I tighten my grip on the steering wheel with my free hand, keeping the other locked with hers because letting go feels wrong. She needs the contact. Needs to feel safe. And if holding her hand keeps her grounded, then I'll hold her fucking hand until my fingers fall off.
Even if it means fighting every instinct I have to pull over and—
No. Stop. Not going there.
"Where am I taking you?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "Your place?"
She lives in a shitty little apartment above the hardware store. I know because Colt's mentioned it. Because I've driven past itmore times than I care to admit, looking up at her windows like some kind of creepy stalker.
"I don't want to be alone tonight," she whispers.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Okay." I clear my throat. "I can call Colt. He'll—"
"No." Her hand squeezes mine. "Please don't tell Colt. Not yet. He'll lose his mind and do something stupid, and I just... I can't deal with that tonight."
She's right. Colt would absolutely lose his mind. Would probably hunt Jason down and beat him to death with his bare hands, which would land him in prison and destroy everything we've built at the ranch.
Also, I don't want to call Colt. I don’t want to hand Nicole off to my little brother and go back to my empty cottage and spend the rest of the night thinking about what almost happened to her.
"My place then," I say. "Guest room. You'll be safe there."
"Thank you."
She sounds so small. So tired. Nothing like the confident, sassy bartender who gives shit to drunk cowboys and doesn't take crap from anyone.
I hate it. Hate what that asshole did to her. Hate that she sounds broken. I especially hate that even scared and shaking, she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Her short blonde hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it. I've always loved her hair. Love that she keeps it short when most women grow it long. Love how it shows off her neck, that vulnerable curve where it meets her shoulder. Love imagining what it would feel like between my fingers while I—
Stop. Jesus Christ, I need to stop.
But I can't. Because now I'm looking at that neck, at the exposed skin above her tank top, and thinking about how I'd kiss along that path. How I'd make her forget every other man who's ever touched her. How I'd show her what it means to be worshipped the way she deserves.
My cock starts to harden and shame floods through me so intensely I actually feel nauseous. This is Nicole. Colt's best friend. The girl I've watched grow up. The woman I have no right to want.
Except she's not a girl anymore. Hasn't been for years. She's twenty-two, fully grown, with curves that would make a priest reconsider his vows and a mouth that's starred in more of my private fantasies than I'll ever admit.
And that body. Fuck, that body.
I've always preferred curvy women. Always liked having something to hold onto, something soft and real instead of sharp angles and protruding bones. Give me thick thighs and a round ass and tits I can actually grab, and I'm a happy man.
Nicole has all of that and more. She's built like every wet dream I've ever had. Soft where women should be soft, curved where women should be curved, with an ass that I've imagined gripping while I—
*Stop thinking about her ass, you sick fuck.*
But I can't stop. Can't stop noticing how those jeans are practically painted on, hugging every inch of her lower half. Can't stop remembering the glimpse I got when she bent over at the ranch last month, how the denim stretched tight across her perfect ass and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom like a teenager.
Can't stop wondering what she'd look like bent over in front of me now, hands gripping the dashboard, that ass pushing back against—
"Boone?"
I snap back to reality so fast I nearly swerve off the road. "Yeah?"
"You okay? You're breathing kinda heavy."
Fuck. Because I'm thinking about fucking you six ways from Sunday while you're sitting here traumatized.
