Page 24 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

I'm deliberate in my movements the next morning. Cooking shirtless wasn’t the original plan, but I’m not about to put on a damn shirt just because she might walk in.

The morning sun’s already spilling through the kitchen window, casting warm light over the countertops and I hear the floorboards creak up above.

Bacon sizzles in the cast iron, the scent curling through the air like some backroad siren song.

I flip it with one hand, the other casually reaching for the coffee pot, biceps flexing just enough to be noticeable—yeah, I know what I’m doing.

And then I hear it, before I even turn around.

That sharp inhale of breath. Soft, startled.

And when I turn, it’s like someone sucker-punched me with sunlight. Mia’s standing in the doorway, barefoot, eyes wide, lips parted, frozen like she’s stumbled into something forbidden. And judging by the look on her face, I might as well be standing here stark naked.

Her gaze drags over me—slow, stunned—and my skin damn near burns under it. She's wearing a simple T-shirt and barely there shorts, her long brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. Even half-asleep, she's breathtaking.

I see the exact moment her eyes land on my abs, the flush that spreads up her throat like wildfire, and fuck if that doesn’t go straight to my dick.

I lean casually on the counter, giving her time to take in the scenery—and because hell, I’m enjoying this way too much.

“Like what you see darlin’?” I ask, letting the drawl roll off my tongue nice and slow.

She snaps her head up, chin high. “Meh.”

I quirk a brow.

She waves vaguely in my direction. “I’ve seen better. Gordon Ramsay, for instance. Fully clothed and less smug.”

That makes me grin—slow, lazy, cocky. The kind of grin that usually gets me into trouble. “Uh-huh.”

She’s flustered. Trying hard to pretend she’s not, but I can see it in the way she won’t quite meet my eyes, the way she lingers anyway.

I crack eggs into a bowl. My shoulder gives a dull throb as I reach for the pepper grinder, but I ignore the sting down my arm.

“Coffee?” I offer, gesturing to the pot I've already brewed.

She blinks, seeming to remember herself. “Yes. Please.”

I pour her a mug and slide it across the counter, deliberately flexing as I move. Her eyes track the motion. I catch the moment her eyes snag on the ink winding up my arm—bold black lines that climb my bicep and curl over my shoulder, like a secret map she wants to read.

A slow, knowing satisfaction coils low in my gut.

Yeah. She likes what she sees.

And hell if I’m not already thinking of ways to give her a closer look.

“Sorry I got called away from dinner last night. I was enjoying Lily’s tragic attempt to make boxed mac and cheese taste ‘gourmet’.” I chuckle.

She shrugs, taking a sip from her mug, hiding those gorgeous lips from my view.

“A calf ran loose on the south line, again. Damn thing’s more escape artist than livestock.” I say shaking my head, before looking at Mia.

“Sleep well?” I ask, turning the dial on the stove.

“Better than expected,” she admits, taking a sip of coffee. “This guest room is nicer than many hotels I've stayed in.”

“Taylor hospitality,” I reply with a wink. “We aim to please, ma’am.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Is walking around half-naked part of that hospitality?”

I hold her gaze as I pour the eggs into the hot pan. “Only for special guests.” I say, enjoying the flush creeping up her neck as I reach for the spices.

“Besides, it's my house, my rules.” My gaze trail down her body “I can dress—or undress,” my eyes raking down her body “however I want.” I say with a smirk.

“Oh..well…um..fair enough.” Her throat bobs and she shifts on her feet, her voice lower, sounding rough around the edges now, like watching me’s gone and dried out her throat.

She shifts her weight again, leaning into the counter, eyes dragging over my bare torso and the flex of my arm as I cook. “You're good at that.”

“Being half naked? Yeah, I know” I nod and shoot her a wink, the faint blush blooms across her cheeks like I’ve just lit a match.

She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch. “Cooking”

“Yup. One of my many , many talents.” I shrug.

“So modest.” she deadpans.

I laugh, stirring the eggs. “Modesty is overrated. I prefer honesty.”

“Okay then, honest man,” she challenges, stepping closer. “Why are you really helping me? And don’t say it’s because your brother clogged the pipes with donut batter.”

I pause, pepper grinder hovering mid-air in my hand. There’s every chance to make a joke here, to dodge, to slide past the real thing. I consider deflecting, but something about the directness of her question demands truth.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” I say, quiet but certain.

“And because—hell if I know why—for some crazy reason, the universe keeps putting us in each other’s way.”

Her eyes go wide. The bluntness of my answer catching her off guard. Her expression flickers. Surprise. Confusion. Something deeper cross her features. Her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something, but no words come out.

