulders, her lips brushing my jaw as she whispers, “Much as I’d love to let you ravish me on the kitchen counter, everyone is coming for breakfast.”

That yanks me back a step. “Everyone?”

Her smile is sly as she pushes lightly at my chest. “Which means I need to put on some clothes before your brothers walk in and see me like this.”

I groan like a man on death row. “Cruel woman.”

“Responsible woman,” she corrects, sliding off the counter. The hem of my flannel rides scandalously high as she pads toward the bedroom, throwing me a look over her shoulder that promises I’ll pay for this later—in the best way.

I adjust myself in my jeans, muttering a curse. Cinnamon rolls. Family breakfast. Sure. But all I can think about is getting my wife back in bed and proving how insatiable I am.

After lighting the fire in the living room, I turn my attention to the cinnamon rolls, drizzling frosting on the last few on the cooling rack.

Kitty pads back into the kitchen as I finish, hair in a messy knot, wearing jeans and a soft red sweater that says Jingle My Bells.

I smirk. “Is that an invitation?”

She arches a brow, utterly unruffled. “Depends. Only if you think you can keep up, cowboy.”

“Oh, I can keep up.” I lick frosting off my finger suggestively just to see the heat spark in her eyes. Worth it.

“Incorrigible,” she mutters, but she bites her lip as she starts setting out plates.

I snag her wrist and tug her close for a kiss that’s meant to be quick but lingers the second I taste her lips. “Mmm. Sweet as frosting.”

Her cheeks flush as she swats me with a dishtowel. “Behave, Tom Sutton. Your brothers will be here any minute.”

“I’m always on my best behavior.”

She snorts. “Then heaven help us all. ”

The words barely leave her mouth before a knock rattles the front door—unexpected because, as we both know, Suttons never knock.

Kitty gives me a puzzled look. “Who knocks out here?”

“Guess we’re about to find out.” I wipe my hands on the dishtowel and head for the door, still grinning at her ridiculous sweater.

A tall man stands framed by the snow, shoulders broad beneath a leather jacket, a dusting of white clinging to his Stetson. His presence is as stark as the cold air rolling in around him.

“Tom,” he greets with a curt nod.

I blink. “Well, I’ll be damned. Grady Cross.”

Kitty peers curiously from behind me as I shake his hand.His grip is strong and unyielding, his eyes a sharp gray-blue that take in everything and give back almost nothing. They look older than the man himself, carrying shadows of places most folks never come back from.

“Thought you were overseas,” I say.

“Was,” he answers simply. “Not anymore. Heard the Maas’ still light the Christmas Eve bonfire.

Figured it was time to set a few things right.

” His gaze flicks to Kitty, then back to me.

“Besides, word is the Sutton brothers all went and got themselves married inside a year. Had to see that miracle with my own eyes.”

“Yeah, well.” I slip an arm around Kitty’s waist and draw her forward, pride warming my chest. “This miracle here is my wife, Kitty.”

Grady’s eyes soften a fraction as he inclines his head in greeting. “Good to meet you, Kitty. You’ve got your hands full with this one.” His gaze returns to me, and his mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile.

I squeeze her gently. “Oh, she handles me just fine.”

Grady’s expression sobers again. “Thought I’d drop by when I heard about what went down here. Poison in the water, sabotage on your land…”He pauses, jaw tight. “I’m sure you’ve got it handled, but if you need an extra set of eyes or hands, you call me. ”

His tone carries the weight of a man who’s seen too much and isn’t afraid to step back into the fire if it means protecting the people he cares about.

I nod. “Appreciate it. Good to have you home, brother.”

“Don’t know if it’s home yet,” he replies obliquely. “Good to see you, Tom.” He tips his hat. “Kitty.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving behind nothing but a swirl of snowflakes and a silence thick enough to taste.

Kitty leans into me. “He’s… intense.”

“Always has been,” I murmur, watching the snow swallow him whole.

“He was one of the Maas’ boys. Grady and I grew up side by side until he was about twelve.

His home life was bad—real bad—and when things finally blew up, Mary and Jonathon Maas took him in at their Christmas tree ranch.

Saved him, if you ask me. Saved a lot of boys who had nowhere else to go.

Some went off to college, some to the military, some never came back at all.

Grady? He went further than most, and I always figured he’d never return. ”

Her brows lift. “The Maas family sounds special. ”

I grin. “Havenstone’s version of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Mary with her fudge and knitted scarves. Jonathon with his big beard and even bigger laugh—hell, you’ll love them. I’ll take you to meet them over the Christmas period. Their place is like a Hallmark Christmas card.”

Kitty’s smile blooms, her fingers twining with mine. “Sounds like my kind of people.”

“Trust me,” I say, kissing her temple. “They’re everybody’s kind of people.”

I’m about to steal another kiss when the front door opens again, and Henry booms, “Smells like cinnamon rolls and Christmas in here!”

Snow clings to his boots as he stomps inside. Max is strapped to his chest in a reindeer-patterned carrier, a tuft of his dark hair sticking up like a tiny rooster comb.

Angus follows, lugging a tray of eggs and bacon like he’s feeding an army. He kicks the snow from his boots. “Don’t let Henry near the frosting,” he warns, setting the tray down. “Last time, we had to scrape sugar off the rafters. ”

“Hey, that was one time,” Henry protests. “And technically, it was powdered sugar, not frosting.”

“You two are like feral raccoons,” I mutter, following them to the kitchen.

“Only we reproduce better than raccoons,” Henry adds smugly, kissing the top of Max’s head. My three-month-old nephew gurgles in response, tiny hands batting at his dad’s chin.

Kitty takes one look at Henry juggling Max and a cinnamon roll and sighs. “Do not feed my nephew sugar before nine a.m., Henry.”

“Relax,” he says, licking frosting off his thumb. “He’s just drooling on it.”

“That’s worse!” Kitty swoops in, rescuing both baby and pastry.

Max immediately snuggles against her chest, and my heart does a little freefall at the sight. Someday, she’ll be holding our sons and daughters.