Page 13 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

KENZIE

I wake up to water dripping on my face, which is not the gentle morning-after awakening a girl hopes for.

Not that I was hoping for anything specific.

Not that I'm thinking about last night.

Not that my entire body isn't one delicious ache that reminds me exactly what happened every time I try to move.

Fuck.

I shift in bed and immediately regret it.

There are muscles protesting that I didn't even know I had.

Beard burn in places that are going to require some creative explanation if anyone asks.

And I'm pretty sure there's a handprint-shaped bruise on my hip from when Gavin got a little too enthusiastic .

Another drop hits me square in the forehead, and I open my eyes to see a growing water stain on the ceiling of the guesthouse, where I retreated to after the guys were hogging my bed.

Of course the roof would pick now—the morning after I had mind-blowing, life-altering, probably-ruined-everything sex with all three cowboys who run this ranch—to start leaking.

Thunder crashes overhead, rattling the windows, and the drip becomes a steady stream. I scramble out of bed, trying to ignore the very specific soreness between my legs, and grab a trash can from the bathroom.

Standing hurts. Walking hurts. Everything hurts. In the best worst way possible, of course.

I'm positioning the trash can under the leak, wearing yesterday's tank top and underwear (because I definitely didn't trudge to the guesthouse with all my clothes on—who’s going to see me aside from Sir Clucks?), when someone knocks on the door.

"Yeah?" I call, not moving because I'm suddenly very aware that I probably look like I've been thoroughly fucked. Because I have been. Multiple times. By multiple people.

"It's Trent."

Of course it is. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

"Um, just a second!"

I try to finger-comb my hair into something that doesn't scream "I had three men's hands in this last night."

I open the door to find him standing there looking perfectly put together at six a.m. His hair's damp from the rain, his shirt already soaked through, and he's got that familiar stern expression on his face.

Except now I know what his face looks like when he's losing control. When he's saying my name like a prayer. When he's?—

"The roof's shot," he says, but his voice is rougher than usual, and his eyes drift down to my neck where I definitely have a hickey. Or three.

"I noticed." I gesture to the trash can, which is already a quarter full. "Thanks for the update though. Really helpful."

His jaw tightens—that tell I know even better now. Last night, he was fighting the urge to touch me. This morning, he looks like he's fighting the urge to touch me again.

"You need to get back to the main house," he says, his gaze lingering on my lips before snapping back to my eyes.

"Is that an order or a request?"

"It's a statement of fact." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his soap, and his voice drops. "This roof won't last the storm. And you shouldn't be alone out here."

The weight in that last statement hangs between us.

“Well if you guys had made a little room for me?— "

As if to shut me up, another leak springs up in the corner, water streaming down the wall.

"Shit." I grab another container—a bin with extra blankets, which should be pretty useless—and when I bend over to position it, I hear his sharp intake of breath.

Right. I’m in my panties. And the tank top is basically see-through when wet.

"You should have stayed in the main house." Gavin appears in the doorway, and unlike Trent, he's grinning like he won the lottery. His eyes do a slow scan of my body, lingering on all the places he touched last night. "Morning, princess. Sleep well?"

My face goes hot. "Fine. Great. Normal amount of sleeping."

"Normal," he repeats, his grin widening as he spots what is definitely a bite mark on my shoulder. His bite mark, if memory serves. "Right. That's why you're walking like you rode a bull last night. Oh wait..." He winks. "You kind of did. Three of them."

"Gavin," Trent warns, but even he can't hide the slight smirk.

"What? I'm just saying she looks good all thoroughly?—"

"The guesthouse is flooding," I interrupt loudly. "We need to get out of here."

"For safety," Gavin adds, stepping inside and moving close enough that I can feel his body heat. "Can't have our... owner getting injured. Well, more injured." His fingers ghost over the bruise on my neck, and I shiver.

Trent clears his throat. "Just pack your things."

"Need help?" Gavin asks. "I'm excellent with help. Among other things we discovered last night."

"Gavin," Trent warns again, but his eyes are dark as they track Gavin's hand holding my bra.

"What? We're all adults here. Adults who know exactly what each other looks like when?—"

Another leak springs up directly over the bed, soaking the sheets instantly.

