Page 51 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

Grant grabs my hand and pulls me along the back path that leads behind the competitor barns, ducking between a row of unused tack rooms where it's quiet, shaded, and most importantly, private. My laugh trails behind him, breathless and I know he’s not bringing me here to give me a tour of the barns.

The noise of the rodeo still hums behind us, muffled by the closed tack room door, but my head is a swirl of Grant. Grant in the arena, Grant tipping that damn hat and his glorious smile to the crowd, Grant looking like he’d just conquered the entire state of Texas with one ride.

And now Grant with his mouth on my neck like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that can satisfy him.

As soon as the door shuts behind us, he presses me up against it, crowding into my space like he can’t get close enough, his hands everywhere—hip, waist, thigh, like he can’t decide what part of me he wants first.

“God, you smell like sweat and hay,” I murmur against his lips.

“And you’re still kissing me back. That’s devotion.”

My lips curve into a smirk just as he slams his mouth onto mine.

It's fast and hungry, all lips and tongue, as if this kiss has been simmering all night and just hit its boiling point.

I curl my fingers into his shirt, dragging him closer, and he wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me closer, like maybe he needs this just as much as I do.

“Grant,” I breathe.

I tug at the buttons and growl in frustration. “Why do your shirts have so many damn buttons?”

He grin against my mouth. “Because snaps are for quitters.”

I manage to undo just enough before I push it off his impressively large shoulders, my hands skimming over his chest, my palms dragging over his overheated skin.

His fingers tease along the waistband of my jeans. I think he's going to unbutton them, but no—the bastard moves slower, dragging his knuckles just underneath, brushing skin and sparking nerves I didn’t know could fire that hard.

He sinks to his knees in front of me like he’s worshipping, but that filthy smirk on his lips says this ain’t holy.

“You know what I want, Mia. That shaky little whimper you make right before you fall apart for me. The one that tells me I’ve got you. That I’m the only one who’s ever touched you like this.”

I arch toward him without thinking, breath caught somewhere in my chest. I want to give him everything. My body, my heart, my damn common sense—take it, cowboy.

But before he can lower his mouth to me, I reach forward, slow and deliberate, and lift his hat from his head.

His eyes flash up to mine, pupils blown wide as I place the worn brim over my own wild hair. “Thought I’d borrow this,” I murmur.

The effect is instant.

Grant freezes for half a heartbeat, his mouth parted, breath hitching. Then a low, reverent growl escapes him—one that curls heat low in my belly.

“Fuck, Mia,” he rasps, voice thick. “You wear my hat and expect me to behave?”

I smirk, tilting it just enough to cast a shadow over one eye. “Guess I was hoping for the opposite.”

His gaze darkens further, pure lust sharpening the lines of his jaw as his hands slide up the back of my thighs. “You in my hat, lookin’ like a fantasy I’ve been too damn scared to dream out loud…”

His palms grip me firmer, voice dropping lower. “You’ve got no idea what that does to me.

Before I can respond, he moves me towards a work bench where he drags my jeans and panties down and parts me with his fingers, sliding two fingers into me. A ragged moan leaving my body.

“Fuck angel, you're soaked,” he groans deep, and lifts his hand just enough to prove it.

I manage a strangled breath. “Yeah, well, you know what to do with that mouth cowboy, and it’s not talking.” I say between ragged panting.

He trails a kiss along the inside of my thigh. “Oh, I’m gonna do more than talk, Princess. I’m gonna make you scream.”

And then he does. One teasing lick, then another, then he's relentless, pulling every sound from me like he knows my body's playlist by heart and he’s hit repeat on the dirtiest track.

I want to stay composed. I want to pretend I’m not about to come undone in a tack room while the rodeo roars outside.

But Grant Taylor has never played fair.

“Give it to me, baby. Let me taste how you lose control” I lose it. All of it.

I grip the edge of the bench, head thrown back, and fall straight into the kind of pleasure that leaves me breathless, my legs shaking so much Grant needs to hold me steady.

And when I look down, he looks up at me like I’m his entire goddamn world.

Still on his knees in front of me, his breath hot against the inside of my thigh, and my whole body feels like it’s vibrating—like I’ve been rewired from the inside out.

When he lifts his head, those stormy eyes lock with mine, and it’s not just lust I see there. It’s worship. It’s a man staring at a woman like she just rewrote the rules of gravity.

Grant rises slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world—like I’m the only thing worth savoring.

His hands skim up my legs, over my hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I’m still reeling from what he just did to me, every nerve ending singing, but the moment he stands, inches from my mouth, I swear the air changes. Thickens.

