Page 64 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

The tires crunch over the gravel as we pull up to the ranch house—our house.

The porch light spills a soft amber glow across the weathered boards and swaying swing, like the whole place is holding its breath.

The air is thick with that delicious kind of tension that clings to your skin and settles low in your belly.

The last of the sun melts behind the trees, turning the sky into streaks of gold and pink that look straight out of a romance movie… the kind that ends with very little clothing.

Grant kills the engine, unbuckles with a slow, deliberate movement that already sets my pulse ticking like a metronome in overdrive, and then he’s out, circling around the truck with that easy, long-legged stride of his.

He swings my door open with a crooked grin and holds out a hand. “Evenin’, darlin’.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“Damn right I am.”

Before I can fully process that twinkle in his eye, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing—and I squeal, grabbing onto his neck. “Grant!”

He’s already heading toward the porch, carrying me bridal-style like a man with a purpose and no intention of being stopped.

“What are you doing?”

He smirks, adjusting me in his arms. “My wife doesn’t walk more than she has to. Not on my watch.”

I snort. “I’m not your wife yet, cowboy.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. Eyes gleaming as he heads up the porch steps, “Mia Taylor, you were my wife the second you told me you loved me. Ring or not.”

Oh.

Oh hell .

The sound of my new future last name, warm and possessive on his lips, makes my breath hitch. It slips into my bones, settles in my chest, and melts every stubborn part of me. I go soft against him, like my whole body just exhaled.

He nudges the front door open with his boot and steps over the threshold, into the cool hush of our house— our house—like it’s sacred ground.

His arms are strong around me, his chest warm under my cheek, and I swear, I’ve never felt so safe or so thoroughly ruined at the same time.

Once inside, he gently sets me down, closing the door behind us with a click.

I blink. Heart skipping a beat.

Candles. Dozens and dozens of them, scattered like stardust across every surface.

Flickering flames line the hallway, like they’re lighting the way home. Pooled in soft clusters the kitchen counter—bathed in golden light, casting soft shadows across the walls. I inhale, catching hints of vanilla and sandalwood. It’s cozy, warm, and so very him.

"Grant," I breathe, stepping forward. "What is all this?"

“Say hello to the ducks.” He chuckles with a lopsided grin.

I blink again, laughing in disbelief, my heart overflowing.

I turn to look at him, and I’m completely floored. He looks so damn proud, watching me with that slow smile like he’s waiting for my reaction and trying not to show how much he cares.

"It’s beautiful," I whisper, feeling my throat tighten. "You did all this for me?"

He steps closer, his hands finding my waist. "Well, Lily lit the candles, I just gave the idea; but I'd light a thousand damn candles if it meant seeing that look on your face."

The air shifts between us—warmth turning into heat, affection edging toward something hungrier.

“Come with me.” He drawls taking my hand in his and guides me down the hall into the living room, where more candles illuminate the room and a fire crackles in the fireplace, casting a gentle glow over the space.

A soft blanket is laid out on the rug, along with two flutes of champagne and a small tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.

I let out a laugh, teary and breathless. "Are you trying to seduce me, cowboy?"

He tilts his head. "If you gotta ask, I must be losin' my touch."

Before I can reply, he steps behind me, plants a kiss on my neck and slowly pulls down the zipper of my dress.

“Take this off,” he says, voice thick and low.

The sound of the zipper is barely audible over the crackle of the fire, but it shivers through me like lightning.

"You looked too damn good at dinner tonight," he murmurs, brushing my hair aside to kiss the back of my neck. "I spent the entire meal tryin' to act civilized, while all I wanted was to get you home and outta this dress."

I turn slowly towards him.

His hands slide the straps off my shoulders, and I let the fabric fall to the floor, pooling around my feet. I'm left in just my underwear and bare feet on the soft rug.

"Grant," I whisper, turning to face him, cheeks warm.

He takes a step back, eyes devouring every inch of me, and then—with deliberate slowness—he removes his cowboy hat and places it gently on my head.

The smirk that spreads across his face is lethal. And cocky. And mine.

"There," he says, his voice a reverent rumble. "Damn, you look good wearing my hat. Just my hat. Just my girl. Just us."

I gasp as his teeth graze the spot just below my ear.

“Grant,” I breathe, my hands finding purchase on his shoulders.

