Page 6 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Six

More Than Muscle Memory

Tessa

M y back hit the cabinets hard enough to rattle the dishes behind me. I didn't flinch.

He caged me in—arms on either side of my shoulders, body radiating heat, restraint coiled tight in every muscle. That old flame in his eyes had never died. If anything, it had been burning low, waiting for kindling.

I should've said something—anything.

Instead, I grabbed his shirt.

"You always were trouble," I whispered, but it came out breathy.

His lips curved, slow, and dangerous. "And you always liked that about me."

Then his mouth was on mine.

No warning, no hesitation—just teeth and tongue and too many years between us. I kissed him like I hated him. Like I missed him. Like the only way to breathe was through him.

His hands slid up under my shirt, dragging the fabric over my head and tossing it aside without a second glance. I gasped when the air hit my skin, but it was nothing compared to the feel of his palms—rough and reverent—tracing over my ribs and back, thumbs brushing the underside of my bra.

I tugged at his belt. "Off. Now."

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it—just heat. "Bossy."

"You love it," I shot back.

He didn't deny it.

In seconds, we were a mess of limbs and denim, our boots kicked across the floor, a trail of clothes leading to the small bench seat where he sat and pulled me onto his lap like it was muscle memory. Like my body still belonged there.

I straddled him, my thighs braced on either side of his, every nerve in my body thrumming like a live wire.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice ragged.

"I won't."

He stilled. Searched my face.

I didn't blink. Didn't back down.

"I don't want gentle," I said. "I want you. Just like this."

His eyes darkened, jaw clenched. "Careful, Reckless," he murmured. "You say that, I might not let you go this time."

"Maybe I don't want you to."

Then I kissed him again—hard—and there was no more talking.

Only fire.

I ground down onto him, slow at first—testing the limits of this moment, testing the way his breath hitched when I rocked my hips just right. His hands were everywhere—guiding, gripping, reverent, and rough all at once.

He watched me like I was a miracle.

Like I hadn't shattered his heart once and driven it cross-country with a race trailer behind me.

The bench creaked beneath us, the tight space forcing our bodies close, locked together. I braced one hand on the wall behind him, the other tangled in his hair as I moved—each thrust a strike of lightning across my nerves.

But it wasn't just the friction.

It was the memory.

Of backseats and backroads. Of motel rooms with peeling wallpaper and his mouth on my collarbone. The way he used to whisper my name when he thought I was asleep.

He grunted, low and deep. "Jesus, Tess…"

I leaned back slightly, letting him look—letting him see the mess he made of me. My hair stuck to my neck, my skin flushed and glistening, my breathing uneven.

He tightened his grip, hips rising to meet mine.

Then— smack —his hand landed on my ass, sharp and sure.

I gasped. Loud.

And then—God help me—I sobbed.

Not from pain. Not from regret.

From the way it cracked something wide open.

I didn't even know I'd been holding it all in until it flooded out—hot, raw, unstoppable. Tears slipped free as I moved faster, harder, chasing that edge like it was the last lap and the finish line was fire.

"You're beautiful," Colt rasped, voice fraying at the edges. "Messy, wild… God, you always did wreck me."

I bit down on my lip; a sob lodged in my throat. "Don't say that."

"Why?" he asked, gasping. "Because it's true?"

I couldn't answer. Not with words.

My body did it for me.

Pleasure snapped through me like a whip, sharp and all-consuming. My vision blurred. My pulse vanished into the thunder in my ears. I curled forward, forehead to his shoulder, clutching at his shoulders like the world was tilting.

He held me through it. Steady. Silent.

A few seconds later, he let go too—buried deep, a grunt pressed to the side of my neck, arms locked tight around my back like I might disappear again.

We stayed like that for a long time. Intertwined and trembling. His heartbeat slowing beneath my palms.

I wiped my cheek against his shoulder and whispered, "Sorry."

"For what?" he asked, one hand still stroking up and down my spine.

"For crying. For falling apart."

He shook his head, lips brushing my temple. "You didn't fall apart. You finally let go."

And maybe he was right.

Maybe I'd needed this more than I knew.

Not just the sex. The connection . The weight of someone seeing me. Touching me like I mattered. Like I was more than a name stitched on a racing jacket or a girl with gas station dinners and maxed-out cards.

I shifted, the sweat cooling on my back. "Colt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm starving."

He laughed softly and kissed my collarbone. "Let me feed you, Reckless."

And for once, I didn't fight it.

Colt tugged on his jeans and padded barefoot to the little kitchenette like we hadn't just made a mess of each other on a vinyl bench.

I wrapped myself in his flannel shirt he'd tossed over a hook by the door. It smelled like him—cedar soap, diesel, sweat, and something warmer I couldn't name. My legs still shook when I stood, so I stayed put, curling up at the far end of the bench, knees hugged tight to my chest.

He pulled a skillet from a cabinet and rummaged through the mini fridge. "Eggs okay?"

"Perfect," I murmured.

I watched him move with practiced ease—cracking eggs, tossing butter in the pan, sliding toast in the little toaster oven like this was just any night.

But it wasn't.

I hadn't eaten a real meal in… hell, days maybe. A gas station taquito in Kentucky. A shared can of chili in Kansas. Half a protein bar yesterday.

The first scent of warm toast hit me, and my stomach actually growled.

Colt glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "Guess that answers that."

I smiled faintly but didn't reply. My chest still ached from earlier—for reasons I couldn't name. Maybe I didn't want to.

He set the plate in front of me and handed me a fork. I dug in like someone might take it away. It wasn't fancy—just scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a couple slices of bacon—but it tasted like a hug.

"Thanks," I said softly. "Really."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. "When's the last time you sat still long enough to eat something hot?"

I swallowed. "Don't ask."

He didn't push. Just waited.

Maybe that's why it all came spilling out.

"We lost Daytona," I said between bites. "Didn't even place. The engine's shot again. We've got just enough left to make it to the next race in Dallas… maybe. If we don't hit weather."

He nodded once, slowly.

I twisted the hem of the flannel shirt between my fingers. "If we don't find a sponsor soon, we'll have to sell the trailer. Use it to pay off the credit cards we've been living on."

Still, he said nothing.

Just listened.

God, I hated how good he was at that.

"I didn't come here for a handout," I added quickly, meeting his eyes. "I didn't even know I was coming until I did, and I’m leaving tomorrow.”

He studied me a moment longer, then walked over and sat beside me, his thigh warm against mine. "I know, Tess."

I nodded. "It's just been hard."

"I never thought it'd be easy for you."

That almost made me laugh. "Funny. I always made it look easy, didn't I?"

"Only to people who weren't paying attention."

The quiet between us was thick, but not uncomfortable. I leaned into his shoulder, still chewing the last bite of toast.

He put his arm around me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, it was.

Before I knew it, the plate was empty, and the edges of the night had started to blur. My eyes burned. My limbs were heavy.

I curled into his side without meaning to. He pulled a thin blanket from the top bunk and tucked it around me.

His voice rumbled low against my ear. "Sleep, Tess. Get some rest before you have to leave for your next gig.”

And I did.

For the first time in a long, long while.