Page 24 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

"Like this," he says, showing me how to fluff the bedding so it's even. His hands are steady and sure, and I find myself thinking about those hands on my skin. "You want good coverage, but not so thick that it's wasteful."

"Got it. Even coverage. Not wasteful. Like makeup," I mutter, concentrating on the task. I grab a pitchfork and try to copy his movements, but my technique is clearly lacking because he steps behind me, his hands covering mine on the handle.

"Lighter touch," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Let the tool do the work."

His chest is pressed against my back, solid and warm, and I can feel every breath he takes. This is exactly how it started with Asher—this casual touching that quickly becomes not casual at all. But with Trent, it feels different. More loaded. More dangerous.

"Better," he says when I manage to spread the straw without sending it flying everywhere. But he doesn't step away, and neither do I.

We stay like that for a moment, his hands still covering mine, his body heat seeping through my tank top. I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder blade, fast and unsteady.

"Trent," I whisper.

"I know." His voice is rough, strained. "We should?—"

"We should what?"

"Work. We should work."

But neither of us moves until Thunder whinnies impatiently, reminding us that there are still six stalls to clean and horses to feed and a ranch to run. Trent steps back reluctantly, and I immediately miss his touch.

"Tack room needs organizing," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Saddles need cleaning. If you want something to do. "

"Sure. I love organizing." Which is true. There's something soothing about bringing order to disorder, about making things neat and functional. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever. It's all a mess."

The tack room is indeed a disaster. Bridles hang in tangled heaps, saddles are stacked haphazardly on sawhorses, and cleaning supplies are scattered across every available surface. It looks like a tornado hit a horse supply store.

"This is what happens with men," I grumble, starting to untangle a particularly complicated knot of reins. "No one ever puts anything back where it belongs."

I'm making good progress when I decide to tackle the saddle situation. Some genius—probably Gavin—has stacked the heaviest saddles on top of the lightest ones, creating a precarious tower of leather and metal that's defying all the laws of physics.

"This is an accident waiting to happen," I say to no one in particular, reaching for the saddle on top.

The moment I touch it, I realize my mistake. The whole stack shifts, wobbling dangerously, and I have just enough time to think this is going to hurt before a hundred-some-odd pounds of leather and metal come crashing down.

Except it doesn't hit me.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, yanking me backward just as the saddles tumble to the floor with a crash that probably wakes every animal on the ranch. I stumble into a solid chest, my heart hammering so hard, I'm surprised it doesn't crack a rib.

"Jesus Christ, Kenzie." Trent's voice is shaky, his arms still tight around me. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"I was just—the saddles were—" I can't seem to form a complete sentence. The adrenaline is making me dizzy, or maybe it's the way Trent is holding me.

"You could have been seriously hurt." His hands move to my shoulders, turning me around to face him. "Concussion, broken bones, internal bleeding?—"

"But I wasn't. You caught me." I look up at him, and the expression on his face steals whatever breath the falling saddles left me. He looks terrified. Actually, genuinely terrified. "I'm fine, Trent. I'm okay."

"This time." His hands frame my face, tilting it up so he can examine me for damage. "Next time I might not be here. Next time you might?—"

"There won't be a next time. I'll be more careful."

"You can't promise that. You don't know this place like we do. Don't know all the ways it can hurt you." His thumb traces the line of my jaw, gentle despite the intensity in his voice. "I can't lose anyone else to this ranch."

The weight of that statement hits me like a physical blow. His father. He's thinking about his father, who died in the barn where we're standing. Who had a heart attack and couldn't be saved no matter how hard Trent tried .

"Hey." I cover his hands with mine. "I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not because of a few falling saddles. I'm tougher than I look."

"I know you are. That's the problem." His forehead drops to mine, and we're breathing the same air, sharing the same space. "You're so damn tough, you make me forget to be careful with you."

"Maybe I don't want you to be careful with me."

"Kenzie." My name sounds like a warning.

