Page 68 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Not with two different men in the same house like I’ve apparently decided to speedrun bad decisions.

And yet, here we are.

Cody’s mouth is still on mine, and it’s very different from Duke’s, which is an unhelpful comparison to be making in real time, except my brain insists on cataloging it anyway.

Duke is heat.

Cody is precision.

Even like this, especially like this, there’s something measured about him, that feels like he’s aware of every inch of contact, every shift, every reaction, and is adjusting accordingly.

Which would be reassuring if it wasn’t completely undoing me.

My hand tightens in his shirt, because I need something to anchor to, that reminds me this is real and not some kind of stress-induced hallucination brought on by spreadsheets and emotional repression.

He makes a low sound against my mouth, and that does something immediate and catastrophic to my ability to think.

I lose my mind, and I’m pretty sure he does too.

Hands clutching fabric. Teeth grinding. I’m slammed against the wall before I register it, legs curling around his waist, my body moving before my mind can catch up. He groans into my neck, raw and urgent, as if this held-back fire finally erupted.

“You don’t know,” he growls into my skin, lifting me effortlessly and carrying me toward the bed, “what you do to me.”

I can barely gasp before I’m tossed onto the mattress, a little bounce skating me up toward the headboard.

Cody’s on me instantly, his shirt gone somewhere between doorway and duvet. He looms above me, arms braced on either side, and his chest is a map of shallow breaths and gorgeous muscles I had no idea were there.

I haven’t breathed since my back hit the sheets.

I reach up, gripped by a wild urge to touch his rock-hard chest, and he shivers as I draw my nails lightly over the peaks and valleys. His face is practically shaking with the effort of keeping himself from falling apart.

I do it again, longer this time, claws and palms and then lips, my mouth finding his shoulder, the edge of his collarbone, tasting salt, sweat, and whatever it is that makes Cody, Cody.

His skin is hot, and softer than I expect. My tongue flicks up to the hollow of his throat, and the rumble it pulls from him is so primal I have to chase it, see if I can get that sound again.

“Annie, I can’t keep doing this. I need to see you. All of you.”

His voice cracks the silence like a whip. Air whooshes from my lungs. I lift my eyes to his, throat parched, pulse hammering against my spine.

He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, shoulders squared, eyes dark pools of hunger.

I should hesitate. Instead, heat coils through me.

Slowly, I slide to my knees on the cool mattress. Fingertips tremble as I yank my tee over my head. It snags on my hair before slipping free, crumpling at my feet.

I hook thumbs in the waistband of my shorts and panties, roll them down past my thighs in one smooth motion. The fabric whispers onto the carpet.

His gaze traces every inch of bare skin, sparking a wildfire behind my ribs.

“Lie back,” he murmurs. “Let me look at you.”

My breath catches, then I arch, palms pressing into crisp sheets, stretching long against the pillows. The linen cools the underside of my legs.

He meets my eyes, and my thighs clench on instinct.

“Say stop,” he whispers, “and I will. But if you don’t… I’m going to ruin you tonight.”

A shiver of anticipation rattles my spine. I nod, words lost somewhere between my ribs.