Page 39 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

This ranch already feels like a pressure cooker of secrets and expectations. I’m absolutely not supposed to be making… this kind of connection.

And yet…

When was the last time I didn’t overthink everything into the ground?

When was the last time I let myself want something without immediately planning the exit?

I should stop.

I should pull back, make a joke, put space between us before this turns into something I can’t neatly pack away and carry with me when I leave.

But then Duke kisses me again.

And the world just… drops out from under my feet.

Nothing make sense anymore. I can’t even think. All I can do is feel.

I jerk at his shirt. It comes up over his head, and Duke’s skin is so warm and taut I forget whatever half-clever thing I was going to say.

He shivers when I run my fingers down his chest, over the ladder of old scars and new tan lines, and then he grabs my wrist, thumb biting into the soft tissue as if searching for more.

His mouth curls at the edge, the half-grin transformed by hunger. “You want me, Annie?”

I should say something flippant, words that remind both of us that this is a terrible idea, but all I can do is nod once, hard enough to make him smile in relief.

“Yeah. I do.”

After the day I’ve had, maybe even the week, I want to be ruined. I want everything bared and shaken out and put back together with someone else’s hands.

I thread my fingers into his hair and draw him closer, crashing my mouth to his once more.

Then he deposits me bodily in the center of the mattress. The wood creaks and the springs shriek.

He climbs above me, shoving his shirt the rest of the way off so I can sink my teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, just above the bruised old tattoo.

He hisses, but keeps moving, stripping me while I clutch at his belt. His hands are loose, not the frantic scramble I half-expected, but as if he’s confident he’ll get as much time as he wants.

We’re a tangle of heat and teeth and grabbing, animalistic, until he pins my wrists above my head and holds me there with one palm as though I’m nothing but a too-energetic foal.

“You gonna behave?” he pants, breath loud. “Or am I gonna have to teach you a lesson about running your mouth on Ironwood Ranch?”

I cock a brow. A game… I like a game…

“I’ll try to behave.” I pout playfully. “But I can’t always promise to succeed…”

He grins, feral, like I’ve just thrown down the gauntlet.

And then he’s kissing me again, all teeth and tongue, pushing in and taking, the stubble of his jaw scraping my chin raw.

My mouth opens under his, an involuntary gasp, as he slides me out of my leggings and slips his rough, callused hands into my panties and beelines for my clit.

He strokes it, feather light, like he’s reading braille with his thumb, and it’s so precise I nearly buck him off the bed. My hands fight for freedom but he holds me fast.

“Fuck,” I gasp, because it’s the only word left, my world narrowed to a hot, vibrating point where his hand is.

Until I notice his other hand, snaking around my throat.

I laugh, or try, but it comes out as a moan. He’s learned my body in a minute, mapped the pulse between my thighs and tuned every touch to the melody of my need.