He brushes the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, letting me taste myself there. My breath hitches, and before I can even think, he’s kissing me. Deeply. Thoroughly. Like he’s pressing the memory of me onto my tongue.

I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it whole.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice low and full of gravel. “Like something a man should be down on his knees for every damn day.”

I shiver. My hands are on his shoulders, trying to hold myself upright, but his presence is doing more to unravel me than gravity ever could.

Then he leans in again, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear. His voice drops, warm and molten and dangerous.

“And if I had it my way, princess, you wouldn’t make it five feet without feelin’ me between your thighs. I’d have you walking around sore and I’d be smug, knowin’ I was the reason all day long.”

My knees nearly buckle.

This man and his filthy mouth.

A shiver rolls through me so violently I have to grip his forearm just to stay upright. And he knows—oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing. There’s a flash of wicked satisfaction in his eyes, the kind of look that says he’d ruin me on repeat just to watch me try to function afterward.

His filthy words wash over me like a verbal smut baptism, drenching me in heat, in hunger, in every dirty fantasy I’ve never dared say out loud. They cleanse nothing. They ignite everything.

I feel scorched from the inside out.

The air between us crackles. My heart is thundering, my pulse roaring in my ears, and every inch of me aches in the most exquisite way. Not just for his touch—but for more of his mouth, his voice, his brutal, beautiful honesty that turns every filthy sentence into a spell.

“I can still feel you on my tongue,” he continues, fingers trailing a slow, possessive path down my back. “Still got your taste in my mouth, and all I can think about is how damn good you’d sound when I make you fall apart again.”

My heart stutters. Heat pools low in my belly—fast, overwhelming. Didn’t I just climax? How the hell am I ready to combust all over again?

He draws back just enough to see my face, his gaze burning.

“You still with me?” he asks, eyes searching mine.

“Barely,” I whisper.

A crooked smile curves his mouth. “Good.”

His hands find my hips again, firm and unyielding. “Turn around for me, baby.”

I hesitate for only a second before obeying. My breath catches as his body presses up behind mine, hot and solid and relentless. His hand skims down my spine, fingers tracing every vertebra with an intimacy that nearly undoes me.

His other hand slides over my stomach, holding me flush against him. I can feel him—every hard, aching inch of him—and the strength it takes not to melt on the spot is superhuman.

“You feel that?” he whispers, lips brushing my ear. “That’s what you do to me, Mia. That’s what you’ve been doing to me since the moment you showed up and turned my life inside out.”

The way he says my name—rough, reverent, wrecked—sends a pulse through me so strong I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

His mouth press kisses along the line of my jaw, then nips my earlobe. “You gotta be quiet now, angel,” he murmurs. “Can’t have the whole rodeo hearing how good I’m about to make you feel.”

I nod, but it’s shaky. My body’s already trembling, hypersensitive, coiled and ready.

“You always take me so well,” he whispers as he slides the head of his cock in and rocks against me slowly, deliberately, letting me adjust to him. “You were made for me, you know that? Perfect fit.”

It’s too much. The praise, the heat, the stretch of him inside my heart and soul. Then he moves, the pace relentless and my breath gets knocked with every thrust. I’m biting the back of my hand to stop myself from screaming out loud.

He trusts in hard. “I’ll never get enough of this.” He growls.

My head falls forward, resting against the wall of the tack room, my breath ragged as he moves behind me with steady, devastating rhythm. Every thrust feels like a vow. Every whispered word brands me.

“You’re mine angel,” he says, voice fraying. “I’m the only one touching you like this. I’m the only one to make you feel this full.”

“Yours” the words leaving my lips on a moan.

Tears prick my eyes—not from pain, but from the intensity of it all. The weight of it. The truth in his voice.

I reach behind me, desperate to touch him, to anchor myself somehow, and he catches my hand, linking our fingers and holding it against the bench.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. “Always.”

And somehow, even with the world narrowed to heat and sensation, that’s the part that undoes me.

When release comes, it steals my breath. It’s not just physical—it’s everything. Emotional. Shattering. Whole.

Grant follows with a low, broken groan against my skin, arms tightening around me as he lets go and spills inside me.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. We’re just pressed together in the aftermath, hearts pounding, skin damp with heat, breaths mingling in the quiet of the tack room.

Finally, he leans his forehead against the back of my shoulder, lips ghosting over my skin.

I turn in his arms, weak-limbed and reeling, and kiss him like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth.

Because right now, it is.