Page 65 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

I bite my lip, but it’s no use.

“You holdin’ back?” he says, dragging his tongue slow, torturous, deliberate through my wet core—like punishment and reward all at once.

I moan—quiet, barely there.

He doesn’t stop. Just slides one palm up my back, the other anchoring my hips as he doubles down with filthy intent.

“Let me hear you loud, baby,” he rasps between strokes. “I want the whole damn ranch to know you’re mine.”

And when the next moan tears loose—loud, wrecked, helpless—I feel him smile against me. Like a man who’s not just winning.

Like a man claiming what’s his.

And all I feel is lust, pleasure… and love.

The way this man loves me… it defies logic. He makes me feel worshipped. Safe. Desired. Like I’m not just beautiful—I’m his. Always first. Always seen. Always enough.

I ride his mouth, clutching the headboard like a lifeline, thighs trembling, heart slamming. He doesn’t let up. He doesn’t stop.

And when I come, I fall.

Hard.

But I don’t fall alone.

Because he’s already there, wrapping me in his arms, murmuring, “I’ve got you. Now and always.”

When I can’t take it anymore—when I’m writhing and gasping and falling apart right there over his mouth—he holds me steady through every last shudder, like his hands were made to anchor me.

Then, without a word, he shifts.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, and in one smooth, effortless motion, he sits up against the headboard, chest slick with heat, breath ragged. I’m still trembling, still dazed, but he guides me over him—slow, steady, reverent—like he’s been waiting for this forever.

“Mia,” he breathes like a vow, voice cracked and thick with need. “I need to be inside you, need to feel you baby.”

And when I sink down onto him, the air punches from his lungs in a groan so raw it makes my whole body clench.

His hands grip my hips, thumbs pressing into my skin like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. He thrusts up into me, once, hard and deep, and I cry out, fingers tangling in his hair for something to hold onto—anything. He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t tease. He just takes me. Takes my mouth whilst he takes my body.

Like a storm he’s kept buried. Like a need he’s denied too long.

He pauses for just a moment. "You're mine, baby" he growls, each word vibrating through me like thunder.

“Yours,” I breathe, the word tearing from my throat like it’s been waiting a lifetime to be spoken.

Then he starts to move. Slow at first, letting me feel every inch of him, each upward thrust deliberate and consuming.

His pace builds, hips driving up into me with increasing urgency—steady, rhythmic, powerful.

Every stroke, every thrust is a declaration, a worship, a claiming.

Like he’s branding this moment into both of us.

The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room—wet, needy, reverent. My name breaks from his lips again and again, as he fucks up into me.

My release builds again with each relentless thrust, the pressure coiling so tight I can barely breathe, every stroke dragging me closer to the edge like a tide I can’t fight.

“Grant.” The moan tearing through me.

I fall apart with his name on my lips, body arching, my vision white-hot with pleasure. And he doesn’t stop. Drives up into me, pulling my hips down through the aftershocks, groaning against my skin, sweat beading along his temple.

“Mia.” He growls against my neck.

His hands tighten on my waist as his rhythm stutters, losing control, chasing his own release until he thrusts one last time—deep, desperate—and breaks apart beneath me, with a broken sound against my throat—like everything he ever held onto, everything he never said, everything he thought he had to carry alone. .. pours into me, letting go.

I fold into him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, and bury my face in his neck. Letting it all go.

Letting him hold the pieces.

And for the first time in forever, my soul goes still.

All the running.

All the walls I built.

All the nights I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone.

They all dissolve in the arms of a man who sees me— every piece —and chooses me anyway.

Freedom isn’t running.

Home isn’t a place.

It’s a feeling.

And I’ve finally found it. My soul at ease.

With him.

With us.

With everything we’re about to become.

**THE END**