Page 23 of XOXO, Yours

“You wore a tie to the hospital.”

“I wore a tie to my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary. The hospital was a surprise.”

“It’s a good tie.” She pulls a little harder, bringing my head down to hers. “Take it off.”

I laugh against her mouth. Then I kiss her again, slower this time, because I can. She makes a sound when I slide one hand up the back of her T-shirt and spread my fingers across her spine.

She gets my jacket off my shoulders, then my tie; both get tossed somewhere behind her. She gets exactly two buttons of my shirt undone before she huffs in frustration, and I reach back and drag the whole thing—and the undershirt—over my head.

She stares.

Just stares, for a good three seconds, eyes moving over my chest and shoulders like she’s tracing every line.

“Fuck,” she finally says. “What do they feed you out on the ranch?”

“Mostly brisket.”

She nods. “That tracks.” Then her hands are on my chest, exploring. “You just hide all of this behind clothes every day?” Her palms flatten on my stomach.

“It’s not exactly safe to handle cattle in the nude.”

She looks up at me. “What?”

“You were saying something about me hiding myself behind clothes. I was just clarifying that my brothers and parents would have a lot to say about me riding a horse naked.”

“Pretty sure they call that bare back.”

I snort.

“I hadn’t realized I’d said that out loud. But damn, sir, look at yourself.”

I shake my head. “I want to look at you. All of you.”

Her fingers go to the button of my jeans.

“Hey.” I catch her wrists, gently. “Before we—you sure about this? You’re not⁠—”

“I had one glass of wine at nine o’clock and four tacos since. I’m stone-cold sober and extremely sure.” She tilts her head. “Are you?”

“I’ve been sure since you punched that vending machine.”

“I slapped it.”

“Semantics.”

She pulls her wrists free, grabs the hem of her T-shirt, and peels it off. Then she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra and lets it fall. Whatever I was about to say goes right out of my head along with the rest of the English language.

She’s beautiful. Freckles scatter across her shoulders like someone flicked a paintbrush at her. I want to touch her everywhere. Her breasts are heavy and perfect with blush-colored tips. Her belly is softly rounded, and I just want to press myself against her.

“Keep going,” I find myself saying. “I want to see all of you.”

She toes off her worn tennis shoes, then unbuttons her jeans.

“This isn’t a free show; you have to do this with me,” she says.

I pull my wallet out first and find one of the two condoms I keep inside. I toss it on the bed.

Her eyes flick to the foil square.