"Jesus," Trent mutters, looking up at the ceiling. "This whole roof needs replacing. I told Maybelle years ago?—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

"You tried to tell my aunt something and she didn't listen?" I ask, trying to act normal while very aware that both men are looking at me like they're remembering exactly how I sounded when I came. "Shocking."

Something in Trent's expression softens, and he steps closer, his hand coming up like he's going to touch my face before he catches himself. "She was stubborn."

"Family trait," Gavin says, moving behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel him there. "Remember how stubborn she was last night? Wouldn't let us stop until?—"

"We're not talking about last night," I say quickly, stepping away from both of them .

Too quickly.

They exchange a look—one of those male communication things that apparently transcends awkwardness.

"Why not?" Gavin asks, picking up another piece of my clothing. "It was a good night. A very, very good night."

"The best," Trent agrees quietly, and the heat in his voice makes my stomach flip.

Thunder crashes again, and the lights flicker.

"C’mon," Trent orders, but he's still looking at me like he's remembering exactly how I taste. "This storm's going to get worse."

"I mean to tell you, those are interesting," he says, running a finger inside the waistband of my panties. "Were these for us?"

"Hands off." I smack his hand away, trying to ignore how my body responds to his knowing smirk.

"I'm just saying, for someone who claims she wasn't planning anything except ranch work, you sure packed optimistic underwear." He steps closer, backing me against the dresser. "Almost like you wanted to be ready for something."

"Gavin—"

"Almost like you thought we'd end up exactly where we did." His hands bracket me against the furniture, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "With you begging for more."

"I didn't beg. "

"'Please, Gavin, don't stop, right there, harder'—" he mocks in a high-pitched voice.

I slap my hand over his mouth. "Shut up."

He licks my palm, and I jerk my hand away.

"Let’s get back to where we’re all under one roof.” He practically swaggers out into the rain, leaving me standing there trying to catch my breath.

I take one last look at the rapidly flooding guesthouse, and follow him into the storm.

By the time I make it to the main house, I'm soaked through, my hair plastered to my head, and my white tank top has become completely transparent. Which I don't realize until I'm standing in the entrance hall with all three guys staring at me like hungry wolves.

"What?" I ask, then look down. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Asher appears with a towel, but instead of handing it to me, he steps behind me and wraps it around my shoulders himself, his hands lingering on my arms. "Not that we're complaining about the view, darlin'. Brings back good memories from last night."

"Very good memories," Gavin agrees, his eyes practically glowing.

"Go dry off," Trent says, his voice strangled.

"You remember where your room is, right? The one right between Gavin's and mine?" Asher adds, his breath warm against my ear. "So convenient. Such easy access."

"Don’t forget, across from Trent's," Gavin chimes in. "It's almost like we planned it. Almost."

"Nobody planned anything," Trent says firmly, but his eyes haven't left my chest.

Sir Clucks-a-Lot chooses that moment to strut through the open door, shaking water everywhere. He fixes his one good eye on me and crows triumphantly.

"Even the rooster knows where she belongs," Gavin laughs.

"He's not supposed to be in the house," Trent protests, finally looking away from me.

But Sir Clucks is already making himself at home, strutting toward the kitchen like he owns the place.

"I'll get him," I say, desperate for an excuse to escape their heated gazes.

"I'll help," Asher offers, following close behind.

"Me too," Gavin adds.

"It's a rooster, not a three-person job," I protest.

"Everything's more fun with four people," Gavin says with a wink. "As we discovered last night."

My face burns as I corner Sir Clucks by the pantry, but he dodges me with surprising agility.

"Come here, you little terrorist."

"Want help?" Asher offers, but he's not looking at the rooster. He's watching the way my wet clothes cling to every curve.

"I've got it." I lunge for the rooster, who somehow ends up in the pantry, knocking over boxes and sending spaghetti everywhere. "Son of a?—"

I finally grab him, holding him at arm's length while he glares at me with malevolent intent.

"Outside, Satan."

I carry him to the door and set him on the porch, where he ruffles his feathers indignantly before strutting off into the rain.

When I turn around, all three of them are watching me with expressions that make my knees weak.

"What?"

"Nothing," Asher says, stepping closer. "Just thinking about last night. And this morning. And tonight."

"There's not going to be a tonight."