Page 46 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

The coffeemaker hisses. Good. Something else making noise besides the riot in my head. I prep myself to act normal, my heart racing with anticipation and nerves. Will she think it's too much? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

I’ve wrangled cattle less complicated than the floating-buoy maze that was hidden in the bed of my truck for the last week. What if Mia thinks I’m overstepping? Not everyone appreciates grand gestures.

What if she laughs—politely, the way people do when a toddler hands them a mud pie?

I pour a second mug just to keep my hands busy. The aroma is strong enough to dissolve paint, but my pulse still races.

Relax, man. She swims. You solved a problem. Right?

Then I hear it—the guest room door creaking open.

Footsteps—soft, unhurried. Then she appears in the doorway: barefoot, hair a tousled halo, wearing my old rodeo tee that lands mid-thigh and wrecks every coherent thought I’ve ever had. She rubs one eye, squints at the light, and smiles—and I’m finished.

“Morning, angel,” I manage, holding out the mug. “Coffee?”

“Always.” Fingers brush mine, warm and sure. Her gaze narrows. “Why do you look guilty?”

Guilty? Me? Only plotting the most over-the-top river surprise since Moses.

“I don’t look guilty. I look…” I lift my cup. “Caffeinated.”

She arches a brow. “Uh-huh. Must be pumped for the rodeo tomorrow.”

Right—the small, intimate, totally-not-televised rodeo with seven figure prize money and every sponsor in the tristate area. My heart thuds hard enough to slosh the coffee. “It’s… something.”

“About that.” She leans against the counter, looking uncertain. “Are you sure you want me there? I don't want to distract you.”

Distract me? She’s a five-alarm fire in a fireworks factory—one flicker of her grin and every fuse in my head sparks at once.

I steady my coffee mug like it’s a composure prop.

“Want you front row.” I say with a steady smile.

“ Besides, it's just a local exhibition.” I swallow, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. Tomorrow is the Super Series of annual rodeo events—one of the biggest events of the season, sponsors in attendance and a decent seven figure payout for qualifiers…and yet somehow I feel more nervous about Mia’s reaction to seeing me ride, but I don't tell her that.

Don't want her to feel pressured or obligated to attend tomorrow.

“If you're sure...” She smiles, and my heart does that stupid flip it's been doing since I met her.

I nod. Crisis dodge. I pivot to breakfast. “Sausage?”

Stop thinking about sausage, Taylor.

I point to the pan with half cooked sausages.

“I might go for a swim first, if that's okay? Clear my head before I tackle my article.”

“Great idea,” I say, perhaps too enthusiastically. “The river's perfect this time of morning.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “What are you up to, Taylor?”

“Nothing.” I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Can't a guy be supportive of his... erm… you?”

F-Fuck. Great. Nobel Prize for Eloquence incoming. Real smooth there Taylor.

The stumble doesn't go unnoticed.

She steps closer, amusement sparking in her eyes. “Supportive what , exactly?”

My pulse spikes. Titles scramble in my brain like loose cattle:

Friend? Insulting.

Boyfriend? Premature.

Lifelong worshipper of your thighs? Maybe later.

I step closer, backing her against the counter. Her breath hitches and I revel in her way her pupils dilate. “My very talented, incredibly sexy houseguest who I can't stop thinking about.”

Her gaze darkens, tension snapping tight between us—electric, edge-of-a-storm stuff, as I bracket her body with my arms, caging her in.

“That's quite a title.” She says with a ragged breath.

“It's a work in progress,” I murmur, as I drop a kiss to the warm skin beneath her ear; she exhales like I’ve short-circuited her. Mission accomplished. “I'm open to suggestions.”

She sighs, tilting her head to give me better access. “I'll think about it while I swim.”

“You do that.” I pull back reluctantly. “Go on. Water's waiting.” I give her a playful smack on that irresistible backside, earning a surprised yelp and a poor attempt at a glare.

She eyes me suspiciously one more time, before heading to her room to change. I watch her go, a mix of excitement and anxiety churning in my stomach.