I watch her, pulse kicking harder in my chest than I’d like to admit. “Too honest?” I ask, voice low.

She shakes her head slowly, still staring at me. “No,” she whispers. “Just... not what I expected.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, watching her right back. “Me neither.”

“I've been replaying that kiss since it happened, you know.” I continue, turning the heat down on the stove. “I want to know what that meant.”

“It was just a kiss,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

I move toward her, close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her blue eyes. “We both know that's not true, darlin’.”

Her breath catches. “Grant—”

“Tell me you haven't thought about it too,” I challenge, my voice dropping lower.

Her eyes darken. “That's not the point.”

Moving in closer, I reach out, touching a strand of hair that's fallen from her messy bun. “That's exactly the point. There's something here, Mia. Something real.” I know I might be pushing too hard, but I need her to admit this charge between us.

“I'm leaving, as soon as I get my travel arrangements sorted out,” she reminds me, though she doesn't pull away from my touch.

“All the more reason not to waste time pretending.”I run my finger down her cheek, slow and deliberate, watching the goosebumps rise like I’m writing a dirty sonnet on her skin.

Her eyes go soft, her lips part like she’s ready to let me in—body and soul—and fuck, if she knew what kind of thoughts I’m barely keeping on a leash, she’d either slap me or pull me in.

“Seize the day, Mia.” My voice drops, gravel and need. “If I had my way, I’d already be inside you. Not standing here with black pepper and a goddamn hard-on.”

Her eyes widen, that flustered spark flashing across her face like I just rewired her brain. But before she can even fire back—

Her nose twitches.

Wrinkles.

Eyes squeeze shut.

And then—

“HahTSCHHuh!—ahhhhhh—TSCHHHUH!—AHH-huhhh—TSCHhhhuhhh!”

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Each sneeze sounds disturbingly like a moan, high-pitched the beginnings of a chain reaction that sounds almost orgasmic.

They don’t sound sick. No. They sound... sinful and weirdly... hot . Like, porn sound effect hot. Like she’s mid-orgasm and forgot we’re in the kitchen and not some damn romance audiobook.

She sniffles, breath hitching. “Oh God…” she moans.

And there it is again. Every decent thought I had nosedive straight into the gutter.

If this is how she sneezes, I will not survive hearing her come.

Calm the fuck down dumbass. This is fine. Totally, totally fine.

...Except she’s biting her lip now, trying to muffle the next one, and it’s not helping.

Not. Helping. At. All.

Her back arches with every explosive breath. She’s clinging to the edge of my counter like it’s a lifeline. Fingernails digging in. Shoulders jolting, chest heaving and her mouth —sweet mother of fuck —that gorgeous mouth drops open around a helpless moan between sneezes.

I could walk away. Leave the kitchen. Cold shower. Ice cubes. Something .

“Oh God… ahhh…” she moans again, breathy and wrecked.

My pants? Yeah, those bastards just became enemies of the state. My dick’s at full salute, like, “Sir, yes sir, reporting for extremely confused duty.”

I stagger back a step like she’s thrown a grenade made of sex noises and pollen.

“F—fuck,” I mutter, but it comes out low and reverent, like she just moaned scripture and my cock’s ready to make a donation. I drag a hand down my face and bite back a groan that’s threatening to crawl out of my throat like a damn savage animal.

What’s worse? Is I know the problem isn’t the sneeze itself.

It’s her .

It’s the way her whole body reacts—grabbing the counter, breath hitching, voice cracking like the soundtrack to a fantasy I definitely shouldn’t be having while she’s mid-nasal explosion.

I’m horrified. Completely, existentially disturbed.

Also, tragically, viscerally turned on.

And now my brain is doing something deeply unhelpful.

I don’t have a sneeze kink do I?

No. no, I fucking don’t.

Do I?

Oh God.

Fuck no! I’m just a completely normal, red-blooded man watching a gorgeous woman lose control with added sound effects, and my dumbass body’s out here throwing confetti like it’s the Fourth of July.

I feel like I need to Google something, or maybe throw my phone in the river and go live in the woods.

Because let me be clear , this isn’t about sneezing .

I don’t wanna hang out at the pharmacy during allergy season or lurk around tissue boxes like a freak, just in case someone breaks out in a sneeze.

It’s her . It's the fact that she sneezes like a woman on the brink of climax. It’s the involuntary moans. The red cheeks. The way her knees buckle slightly, like she needs a cigarette and a lie-down after every damn “AhhhTSCHHuh!”

My body’s out here acting like she just whispered every filthy thing she wants to do to me, and all she did was expel air aggressively.