Page 33 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

I clear my throat, try to focus on the water. Try to pretend I’m not imagining her legs wrapped around me, those thighs tightening, head tipped back the way she—

“It’s just underwear, Grant,” she says, voice light, teasing. “Not like you haven’t seen more.”

Oh, I’ve seen more, alright. I’ve felt more. That night in the bar restroom still lives in my head rent-free. Her moans, the way her body arched, how close we came to letting it all go.

“Point taken,” I mutter, but it comes out rough, like it scrapes something raw inside me.

She throws a wink over her shoulder that nearly drops me to my knees. “After our little restroom moment, modesty seems kinda pointless, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer—just turns and walks towards the water.

Heat crawls up my neck at the memory of her pressed against me, the sounds she made when I kissed her. “Speaking of that,” I say, finding my voice, “you never did explain why you ran.”

She pauses at the water's edge, her back to me. “Maybe I wasn't ready for how it made me feel.”

“And how was that?”

She glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my heart skip. “Out of control. I don't do out of control.”

“Could have fooled me,” I drawl, deciding to push a little. “You looked pretty relaxed after that... release.”

“You’re insufferable,” she says, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decide between slapping me or kissing me.

“Part of my charm, Legs.” I let the nickname roll slow and deliberate, watching how it lands.

Her brows lift. “Legs?”

I shrug, mouth tugging into a grin I know drives her insane. “Seems fitting. You’ve got a pair that could start bar fights.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t look away. She never looks away. “Is that so?” she murmurs, turning to fully face me.

And heaven help me, I have to lock my jaw just to keep from groaning out loud.

She’s standing there in nothing but her damn underwear—water-kissed skin glowing, her ocean blue eyes alight, long wet brown hair tucked behind her glistening shoulders, curves sculpted into something I could worship, and legs that go on forever.

My eyes flicker down before I drag them back up with effort that feels almost physical.

She smirks. “Do all the women you meet get charming little nicknames like that?”

“Nope.” I step closer, close enough to breathe her in. “You get the special treatment.”

There’s a flicker in her gaze—soft, fleeting, something dangerously close to letting me in—but then it’s gone, hidden beneath a smirk that’s pure challenge.

“Well then,” she says, voice like honey and threat, “I better live up to it.”

And just like that, just turns and dives.

And holy hell, what a dive .

She cuts through the water like she belongs to it, muscles fluid and powerful, her body arching into the air before disappearing beneath the surface.

When she resurfaces, it’s not graceful—it’s wild .

Hair slicked back, face turned toward the sun, laughter spilling out of her mouth like joy is something she exhales.

She throws her head back and the water beads off her skin in a spray of light. Her lips part, her neck long and wet and glistening, and I swear I stop breathing.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

My jeans tighten, painfully.

And it’s not just lust—it’s that damn ache again. That need .

Because it’s not just how good she looks. It’s how free she is. Unapologetically alive. Like the river answers to her. Like every drop of water wants to be close to her skin.

And I want that, too.

I want to touch her in that moment, in that head-thrown-back, wild-laughing freedom. I want to be the one who puts that look on her face. The one who undoes her, strips her bare—not just of clothes, but of whatever armor she’s still wearing between us.

She flips onto her back, floating, arms out like wings, breasts rising just above the surface, nipples hard through the thin fabric of her bra. And I’m gone. Completely gone.

Every nerve in my body tightens. I want her.

In the water.

Out of it.

On top of me.

Under my mouth.

Anywhere she’ll let me have her.

But instead, I just stand there like an idiot, swallowing back a groan, fists clenched at my sides like I’m holding myself together with twine.

She glances back, lips wet, brows raised, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I exhale hard and mutter, “Goddamn.”

I should look away. I should turn around and give her privacy.

But I don’t.

I watch her like I’m starving and she’s the last damn thing on earth worth devouring.

“Oh my God,” she calls out, treading water effortlessly. “This is amazing!”

I find myself smiling despite the cluster of confusing emotions sitting in my chest somewhere between a mixture of relief and anxiety. “Glad you approve.”

“Seriously, Grant, the water's perfect.” She flips onto her back, floating with an ease that speaks to her years of training. “Thank you for this. I know it wasn't easy.”

The simple acknowledgment hits me harder than any elaborate gratitude could have. “You're welcome,” I manage.

For the next half hour, I sit on the riverbank, half in hell, half in awe, mesmerized as Mia cuts through the water with powerful strokes. Her body is a marvel of strength and grace, muscles flexing beneath glistening skin as she completes lap after lap between the boundaries she's set for herself.

When she finally emerges, water streaming down her body, I have to remind myself to breathe again.

Her sports bra has become nearly transparent, clinging to her breasts in a way that makes it impossible not to notice the hardened peaks of her nipples.

Droplets cascade down her toned stomach, disappearing into the waistband of her panties.

“See something you like, Taylor?” she asks, catching me staring.

I don't bother denying it. “Several things, actually.”

She laughs to herself, this soft, breathy sound that’s nothing short of a damn invitation . My spine goes rigid. My mouth? Bone dry. I rub the back of my neck, the skin hot from more than just the sun.

She turns to float on her back, breasts pushing against her sports bra—now sheer and practically see-through. Water spills from her chest like temptation itself. I drag a palm down my thigh, clenching my fingers into my knee to keep them somewhere safe. Anywhere but where they want to be.

“God, I missed this.” She says, completely oblivious to my mental torment.

I nod. “Looks like you never left.”

She swims over, water beading on her skin. “Swim with me,” she whispers, holding out a hand.

“Maybe another time,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile when my body involuntarily stiffens. My chest aches. From the want. From the fear. From the war going on inside me every time I look at her and feel like a man again—and a boy drowning in guilt all over again all at the same time.

She notices. Of course she does.

“Grant, you don’t have to,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to push.”

But she’s not pushing. Not really. She’s offering. Quiet and safe.

I stand. Walk to the edge. The water laps at my boots.

One step. That’s all she’s asking.

I hover at the edge. My boot lifts, hesitates. The water ripples below me, black and endless and filled with too many ghosts.

I freeze.

The sound of the river swells in my ears, louder than her breath, louder than mine. My throat tightens. My lungs go shallow. My body won’t move as memories threaten to overwhelm me—Jake's laughter, the splash of bodies hitting water, the horrifying silence that followed his final plunge.

My foot lifts again.

And I freeze.

I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I want to, I do, but I just—.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just steps forward until she’s inches from me, the water swirling at her hips, her hand still outstretched. She wraps her wet fingers around mine and squeezes.

Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “It’s okay,” she says, quiet and steady.

The gentle understanding in her voice undoes me. I lean into her touch, closing my eyes briefly. “It's just water,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her.

“It's never just water,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not for either of us.”

When I open my eyes, her face is inches from mine, those expressive eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.

She just stands there with me, both of us silent, the sun rising over the water like it doesn’t care what today is, as I try to reconcile the water that took my brother with the water that gives her life.

And suddenly I do something I haven’t done in a long time.

I hope .

Because maybe, just maybe, she’s not just the girl who swims like the river loves her back.

Maybe she’s the one who can teach me how to breathe again.