Page 38 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

She’s still on the call with her coach—her voice low, clipped, all business now. That effortless switch she does, flipping from soft to steel in a second. It should make her feel distant, it shouldn’t draw me closer, but it does; watching her command a conversation feels intimate in its own way.

I back out the doorway.

Not because I want distance.

Because I need a minute to clear my head before all this want turns me reckless.

Walking down the hall, my boots silent for once, as and step into my bedroom and shut the door behind me like it’ll keep the thoughts out. Like it’ll keep her out.

It doesn’t.

Laying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling again like it’s got answers etched into the woodgrain and try not to think about how she looked when I touched her calf—flushed, breathing shallow, pupils blown wide like she was right on the edge of unravelling.

I felt it too. Still do.

Counting the knots in the wooden beams for the third time. Eighteen. Still eighteen, just like five minutes ago. Just like fifteen minutes ago. My body is wound tight, muscles coiled with tension that has nothing to do with rodeo injuries and everything to do with the woman down the hall.

The memory of Mia's skin beneath my fingertips haunts me. Soft. Impossibly soft. The way her breathing changed when I moved higher up her thigh, the slight parting of her legs—an invitation I was too much of a gentleman to accept without explicit permission.

“Fuck,” I mutter, throwing my arm across my eyes.

This isn't just physical anymore. That would be simple. Manageable. I've dealt with attraction before. But this—this tightness in my chest when she talks about her mother, the way my stomach knots when I think about her leaving—this is dangerous territory.

She wants me. I see it—hell, I feel it like a damn lightning storm under my skin.

In the way her eyes linger just a little too long, when she thinks I’m not watching.

I’m always watching her . The way her breath hitches when my fingers skim over her skin.

She wants me, and not just in the fleeting, tipsy kind of way people want each other when the night’s long and full of stars.

It’s deeper.

It’s the kind of wanting that scares the hell out of me.

Because I want her too.

More than I should.

More than makes any sense.

And every time I think about what would happen if I leaned in—if I let myself fall—I feel this weight settle on my chest.

Because, when all is said and done, she’s leaving. She’s not staying in Portree; I drum into my head. She’s got this whole world ahead of her—big city bylines, oceans to swim, stories to write. She’s made of movement, of ambition, of the kind of freedom I’ve only ever tasted in daydreams.

And me? I’m just… here.

Rodeo and the ranch is in my blood. This land, this family, this damn small town with its nosy residents and dusty roads—it’s all I’ve ever known.

I can’t give her Paris or Tokyo or whatever damn place she’s meant to conquer next. I can’t give her a story that ends with travel stamps and headlines.

I’d only hold her back.

Tie her down.

And that’s the last thing I want—to be the reason she clips her own wings.

So instead I watched her on a call with her coach, glancing at me every now and then. With this look in her eyes like maybe she already knew what I’m thinking. Like she could feel the wall I’m trying to build between us, even if I’m too slow laying the bricks.

She deserves more than a man with calloused hands and a fucking fear of rivers.

She deserves more than this life rooted in dirt and grief.

And God help me, I want to give her more—but I don’t know how.

She’s got an entire world waiting for her. She’s Mia Bonney . The kind of woman who could rebuild herself out of rubble and call it art. Who swims through her own grief like it’s something she can outpace if she just keeps moving.

I run a hand through my hair and exhale slow, like maybe I can push the ache down far enough so that it won’t show in my face.

I sit up, grabbing my laptop from the nightstand. Work. I need to focus on work. The upcoming rodeo schedule should be finalized by now, and Connor's been hounding me about my availability for PR firm events.

Three emails in, and I'm staring at Mia's name in a text document where I should be typing venue dates.

Dammit, if I can’t get this girl out of my head.

I slam the laptop shut and lay back on the bed. Outside my window, the Texas sky is turning deep purple, stars beginning to appear like tiny pinpricks in dark fabric. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of the old wooden frame settling.

And then I hear the shower running in the bathroom.

My mind instantly conjures Mia standing under the spray, water cascading down her athletic body, down those perfect full breasts of hers, droplets clinging to her nipples before trailing down her flat stomach to where I—

“Stop it,” I growl, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.

But it's no use. My cock is already hard, straining against my jeans in a painful reminder of our interrupted moment on the couch.

