Page 6 of Claimed By the Cowboys

But another part of me stirs. The lonely part. The tired part. The part that lies awake at night with one hand pressed to the aching panic in my chest, wondering when my life became a series of duties stitched together with guilt and grief.

That part looks at Bo’s handsome face and desperately wants to set the weight down, for tonight.

He waits with his warm hand at my waist, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles like he has all the patience in the world and is content to give me the time to wrestle my own convictions, even if it’ll lose him the chance to get between my thighs.

My fingers tremble as I reach for him.

Then I slip my hand into his.

This is probably stupid. Definitely stupid. I need sleep more than sex. I need food, a warm drink, and a cool pillow to rest my head. There’s a very real chance that I’m going to fall asleep while he’s doing delicious things to me. I haven’t tidied my lady garden in a long, long time, but I can’t find a single fuck to give about any of it.

All the fucks I had, minus the one Bo’s going to get tonight, were given a long time ago.

His grip closes around mine, gentle but sure, and I exhale.

I can take this one thing for me. No one ever has to know.

Chapter 2

Brandy

Bo’s truck smells like leather and hay, and I sit in the passenger seat with my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it over the low rumble of the engine. Bo drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh like we’re a courting couple and he can’t keep his hands off me. His thumb strokes more slow circles against my scrubs, and every pass sends another ripple of heat straight to my core.

I should be panicking. Instead, a strange, giddy calm settles over me. For once, I’m not calculating how many hours of sleep I can steal before the next crisis. I’m thinking about what it’s going to be like to be touched and kissed by such a handsome man.

“You’re overthinking again,” Bo says quietly, glancing at me. His voice is rough in the dark cab.

I laugh and it comes out soft and shaky. “Hard habit to break.”

He squeezes my thigh. “You can break it tonight. Let me take care of you. Get out of your head and into your body for a few hours.”

Hours? The man worked a full day and still has the energy for hours? He’ll be lucky to get minutes out of me.

The motel sits on the outskirts of town. It’s nothing fancy, just clean white siding and a blinking vacancy sign. Bo parks near the side entrance, kills the engine, and turns to me. For a second, his cool gaze sweeps over me, like he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind.

I don’t. I can’t. He is temptation wrapped in sin. He is the calm served before the storm. He’s everything I shouldn’t want but crave like an addict.

He leans across the console and kisses me, his mouth claiming mine like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he sat down at the bar. I moan into it, surprised by how desperately I open for him. His hand slides into my tangled curls, gripping tight enough to tilt my head exactly how he wants. Heat floods me so fast my head spins.

If this is an appetizer to the main course, then I’m ravenous for what’s to come. Jeez. No man has ever possessed me so fully with his tongue or tasted more deviously of whisky and enticement.

When he pulls back, his eyes are darker, pupils swollen, searching mine. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Bo takes charge of securing the room and ignores the middle-aged receptionist's obnoxiously curious look. We must make an odd-looking couple: Bo’s dressed like the archetypal cowboy, and I’m half in scrubs, trying not to wonder whether the receptionist's stare lingers a little longer because I'm Black and he's white.

Inside the room, he flicks on the lamp by the bed. The space is simple with beige walls and a big bed with a dark green comforter. It’s clean enough that some of my nerves settle. Bo locks the door behind us, then turns and crowds me gently against it.

His hands frame my face. “Tell me what you need, Brandy.”

I swallow hard. “I… I don’t want to think. I don’t want to decide. I want…”

“You want to let go,” he finishes for me, voice low. “I’ve got you.”

Relief hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle. Someone else is taking the wheel. Finally.

Bo kisses me again, slower this time, but still as deep and thorough, like he’s learning the taste and shape of me from the inside out. His hands slide down my sides, mapping my curves, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my tank top. I arch into him without meaning to, and he makes a low, approving sound that vibrates through my chest.

He walks me backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. When my thighs hit the mattress, he eases me down and follows, settling over me. The weight is divine and safe. He’s a real man in all the best ways.