Page 89 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

She’s tough, all muscle and flex beneath my palms, yet she still shudders every time I touch her.

“Turn around,” I murmur against her ear.

She smiles and does it, rolling onto her elbows with her knees locked and her ass lifted toward me, her thighs already trembling.

I step in behind her without trying to hide the shake running through me, fumble my jeans open, shove them down. My cock springs free so hard it almost hurts.

Arizona glances back over her shoulder, her eyes molten, and the sight hits me so hard I figure if I died right now, I’d die ready.

I slide my hand between her legs and find her soaked, her lips slick and parted, and she presses herself back against my palm with a guttural, animal sound that drives every thought from my head.

I guide myself into place, rub the head of my cock against her once so she can feel how hard I am, then ease inside, taking my time with the stretch, the incredible tightness, and the cry she bites back. I want to fill her, own her, be the only thing inside her body for the next thousand years.

She takes me to the root with a greedy desperation that steals the breath from my lungs, arching so hard her shoulder blades stand out like wings above the small of her back. My hands have never held anyone who feels this alive, this gloriously untamed.

She’s wet enough that I slide into her with a slick, filthy sound that would’ve made me laugh if I could manage a breath. She’s so tight it borders on agony, every nerve in my body flaring as her whole frame drives back against me, taking me even deeper.

The counter rocks against the cabinets while she pants my name in rough, broken gasps, and the scent of her, of us, pushes the smoke aside until it’s all I can breathe.

I start with measured strokes, giving her body time to take the stretch, my palm spread across the base of her spine while I fight the urge to fold over her and hold her against the Formica.

Arizona has other ideas.

She throws her hips back harder, writhing against me, chasing a pace that drags me toward the edge so fast I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep from spilling inside her.

I clamp both hands around her hips, hold her where I need her, drive deep, and stay there while we both shake, slick with sweat and starving for more.

She keeps rocking against me, desperate for movement, desperate for release, and every tiny pulse around my cock dares me to lose control. I can feel her getting closer.

Her breathing turns ragged, her muscles tighten a little more with every thrust, and she starts saying my name like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

I don’t want to rush her. I want to feel every second of this, every quiver, every hitch in her breath, every frantic push of her body begging for more.

Holding back hurts, but watching her unravel hurts even better.

Then she comes.

Her whole body locks around me with a silent, convulsive scream before every muscle jerks and clenches so hard I almost lose my mind. I feel her gripping me, pulling me deeper, and the force of her orgasm tears straight through every ounce of restraint I’ve got left.

I groan and fight to hold on for her because I don’t want this to end. I don’t want any part of it to end.

Months of celibacy, years of loneliness, a lifetime spent missing this crash through me all at once until every nerve feels ready to burst between one breath and the next.

Arizona keeps writhing against me, still riding the last waves of her release, grinding back onto me until I’m hanging by a thread. I grab both her hips, drive myself as deep as I can, and stay there while every pulse of her body squeezes me tighter, every heartbeat daring me to let go.

I can feel it building faster than I can stop it, my whole body straining against the need to come while she keeps taking me, still trembling around me, still dragging me over the edge with every desperate movement.

My release tears through me before I can stop it, and I bury my face against her neck while we both collapse forward together, trembling, spent, and completely wrecked on the kitchen counter.

I stay buried against her neck until my breathing quits fighting me, one hand spread across her stomach while the other hangs over the edge of the counter. Neither of us says a word. The kitchen smells like smoke, sweat, and coffee gone cold, and somewhere outside a bird starts up like the world’s still turning.

Mine isn’t.

I haven’t wanted anyone this badly since Sadie’s mom walked out the door.

That thought settles deep enough to make my chest tighten.

Years. Years of keeping people at arm’s length because it was easier than wanting them. Easier than wondering if they’d leave too.