When her coach called, Mia had practically sprinted off the couch with her injured calf and all to the guest room, leaving me kneeling on the floor with an aching erection and a tube of muscle ointment in my hand.

I glance at the Deep Heat sitting on my nightstand where I tossed it earlier. It's been over an hour, and I haven't heard a peep from Mia since that call. Whatever her coach said must have been important.

Meanwhile, my balls are turning the shade of midnight and the pressure in my groin is becoming unbearable.

Fuck it.

With a resigned sigh, I unbutton my jeans and slide my hand beneath the fabric of my briefs, gripping myself with a firmness that brings immediate relief. My eyes drift close as I begin to stroke, slow and steady.

In my mind, it's Mia's hand wrapped around my length. Mia's eyes, dark with desire, watching the pre-come drip from the head of my cock as I come undone. Mia's lips parting as I slide into her wet, slick core. Mia’s moans that fill the air as she breathes out my name.

Oh fuck Mia.

I quicken my pace, breath ragged, hand working faster, pressure winding hot and tight at the base of my spine.

I’m seconds away—hovering on that knife’s edge where nothing exists except the promise of release and the image of her —wet skin, parted lips, that goddamn smirk she gives when she knows she's got me wrapped up in her. I’m close, so close—

Then—

“ HOLY MOTHER OF—FUCK!”

The stab of pure pain is instant. Blistering. Cataclysmic. Like someone lit a match and dropped it straight down my pants. Searing, burning pain registers where there should be only pleasure.

My eyes fly open. My hips jerk, my hand flies off my dick like it’s radioactive. Pure white-hot agony courses through my dick. I fall back against the headboard, smacking my head against the wood—hard, clutching myself with a strangled, wheezing gasp.

Aaaah fuuuck!

What the —

Okay, Grant. Breathe. Assess.

Nope—zero assessing. Just fire. Fire everywhere. I look down in horror.

My dick…

My actual, loyal, hard-and-well-working dick…is currently being flambéed in my pants.

I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I do know whatever this is—it’s not fucking good!

In my state of pure panic, it takes me several seconds to connect the dots. Then it hits me.

The fucking Deep Heat .

The godforsaken ointment is still on my hands—from where I rubbed Mia’s calf earlier.

I bolt from the bed, yanking my jeans further down, pants falling half-undone to my knees, cock throbbing for all the wrong reasons, I hobbit limp-shuffle to my bedroom door, yanking it open, and sprint across the hall with my jeans now looped around my ancles; my foot snags, tripping over my jeans, and I slam headfirst into the wall with a thud that rattles the family photos.

Mother of Fuck!

Scrambling to get back up, like a man possessed, I’m desperate for water to rinse off the chemical burn that's making my most sensitive and treasured body part feel like it's being set on fire.

I stumble forward, yanking my shirt over my head, hissing with my jeans and briefs now hanging off one ankle, cock flailing in protest, I reach the door and don’t knock—I don’t have time to knock—I just throw open the door and—

Freeze.

Mia stands under the shower, behind the clear glass partition, completely naked. Hands furiously splashing water between her legs like she’s got her own personal emergency—and she does.

Her head whips up toward me. Her eyes blow wide.

What the—? She screeches.

“My dick! I yell.

What? She yells back looking perplexed.

“My dick! My dick’s on fire! ” I blurt out, then realize how ridiculous that sounds standing half naked in the doorway of a bathroom where a fully naked woman is clearly dealing with her own crisis.

I stare.

She stares.

The water trickles down her skin in sensual rivulets I should not be noticing while my crotch is experiencing a seven-alarm inferno.

And then… she blinks.

Her eyes burn into mine somewhere between agony and sheer mortification—and then something else registers in her expression. Understanding.

“The Deep Heat,” she says, her voice coming out strangled. “It's burning me too!”

There’s a full beat of silence as we both stand there, staring at each other—naked, suffering, stunned—and then it dawns on me what exactly that means.

“You were?—” I start, pointing vaguely toward her crotch area, her hand, toward the shower—

“Yes!” she groans, her cheeks flushing beyond what the hot water could cause. “And clearly, so were you!”

I nod, despite the burning sensation still tormenting my cock. I feel a grin spreading across my face. “Well, this is awkward.” I say through hyperventilating breaths.

We both just…continue to stare.

Then—we howl . Laughing so hard it hurts, which is unfortunate because everything already hurts.