Page 38 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

THIRTY-ONE

ADALENE

I trace over his top shirt button, mesmerized by the feel of his stone-like body quivering beneath my touch.

Hooking through the gap between the first and second button, I tug on it, snapping not one, but two buttons open.

It’s like magic— dinner and a show —and I plan on taking advantage of the twilight zone I’m currently trapped in as long as I can.

Because once I wake up from this dream, there’s no way Mateo willingly let’s me touch him like this.

There’s no way he’ll look at me like I hung the stars and moon.

There’s no way he will be submitting complete and total control to me— his friend.

I scratch a single nail across his freshly exposed skin, watching his trembling flesh pinken as I draw a harsh line across it. He hisses, but doesn’t pull away.

Fuck, is this what power feels like?

I drag my finger downward farther, snapping buttons as I go, digging my nail in, drawing a few drops of blood. It drips onto his perfectly white shirt, and I want to lick it up. Am I sick? Maybe. But I feel so fucking powerful, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

My finger finds the waistband of his pants, and I look up at him, my eyes heavy as desire pounds through me. I feel like I’m outside of my own body, watching someone far more brave, far more powerful, far more used to being in control, take over my movements.

“I’m going to take your pants off.” I lick my lips, waiting only a second to see if he’ll stop me.

His chest only rises and falls, his eyes so glued to my finger I’m not sure he even heard my words.

I turn back to the task at hand, and pull at the denim, popping the small silver button free.

In the process, my free hand rests on his inner thigh, and I can feel him.

His dick—harder, longer, and thicker than anything I could possibly imagine—strains beneath my hand, hot and twitching.

I’ve seen a dick before. I’ve sucked several. But this doesn’t feel like a dick. It feels like a work of art— a pedestal meant to worship on.

I swallow the growing pool of saliva in my mouth, forcing my hands not to shake, and pull his zipper down. I’m torturing us both, going slow, but I can’t seem to make myself move any faster. I refuse to ruin what’ll surely be one of the best moments of my otherwise unimpressive life.

To Mateo’s credit, he doesn’t rush me.

With the zipper down, I pull at the denim, tugging it over the globes of his firm, rounded ass, and down thighs carved from actual fucking stone. God, is everything about this man giant and hard?

The injustice of it all—someone being this fucking perfect while the rest of us mere mortals are left with scraps.

He steps out of each pant leg, and I wait, bent at the waist, a little afraid to look up. What should I do next? What would a dominating, controlling, confident woman do here? What does Mateo like, want? What do I want?

“I want you to tell me what you like,” I say, my voice husky as I stand up, my eyes level with the second ab from the bottom. My mouth dries at the sight. This might just be my favorite row of abs—there’s a small mole in the shape of a heart, and a scrolling tattoo intersects it like a vine.

It’s a fucking good ab.

“I want you to do what you want, Dale. I’ll like anything you do—” His voice is so strangled, I turn to look at him, my own eyes hardening.

“No, Mateo. This, is what I want. I want you to use your words. I want you to talk me through it.” There, that almost sounded demanding. His eyelids flutter, and I forge on, digging both hands into his chest, small crescents peppering his perfect skin. “Be a good boy, and tell me what you like.”

“Fuuuccckkk.” His chest rumbles under my touch. His hands trace up my arms, wrapping around my wrists. But instead of pulling them away from his skin like I expect, he pushes them deeper. Like he wants me to crawl inside of him.

“Please, take the rest of my clothes off. Please take yours off, I want to see you. I need to see you.”

So proper. The perfect, proper gentleman, Mateo, saying please to get me naked.

I shake my head, licking my lips. “Are you going to fuck me like a gentleman too, or like you actually want me?”

His chest rumbles, and then he presses my nails deeper, small droplets of blood smearing beneath my fingertips. He’s hard and soft, and fucking bleeding—for me.

“Trust me, saying please and letting you go slow is the greatest torture I’ve ever endured. I might just die, but I’ll at least die happy. Now take my fucking clothes off.”

I smirk, content with the way he sounds so completely unhinged, his hands quivering wrapped around my wrists, before they drop.

