Page 90 of Colt

“And you.” His voice is husky. “You’re angry because you’ve been taught to put everyone else first. Which implies that they have more value than you do. No one deserves to come second in their own lives, Lainey.”

My mouth has gone dry. This cowboy is smart.

Sensitive.

He gets it. And he goes to therapy.

Sexiest. Man. Alive.

“Women deserve that,” I reply, a little breathless. “To come second, I mean. That’s what so many of us are taught anyway.”

He turns and takes a step toward me. “Why do you think I insist you come first when you’re with me?”

I step back and to the side a little, my shoulder blades meeting with the siding next to the door. “That was once.”

His gaze glimmers in the light from a nearby window as he rests a hand on the siding right beside my head. “Care to make it twice? I am a giver.”

His scent overwhelms me. I drop my bag, which lands with a small thump on the ground.

“I like that about you. Makes me feel…good. Really good.” Like I matter.

He husks out a laugh as he does the lean. The one that’s wildly, obscenely sexy, his face an inch from mine.

“Happy to hear.” He ducks his head to kiss my neck, nicking my jaw with his teeth. The scrape of his scruff against my skin sends need bolting through me. It lands with a decisive yes between my legs.

I let him know I’m in by slipping a hand inside his shirt. His rock-hard stomach caves at the contact. I marvel at how smooth and warm his skin is, my thumb catching on a trail of wiry hair that arrows down his middle.

“Gimme a yes, honey.” He nips at the underside of my jaw.

I run my palm up the length of his side. His skin is hot to the touch. “You really need me to say it again?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“There’s my good girl.” His mouth works its way across my jaw. “Tell me why you won’t let me kiss you.”

So hot.

So, so hot when he calls me his good girl.

“Aren’t we enemies?” I pant. “Enemies don’t kiss.”

“But I’m a good kisser.”

Of course you are, you beautiful, cocky asshole.

“Kissing…” I can barely breathe around the intensity of my need for this man. “It’s intimate.”

I see him doing the math. Intimacy equals vulnerability equals no thank you.

His hand is on my side now. It’s moving inside my shirt. Now he’s thumbing my nipple through the silky fabric of my bra.

The pierced one.

He goes still. Thumbs my nipple again, drawing it to a taut, overly sensitive point. “What’s this?”

There’s a smile in his voice. Like he’s pleasantly surprised by what he’s found.