Shaking my head with my throat suddenly too tight for words. I feel like I’ve been unraveling all day—ever since he kneeled before me and asked me to be his Missus Taylor.

Grant’s eyes burn hotter than the Texas sun. His fingers trail down my arms, reverent, slow.

He slides his hands from my lower back to my hip, his fingers firm and possessive as we sink down onto the blanket in front of the fireplace. Every inch of him radiating heat, want, intent. And I feel it—deep in my belly, curling low like a slow fire.

I blush so hard it should be illegal. "You really think I look good as a cowgirl?"

His eyes darken. "Mia, you look like every dream I ever had that I didn’t know I was allowed to want."

I laugh, nerves and affection tangling in my chest. "You say things like that, cowboy and I forget how to function."

He grins. "Good. I plan on keepin' you thoroughly disoriented."

He leans over me slowly, one arm braced beside my head as he brings his lips to mine.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this," he says, his voice raw.

"I do," I whisper, fingertips brushing his cheek. "Because I’ve been waiting too."

Our kiss is slow, deep, and achingly tender. It speaks of every missed moment, every longing glance, every unspoken hope. His hands slide over my body like he’s memorizing me, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of my skin and the way I sigh into his mouth.

Grant feeds me a chocolate dipped strawberry with a wicked glint in his eyes, holding it just above my lips until I lean forward and take a bite. The burst of sweetness on my tongue is nothing compared to the way he watches me—like every little thing I do undoes him.

He tips a glass of champagne to my lips next, the cool bubbles fizzing against my mouth, and then he takes a slow sip himself, licking a drop from his lower lip like he knows exactly what it does to me.

Before I can even process the heat curling low in my belly, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms again, one hand beneath my thighs, the other braced at my back like I’m made of something rare and precious. His lips graze my temple as he murmurs, “You got no idea what you do to me.”

The moment we enter the bedroom, my breath catches.

More candles—dozens—flicker along the windowsills, the dresser. Golden light dances across the walls like a promise. The room glows, wrapped in warmth and intimacy, as if the whole world’s been reduced to just this: us.

He lays me on the bed and our kiss is slow, deep, and achingly tender. It’s not rushed, not greedy—it’s reverent. It’s every missed moment, every secret glance, every night spent away wishing. His hands move over me with purpose, like he’s relearning what already belongs to him.

Taking my hand, he brings it to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles, before he slowly slides off my panties, never breaking eye contact.

He doesn’t let go—not even as he lies back on the bed like a king stretching into a throne that’s been waiting for him.

One arm tucks behind his head, but the other never lets go of me.

His eyes darken, voice dropping into something dangerous and reverent all at once.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine, “how ‘bout you park that pretty little saddle right here…” He pats his mouth. “…and let me take the reins from underneath.”

Heat floods me. I move toward him, crawling up the bed with his cowboy hat still perched on my head. His gaze tracks me like prey—hungry, full of affection, full of promise.

When I reach him, I hesitate just slightly. He sees it. Of course he does.

“Hands on the headboard, darlin’.” He says, low and rough. “I want to hear it rattle.”

I’m already trembling when his hands slide up the backs of my thighs, firm and possessive, guiding me exactly where he wants me—over his mouth, like this was always the destination.

I do as he says, gripping the headboard, legs straddling either side of his head. My knees are shaky. My breath’s all over the place. I hover just above his mouth, still trying not to press all the way down.

And he notices that too.

He raises his brows, that wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You tryin’ to spare me, sweetheart?”

I shrug breathlessly. “I’m just… what if I suffocate you?”

His eyes flash like lightning, and that grin turns feral.

“I know the risks,” he says, voice like gravel, “and I’m willin’ to die on this hill… if it means my tongue is drenched in you. ”

God.

That does it.

I melt into him .

He grips my thighs and pulls me down—all the way down—so my full weight settles against his mouth. He groans like he’s been starving for this, for me , and the second his tongue meets me, I forget how to think.

There’s no room for doubt. No room for modesty or self-consciousness.

Only this.

Only him.

His eyes flick open, locking on mine from beneath the cradle of my hips.

And even with his mouth busy, I swear I hear the growl in his chest.

He pulls back just long enough to murmur against my skin, voice husky, low, and smug as hell, “Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.”