I did that. I push his shirt over his shoulders, and it flutters to the ground.

With fingers in the waistband of his underwear, I suck in breath, holding it as I push them down.

His cock bobs, heavy and hard, and I groan, unable to keep my desire confined to my own mind.

His dick is lined with veins, blue and bumpy, the skin dark but so silky smooth looking, the head an even darker color. I note his hair is trimmed, and even though I never used to care about such things, I’m grateful today.

Seeing him like this doesn’t send me back to the basement with Marco.

He’s everything Marco wasn’t, this moment is everything I want , and not the other way around.

It might be a complete parallel to the moment that broke me, and my heart hammers like a trapped bird in my throat, but I can’t look away.

I want this memory with him to bleed through every horrible one that came before it.

Stepping back, I drink in the sight of him, intoxicated with the adrenaline racing through my veins.

He’s completely naked—dark tattoos covering more of his body than I realized—his hands fisting at his sides, chest panting, hair disheveled where my hands were running through it, and eyes glued solely to my own.

God must weep at the image of him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, and he shakes his head, disbelief etched into the lines of his face.

And that pisses me off. How could a man like him not see it? “Kneel for me.”

I’m still completely clothed, and at this point I’m so fucking high on the power he’s giving me I feel like I’m set to explode. But I’ll gladly combust at this point.

God, you can take me. It won’t get any better than this.

Only, when he drops to his knees, the room seems to shake, and . It. Gets. Better.

“What a good boy you are.” Is that my fucking voice? Who’s taking over my body, and where has this goddess been all my life?

“Yes, cowgirl.”

I smirk at the name. It still doesn’t sound quite right—Mistress or even Mami would work better, but the way he says it? The way he described what it meant?

He can call me whatever the fuck he wants to.

Moving around his now kneeling form, I admire the sight of him, chin tucked to his heaving chest, black strands of silky hair dangling over his face.

I drag my finger over his shoulders, admiring how hard and taut they are beneath my hand, and then across his rippling back, covered in a mural of a man bowing before a goddess.

I’ve never seen the tattoo, and it looks so close to how this moment feels, it takes the breath completely from my lungs.

I walk back to the front of his body, pulling his chin up so his face is almost level with my own. I expect frustration, or at least some kind of irritation to be in his eyes—I’m all but toying with him after all—but all I see is desire mixed with something deeper. Yearning?

My pussy aches, seeing him like this, and I can feel it getting hotter and wetter with each passing second. I need to move this along before I involuntarily ignite into flames.

“Shall I take my clothes off?”

“Yes, please. I—” He licks his lips, hungrily searching my face. “I can help if you want. I’ve imagined undressing you for so many years, it would be the greatest gift you could give me.”

I forget about the angry bruises that are still ruining my skin. I forget about our friendship, or what friendship we used to have. All I can think about is how vulnerable Mateo’s being with me. Not only is he stripping naked, exposing his body to me, but he’s stripping bare his desires too.

Not so that I will feel safe with him, but so that I will feel power over him.

“You may undress me.”

He moves to stand back up, but I put firm hands on his shoulders and shake my head.

“On your knees,” I enforce and he just nods. “My shirt first.”

He pulls the fabric up over my head—he’s tall enough even on his knees that he doesn’t have to stretch much to get it off—and is met by my aching, and very naked, breasts.

I skipped the bra today, and now I’m glad.

The surprise and hungry need on his face is enough to make me feel like I’ve won the lottery.

“Can I touch you?” His voice is so husky, rubbing in all the right places, and a shiver races down my spine.

“Not until I’m naked.”

He catches his tongue between his teeth as he carefully pulls down my leggings, the string of my thong with them, until I’m standing in front of him, bare. I’ve never been this naked in front of a man in my life.

Especially one this close to my arousal slicked pussy. Can they smell that kind of thing?

“Fuck, Dale, you’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking strong. And you smell so fucking good.” Well, that answers that.

“If you could touch only one part of me, which would it be?”

He groans, his eyes never leaving my tits, my navel, the mound of my pussy. His eyes feel like a brand across my skin and I welcome their heat. “Only one?”

“You want to be a good boy don’t you?”