Page 42 of Cowboy in Colorado

“Tell me.”

I shake my head. “No.”

How can we afford an exchange like this when we’re both so close? He’s barely able to keep thrusting, so intense is his need to come, and I’m heaving, writhing, a fire in my veins and a volcano in my core—an orgasm waiting to be unleashed that will shred me to pieces.

Yet we manage a conversation?

It makes no sense.

“Brooklyn—” He can’t finish his demand, because he’s too busy bearing down, clenching every muscle to hold back, to last until I come.

He’s determined that I come first, I realize.

With anyone else, I would toy with that determination. Hold off my climax just to mess with him. But I can’t.

I just can’t.

I simply cannot. My orgasm will not be denied.

I need to hold on to something now, because it’s coming, it’s inevitable, and I need to hold on to something to survive the force of it; I reach for him. I scrabble at his thighs, at his abs, reaching for his shoulders.

“Come here, please, please,” I whisper, too far gone to be embarrassed at needing him this way.

He doesn’t deny me—he slams into me one last time, and then he scoops me up and I’m sitting on his thighs and my legs wrap around his waist and if I thought he was deep before, he’s so much more intimately deeper like this, because we’re skin to skin, chest to chest, heat to heat—my breasts crush against the anvil of his chest and the quavering V of my thighs grinds against his stomach and the trembling sheath of my sex clings to the stuttering thrusting of his shaft, and my nose buries in his hair—which smells like wood smoke and horse and male sweat, and it’s so intoxicating I get dizzy from the drug of his scent. His arms wrap around me, an iron band around my shoulders and the other under my ass, lifting me and letting me fall, dictating our pace even like this.

But now it’s both of us guiding our union. I rise and I fall—I sink down to impale myself on him with a shaky scream and lift up to lose him for a moment, and then he drives up desperately, seeking me, needing to be inside me as much as I need him there, and we meet with a resounding crash, with a scream and a raw male moan, a sound so vulnerable it rips my heart in two, and I’m ripped apart further by the tenderness of his face burying against my throat so my pulse thuds against his fluttering eyelid.

“Brooklyn—” Has a man ever whispered my name in such a broken way?

Never.

And I have never answered in a voice so damp with intensity-racked tears I simply cannot help. “Will—Will—”

Our eyes meet at the same moment, and I feel him explode even as I begin my own detonation.

His mouth fuses to mine as our orgasm breaks us apart, throws us together—we cling to each other for dear life and move in perfect synchronization as we come and come and come, and we cannot scream or shout or growl or even whimper…because our kiss is all that keeps us breathing, all that keeps us sane.

This is not merely a climax.

This is something else entirely.

Something much, much more.

10

When it’s over, we’re both gasping raggedly, staring at each other in baffled wonderment.

“What thehellwas that?” Will growls.

I confusedly brush the back of my wrists against my eyes. “I—I don’t know.”

“I’m not imagining it, then.” He’s braced over me, as I fall helplessly backward in the wild throes of our united climax. “It wasn’t just—It was…”

“No, whatever it was, it happened. I felt it too.”

He rests his forehead against mine for a second, and I don’t close my eyes—I’m glad I don’t, because I would’ve missed the moment I lose him. I feel it, I see it. He shutters. Closes down. Blinks three times, and then his shoulders square back and he rolls away from me, off of me, pulls out of me. His sex is limp and hangs down, the tip of the condom heavy with his seed—even like that, he’s huge.

He stands up and walks away from the bed, and I’m gobsmacked once again by his beauty—broad shoulders and a muscled back and a tight waist form a V leading down to a hard round ass above thick, corded thighs. Pure male perfection. Blond hair messy—sex hair, from my hands raking through it and clutching it as we came together, stands up. In fact, I still have a few strands of his hair in my hand.