"Maybe I want you to treat me like I can handle whatever you've got. Maybe I'm tired of everyone acting like I'm made of glass."

His eyes search mine, looking for something. Permission, maybe. Or absolution.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Try me."

We're standing in a tack room surrounded by fallen saddles, the scent of leather and horse sweat heavy in the air, and somehow it feels like the most romantic place in the world.

My heart is still racing from the near-accident, from the adrenaline, from the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time.

"Trent," I whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me."

For a moment, he doesn't move. Just stares at me with those intense gray eyes like he's fighting some internal battle between what he wants and what he thinks he should do. I can practically see the war exploding behind his eyes—desire versus control, want versus responsibility.

Then something shifts. Some decision is made. The careful control he maintains so rigidly cracks, and suddenly he's not the responsible ranch manager anymore. He's just a man who wants a woman, and he's done pretending otherwise.

The kiss starts slow. Deliberate. His lips are softer than I expected, gentler than his rough hands and hard exterior would suggest. He tastes like coffee and morning and something uniquely him that makes me want to climb inside his skin.

But gentle doesn't last long.

The moment I respond, the moment I part my lips and let him in, something in him snaps.

His hands tighten on my face, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss, and suddenly I'm being devoured.

It's like every ounce of restraint he's shown for the past two weeks is unleashed at once, and I'm the willing victim of his control finally breaking.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, and hearing him curse sends heat straight to my core.

Trent doesn't usually curse. He’s measured and controlled and appropriate at all times.

But this version of him, the one backing me against the tack room wall with desperate hands and a hungry mouth, is none of those things.

"Been wanting to do this again," he says between kisses, his voice rough and raw. "Since that night after the rodeo."

"Then why haven’t you?" I tug at his shirt, needing to feel skin. "Why have you been waiting?"

"Because you're leaving. Because this is temporary. Because I don't do temporary." His hands find the hem of my tank top, sliding underneath to find bare skin. "Because you scare the hell out of me."

"I scare you?" I laugh, breathless and disbelieving. "I'm the one who should be scared. You're looking at me like you want to eat me alive."

"I do." His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear. "I want to taste every inch of you. Want to make you forget every man who came before me."

"Confident much?" But my voice shakes because his hands are working magic under my shirt, calloused fingers tracing patterns on my skin that make me shiver.

"Not confident. Hungry. Starving." He pulls back to look at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my knees weak. Raw want, barely leashed desire, and something that looks like long-neglected need. "I've been going crazy watching you with Gavin and Asher."

"Jealous?" I tease, but there's truth in it. I can see it in the tight line of his jaw, the possessive way his hands grip my waist.

"Insanely." He lifts me onto the workbench, stepping between my legs. "And it's fucked up because I'm the one pushing you away. I'm the one who keeping you at arm's length while they get to have you."

"You have me now." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "If you want me."

"If I want you?" He laughs, but it's not entirely pleasant. "Kenzie, I want you so bad I can't think straight. Can't sleep. Can't work without remembering what you look like spread out in bed, what you sound like when you come."

The mental image he paints makes me dizzy. "Show me, then."

"Here?"

"Here. Now. I don't care if it's romantic or perfect or appropriate. I just need you to stop thinking and start feeling."

That does it. Whatever remaining control he has evaporates. His mouth crashes into mine, demanding and desperate, while his hands work at the button of my jeans. I'm fumbling with his belt, my fingers clumsy with need, when he suddenly stops.

"Wait." He's breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine. "Are you sure? Because once we do this, once I have you, I'm not going to be able to pretend it didn't happen. I'm not going to be able to go back to treating you like you're temporary. "

"Good." I finish with his belt, my hands sliding inside his jeans to find him hard and ready. "I don't want to be temporary anymore."

"Kenzie—"

"Stop talking, Trent.”

He lifts me off the workbench, and for a moment, I think he's changed his mind, that the responsible ranch manager has reasserted control. But then he's turning me around, bending me over the workbench, his body covering mine from behind.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice tight with restraint even as his hands work my jeans down my hips.