Page 34 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

The Whiskey Barrel ain’t fancy, but it’s got everything we need—cheap beer, pool tables that lean slightly left, and enough neon signs to give a man a sunburn at midnight. Sawdust’s scattered across the floor like it’s trying to hide the sins of the boots that’ve walked here before.

A mechanical bull sits in the corner like a challenge, and there’s always at least one idiot who thinks tequila improves their riding skills.

Tonight, it’s packed tighter than a bull chute. It’s loud with locals standing shoulder to shoulder, boots stomping, glasses clinking, laughter and twangy music bleeding into every crevice of the bar.

The Taylors roll in like we own the place—which, to be fair, we do.

After fifteen years of loyal, rowdy patronage, Mason and I bought a majority stake in the Whisky Barrell.

Brendan, the bartender barely glances up before lining up our usuals, and there’s a dent in the leather booth that fits my ass like a glove.

Ryan, Christian, Mason, Mia, and Lily trail in just behind me, all of them peeling off toward the bar. Annie from the Caffeine Drip coffee shop joins us as well at the bar.

I take my beer and head for the booth, trying like hell to look casual.

But I’m not watching the bar.

Not watching the bull.

No. I’m locked in on her and trying not to look obvious about who I’m looking at.But hell, I’ve got no damn subtlety when it comes to her.

She strolls over to the booth with Lily, tipping her head back and laughing with Christian in tow, hips swaying and completely unaware. Damn.

This woman moves like temptation’s got a home address and it’s written across her hips. Her steps are unhurried, confident, like she owns the air around her and leases it to the rest of us at will. And damn if I don’t pay the price.

My jeans are too damn tight, and it’s got nothing to do with the fit.

Her mouth curves into this soft, unguarded smile—wide and real, lighting up her whole face—and it damn near knocks the wind out of me.

wearing a little black top, the neckline dips just enough to mess with my focus, and those jeans?

Fuck those jeans . Those jeans could get a man arrested for the thoughts they stir.

Makes me want to start a bar fight just to work off the tension.

They slide into the seat across from me. Mia’s laughing at something Lily said, head tilted back, throat exposed—and I swear to God, I feel it in my bones . The kind of laugh that makes something in me ache to worship and wreck her all at once …and I can’t fucking stop staring .

“You gonna burn a hole through her or just go ask her to dance?” Mason mutters, sliding in beside me with a smirk.

I take a long sip of my beer. “Not now.”

Mason raises an eyebrow. “Grant, you’re starin’ at her like she’s the last glass of water in a drought.”

“I am not.” The words sounding weak to my own ears.

He snorts. “Your mouth’s actually hangin’ open, man.”

I snap it shut.

Dragging my hand across the back of my neck, which feels hot enough to fry an egg.

Across the table, Christian raises a brow, clocking me, then shares a silent laugh with Lily. She mouths something that looks suspiciously like two days, max.

They think this is funny.

It isn’t.

It’s torture.

Because watching her in that top, in those jeans, moving with that easy, city-girl confidence while surrounded by this wild, dusty world— my world—is like watching lightning walk into a barn full of dry hay.

I’m a grown-ass man with calluses, scars, and covered in dirt most days—but when she moves, I feel like a damn teenager again. Stiff in all the wrong places, imagining her thighs around me, her breath on my neck, that pretty mouth letting out those soft little sounds like she did that night.

I shift in my seat, trying to look casual, but the pressure in my jeans says otherwise.

Then she stands.

“I need to dance before one of you country boys talks me into riding that bull,” she says with a laugh, gesturing to the mechanical bull in the corner while she grabs Lily and Annie’s hands, dragging them up from the booth.

I nearly choke on my drink, and just like that, my lizard brain goes:

“Oh look, I see you’re already sporting a monster boner there son…you know what would really be fun right now—chucking the filthiest and most elicit thoughts of her riding a bull in vivid technic color at you.”

Because in a blink, I’m not sitting in the booth anymore.

Oh no, I’m seeing her—Mia—straddling that mechanical bull.

Her jeans riding up in all the right places as she swings one long, perfect leg over the saddle.

Her top riding higher with every bounce, clinging to her curves, inching up just enough to tease a glimpse of her bare skin that makes my mouth go dry. She throws her head back mid-ride, hair loose and wild, braid unravelling, chest rising and falling like she’s breathless…

Lips parted.

Cheeks flushed.

A soft moan catching in her throat as her body rolls with every movement.

F-Fuck.

My jaw tightens so hard my molars grind. My fingers curl around my glass. Blood rushes south so fast I have to shift in my seat like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me, and that just makes it worse.

The way she’d grip the rope—tight, commanding. The way her hips would move—grinding in a rhythm so smooth I’d be ruined. Not just hard. Ferally obsessed.

She’d toss that teasing little smile over her shoulder—like she knows exactly what she’s doing and dares me to stop her.

And I would. Oh, hell , I would.

I’d stride through that crowd like a man with one purpose.

Pull her off that damn bull.Bend down until my lips brush her ear and growl “Ride me like that, sweetheart, and I won’t come up for air till you forget your own damn name.”

“Grant!” A sharp elbow to my ribs yanks me out of the fantasy like a slap.

I blink, breath caught somewhere in my chest.

Ryan’s staring at me, eyebrows raised. “You alright there, man?”