***

Five minutes later, I'm trying my damndest to read a cattle report at my desk in my study, when I hear the back door fly open and bang shut, like someone’s running from a crime scene.

Heavy, purposeful footsteps follow down the hallway—wet, fast. My heart jumps at the shaky way she calls out, “Grant?”

I’m already on my feet when she storms into the study.

Her hair’s soaked, sticking to her skin, water dripping onto the hardwood floor.

She’s still in her swimsuit, her chest heaving as though she’d run a marathon and her eyes—hell, her eyes are wild.

Shining. Red-rimmed. Wet from more than just river water.

My gut twists. I might’ve gone too far. I knew the river setup was bold, but I just wanted her to feel like she had a place here. That she belonged. That someone saw what she needed and cared enough to build it from scratch.

“Hey,” I say, voice lower than I expect. “You okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

She walks toward me fast, water dripping, with her arms wrapped around herself, like she’s holding herself together by sheer will. I take a step forward, heart thudding, ready to apologize if that’s what she needs.

But she shakes her head—hard—and before I can say another word, her hands are in my shirt, fisting the fabric, and then I’m pinned back against my own damn desk.

Mia—”

“Don’t,” she whispers, breath hitching. “Don’t you dare say anything rational right now.”

I don’t.

Because before I know it, her mouth is on mine, wet and desperate, tongue sweeping into me like she’s starving and I’m the only thing that’ll ever feed her again. Her body trembles against mine, soaked from the river, cold and hot all at once.

My hands cup her face, thumbs brushing the tears on her cheeks even as she pulls back, breathless.

“You did that for me,” she says, like it hurts to admit. “The signs, the setup, the platform, the resistance bands… you laminated things, Grant.”

“I wanted you to have everything you needed,” I rasp. “I wanted you to know you matter here.”

Something breaks in her expression—a dam cracking wide open—and the next second she’s pushing me back into my chair, tugging at my belt like it’s trying to offend her.

“I need you,” she chokes out. “Right now.” Her tongue darts out wetting her lower lip. “Please.”

My heart stutters.

Not because I don’t want this—I do. God, I do—but because there’s something in her voice that levels me. Something that sounds like awe. Like maybe, for the first time, someone’s done something for her she didn’t have to earn.

“Mia,” I breathe, pressing my forehead to hers. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” she whispers, leaning over and kissing the corner of my mouth. “But I want to show you what that meant to me.”

She drops to her knees in front of me, fingers going straight for my jeans like a woman on a mission. I lean back against the chair, lift my hips and shove both denim and briefs down in one impatient move.

And there it is—my cock, standing proud and ready, no shame and certainly no mistakin’ in how damn eager I am for her.

Her eyes widen. Like she forgot what I’m packing.

Like she has no idea how she’s gonna fit all of it in that pretty little mouth of hers.

Well, princess, consider this your reminder.

The corner of my mouth kicks up, because yeah—I see the moment her expression shifts.

From surprise to something a hell of a lot darker.

Fierce. Focused. Like she just took it personally that I’m this hard for her, and now she’s about to do something about it .

That look alone could undo a lesser man.

The sight of Mia kneeling before me, water still beaded on her naked shoulders, is almost enough to finish me right there.

My cock throbs in her grip as her hand wraps around me, slow and sure, fingers barely closing around the thickness.

I exhale hard—like I’ve been holding my breath for years.

My jaw clenches as she gives one long stroke, her thumb grazing the head, and I swear to God, I nearly forget my own damn name.

She could ask me anything in this moment and I’d say yes. Hell, she could ruin me and I’d thank her for it. I’ve never felt this out of control—not in the ring, not on the ranch, not even during the worst days when guilt used to chew me up from the inside.

But this? Her?

This is want . This is fire and salvation in one unbearable, beautiful package.

And she’s here—still wet from the river, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy with gratitude and desire—and all I can do is bury my hand in her damp hair and groan her name.

The study is quiet except for our ragged breathing. The ceiling fan hums. Somewhere outside, cicadas buzz, the sun already baking the Texas air. But inside? Inside, there’s only her.

Her hands. Her mouth.

And the way she’s about to ruin me for anyone else.