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“Fuck, Delilah.” His tongue teases over mine as he pants between kisses. “Goddamn.”

I attack him, pressing my furious body into his, my breasts plumping against his chest. My hands slide up his shirt, dancing up ridged abs, chiseled pecs. I ache to trace every cut indentation of muscle, but that will have to wait until later, if I get that lucky.

He whimpers as I tease him, the sound makes me smile. Turning this big, tough cowboy to a dazed, panting man is one of my superpowers.

“I’ve wanted you so fucking bad,” he murmurs. “So bad.”

“I want you too, cowboy.” I clutch his shoulders and rock against him. “I want you so much. Need you.”

I’m not sure if it’s my words or if it’s the changing of the music, but Cole Weston ignites.

I squeal as his muscled arms grab me up, and then we’re moving, and he’s slamming me down on the bar top beside the bottle of whiskey. I set his hat safely behind the bar. Then, giggling, I grab the whiskey and tip some into my mouth, spilling it down the hollow of my breasts.

“Fuck, baby.” Cole’s eyes are feral, pupils blown wide as he stares at me. His big body sways, lines of tension appearing around his mouth. Then he leans in and licks all the way up from my breastbone to my throat.

I giggle, stunned, delighted. “You look thirsty, cowboy,” I say, bringing the whiskey bottle to my breasts, tipping the lip and letting the amber liquid trickle over one nipple.

Cole moans. “Christ.” His mouth races to my breast, sucking and rubbing his tongue against the hard bud. I writhe in his hard clasp, my brain frying.

Cole pants when he pulls back. “Need to taste you.”

His words slay me.

“Here?” This can’t be smart. We’re in the middle of the tasting room, anyone could see. But the danger only amplifies my need.

“Here.”

“What if someone walks in?”

“If anyone walks in,” he growls, “I kill ’em.”

I thrill at the possessiveness of his words. At the illicitness of what we’re doing.

Cole hooks his arms beneath my thighs. There’s the squeak of my bare flesh on the bar top as he pulls me to the end of the bar. Cool metal from the bull leaping on his giant belt buckle presses against the inside of my thigh, and I whimper. I feel branded, his.

“Lie down,” he orders. His voice is smoke and velvet. I shiver as it curls around me, infiltrating my defenses and whatever I thought of Cole Weston and the dastardly thing called love.

Still gripping the whiskey bottle, I obey.

I teeter, dizzy from the whiskey, from my sudden descent. “Wait So Long” by Trampled by Turtles strums over the speaker. As my legs dangle over the end of the bar top, I stare wide-eyed, dazed at the overhead lights.

If this doesn’t bring new meaning to the words tasting room, I don’t know what does.

Cole lowers his big body between my legs and clasps my thighs. Rough, calloused hands split my thighs wide. Cole hooks a finger in the side of my thong and tugs it down my legs. “Christ. You’re leakin’ for me, darlin’.” His mouth brushes against the inside of my thigh, and my blood sings.

“You did that,” I gasp, my fingers diving into his hair. “You.”

“Gonna do a hell of a lot more too.” He runs a thumb down the seam of my sex. “I’m goin’ fucking insane without tasting you.”

Before I can say another word, Cole hooks my legs over his wide shoulders, then buries his face in my pussy. My mind evaporates, words disappear.

His deep rumble vibrates my clit, and then his tongue is there, lavishing, penetrating my sex. His neck strains, his big muscles in his back rolling and flexing as he works me over.

Oh god. It’s perfect. Everything about it. The pressure. The intensity.

The man dominates. The way he eats me is possessive, vicious, and hungry. I’ve never felt anything like it. One big forearm comes down on my hips, pinning me to the bar top.

There’s no holding back. Not with Cole.