“Yup hey, yeah. Just peachy.” I say, clearing my throat and white knuckling my drink.

Fuck my life right now.

He looks doubtful but continues “I said, want another beer?”

“Yeah.” My voice cracks. I cover it with a cough. “Yeah, that sounds real good.” Sounding overly chirpy and for the love of all that’s holy, I’m clearly losing the ability to pull my shit together.

Ryan eyes me with a concerned look, before shaking his head and turning for the bar.

My eyes seek Mia out almost instantaneously and I watch her disappear into the crowd, her braid bouncing, confidence dripping off her like sweat. She doesn’t belong here, and yet, she does. Like the whiskey’s smoother when she’s around. Like the air’s lighter. Better.

And still— still —I want to claim every inch of her like the cowboy I am.

Dragging a hand down my face, muttering under my breath,

“Lord help me if she ever actually gets on that bull. I’ll combust.”

The girls hit the dancefloor just as a fast two-step song kicks in, and suddenly there’s a blur of denim and long legs as they lose themselves in the rhythm.

I stay where I am. Watching. Always watching.

It’s not until Lily and Annie wander off toward the bar that I see it—a cowboy with a cocky grin and boots too clean sliding up next to Mia like he owns space he hasn’t earned.

His hand hovers just around her waist.

Not today, jackass.

I’m moving before I even realize it, beer forgotten, jaw tight. I’m halfway across the room in seconds, and I slide up behind her, smooth and easy, like I do belong there.

The guy looks me over, uncertain. “Didn’t realize she was with someone.”

I tilt my head, letting the slow, dangerous smile do the talking. “Now you do.” His hands go up like I pulled a damn gun. “Hey, it’s all good, man. All good.” He backs off so fast, disappearing into the crowd.

Mia spins toward me, one brow arched, a smirk teasing the corner of her mouth. “You staking your claim now, cowboy?” The couple of drinks clearly giving her a seductive confidence she didn’t have before.

I step in, close enough to brush her lower back with the tips of my fingers—just the barest touch, enough to make her breath hitch.

“Maybe I am,” I murmur, my voice low and unrepentant.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t retreat.

Hell no—this woman leans in.

“You can glare holes through every guy in this bar, but I don’t come with a claim tag, Taylor.”

God, I love it when she says my name like it’s a challenge she already plans to win.

“No,” I say, dipping my head until my lips ghost just below her ear, my breath hot against her skin. “You don’t come with a claim tag, Darlin’… but that just means I get to leave my mark the old-fashioned way.”

That one lands.

She double blinks—but I catch it. That split-second where her pulse kicks up and her body betrays her. Still, she recovers fast.

“So what’s your plan?” she asks, coy but defiant. “Smolder at me until I spontaneously combust?”

I grin. “Tempting.”

Then I lean in, let the music curl around us like smoke.

My lips hover a breath from her neck, my voice dropping into gravel.

“But no, darlin’. I’d rather press you up against that wall and feel you combust around me.

If I ever get between these thighs… I ain’t leaving till you’re sayin’ my name like it’s the only word you remember and I promise you… ”

I drag my fingertips down the curve of her spine, real slow, watching goosebumps chase the trail I leave behind.

“I’ll be stayin’ the night. And breakfast?” I dip lower, my mouth just grazing her ear. “Ain’t gonna be the only thing I serve, darlin’.”

She goes still.

One breath—shaky, slow—and her chest brushes mine. It’s the smallest contact, but I feel it everywhere.

Her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted like she wants to sass me... but nothing comes.

And it’s glorious. This, this look on her face will stay in my memory for the rest of my days.

I ease back just enough to meet her eyes, cocky smile in place. “Speechless?”

I let the word hang between us. “Now that’s a damn first.”

She recovers fast—tilts her chin and narrows her eyes.

“You’re a bit cocky aren’t you?”

“Nah, I’m just right.” I counter.

“You’re infuriating.” She smirks

“You’re turned on.” I smirk back.

She scowls. “Ha! You wish.”

I step in again, so close my breath dances across her skin.

“I don’t have to wish, Princess,” I murmur, voice dropping into something filthy and raw.

“I can feel it.” I trace my finger down her collarbone.

The way you’re clenching your fists to keep from touching me.

The way your breath stutters. The way your thighs just..

.” My eyes draw down her body. “squeezed together.”

She swallows hard—tries to speak.

I beat her to it.

“Next time you wear that look,” I say, voice barely a whisper, “don’t expect me to walk away.”

And then I do walk away.

Because watching her burn behind me?

That’s half the damn fun.

Lily and Annie return with drinks in hand, oblivious to our exchange.

I take one last look back at her. She’s standing there, flushed and frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide like I just flipped her entire system.

Damn, stunned looks good on her.

I finally hear her yell after me “The more you talk, the hotter I get…unfortunately, it’s mostly from rage.”

I chuckle as I slide into the booth, Christian’s grinning like the devil. “Everything alright there, loverboy?”

“Just settin’ expectations,” I say, lifting my beer again.

Mason raises his glass. “To territorial cowboys and women who pretend they’re not into it.”

I clink his bottle. “Damn right.”

But even as the noise rises around us—boots stomping, glasses clinking, someone whooping on the bull—my gaze keeps flicking back to Mia.

And I know one thing for damn sure:

This little storm we’re building?

It’s about to get a whole lot louder.