Page 37 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)
I reach for the bag, careful not to wince when I lean forward. Pull out the box, the small red-and-white tube inside promising sweet, fiery relief. My fingers fumble slightly as I uncap it, eyes flicking up to find him watching me. Not in a pervy way. Not entirely. Just…watching.
That look again—slow and deliberate, the kind that peels away layers I didn’t even know I had.
My mouth tugs into a half-smirk as I start applying the ointment to my calf. “You applying for sainthood, Taylor?”
He leans back, the picture of cocky ease, that grin spreading across his face. “Nah. I’m the reason your leg hurts, remember? Just tryna earn back a few brownie points before the devil punches my ticket.”
God help me—I laugh. And it slides through me like warmth spilling over cold skin.
If he only knew, I tripped because I was too busy watching his ass in those Wranglers. And not just watching—studying. Fantasizing. Plotting crimes against my good judgment.
He hands me a glass, fingers brushing mine on purpose. I know it.
He knows I know it.
“Hydrate,” he murmurs, voice wickedly low. “Then let me take care of that leg.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I'm perfectly capable of putting ointment on my own calf.”
“Humor me, will you?,” he says again, kneeling in front of me. “It's the least I can do after nearly drowning you with my rescue attempt.”
There's something in his eyes—a vulnerability lingering from our moment in the river—that makes it impossible to refuse. I nod, extending my leg toward him.
The moment his fingers touch my skin, I forget how air works.
His fingers are warm and slightly calloused as they wrap around my ankle, positioning my foot on his thigh gently, like I’m something fragile—which is hilarious, considering I regularly outswim championship medallists—but then his calloused hands wrap around my ankle, and all capacity for sarcasm flies out the window.
He’s kneeling between my legs like it’s a ritual.
Like he’s about to make a goddamn offering.
He squeezes a dollop of ointment onto his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it before touching my skin again.
Then he starts.
His strong hands slide up my calf, his thumbs press in with just enough pressure to make my breath stutter. Every motion is slow. Deliberate. Sliding up and around the muscle like he’s memorizing every inch.
I have to bite my lip to keep the whimper lodged in my throat.
It’s not just physical—there’s something intimate in the way he touches. Like he’s learning me with each movement, like he’s trying to memorize my reactions in real time.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he murmurs, but his voice is torn—frayed at the edges, not remotely doctorly.
“God, no.” The words leave me on a breath I can’t quite catch. My head tips back against the couch, surrendering before I even realize I’ve done it. “Don’t stop.”
There’s a full beat of silence.
The second it’s out of my mouth, heat floods my face. Because it sounds exactly like what it is—desperate, unfiltered, honest.
I look back at him, heart in my throat—and catch the flicker in his eyes just as they drag up to meet mine. Something carnal pulses there. Dark. Focused. His jaw tightens, like he’s deciding whether to keep touching me or devour me whole.
His fingers work higher, firmer now, kneading with purpose. Every stroke feels like it was made to unravel me. My breath hitches as a jolt of pleasure sparks up my thigh, and my nipples tighten beneath his shirt—embarrassingly obvious, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Because he’s watching me.
Not politely. Not innocently.
He’s watching me fall apart—and he likes it.
“Your skin is so soft,” he murmurs, his thumbs tracing slow circles around my lower leg, that inch gradually higher with each pass.
The heat from the ointment leaving the burn in my calf forgotten as his hands slide towards my inner thigh, just a few inches of being dangerously close to where I'm growing embarrassingly wet. My legs part slightly of their own accord, an invitation I'm not brave enough to voice.
“Grant,” I whisper, my chest rising and falling rapidly.
His fingers pause at the sensitive juncture where thigh meets center, just mere inches from my clit that's now throbbing with need.
I can tell by his heavy breathing that he's fighting the same battle for control I am.
His thumb makes a small circle on my inner thigh, so, so close to where I want him that I have to suppress a whimper.
When he looks up, his eyes have turned molten gold, burning with barely restrained desire. “Is this okay?” he asks, his voice a gravelly whisper.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without begging him to touch me where I'm aching most. His hand slides higher, fingers grazing the edge of my swimsuit underneath his shirt, then retreating back to safer territory in a teasing dance that has me practically squirming beneath his touch.
“Grant, you’re driving me crazy” I whisper, unsure if I'm asking him to stop or continue.
His gaze locks with mine, searching for permission or resistance. I give him neither, caught in my own internal tug-of-war between desire and self-preservation.
His hand slides lower down the back of my knee, but his eyes never leave mine. “You scared me today,” he admits quietly. “Seeing you floating there, not moving... I couldn't go through that again. Losing someone to that river.”
The raw honesty in his voice breaks something open inside me. “I'm sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch a strand of hair that fell over his brow. “I didn't think anyone would see me.”
“I see you, Mia,” he says, turning his face, taking my hand to press a kiss to my palm. “That's the problem. I see you too clearly.”
Before either of us can make the choice to cross that final line, a phone rings shrilly from the guest room—my phone, with the special ringtone I've set for Suzi, my coach.