Page 19 of May's Cowboy Roman
So I pressed on. “Now it is.”
“Because of this rodeo?”
“Because of you.”
She lifted her head. Her eyes looked softer in the dim light.
I cupped her face and traced my thumb over her cheekbone. “I should tell you this doesn’t change anything.”
“But?”
My thumb stilled against her skin. “I’d be lying.”
Everything had changed. I'd chosen her. Let her in past the walls, past the scars, and she hadn't looked away or flinched once. Distance wasn't an option anymore. I'd crossed that line and burned the bridge behind me before I'd even thought to consider whether or not I should.
She kissed my palm and settled back down. I held her tighter and told myself I could still walk away if it got too hard. But I knew I wouldn't.
CHAPTER 8
RACHEL
I woke to his arm draped across my waist and his breath warm against the back of my neck. I’d fallen asleep while he held me last night. I hadn’t expected him to stay, but I’d hoped he would. What did that say about me? About him?
Gray light filtered through the thin cabin curtains. It was still early, and I didn’t dare move. I didn't want to break whatever this was, this pocket of time where nothing had consequences and no one needed answers.
His hand rested flat against my stomach, wide palm and rough fingers, and I could feel the calluses even through the cotton sheet bunched between us. Those hands had gentled a terrified horse yesterday. Had pinned my wrists above my head last night. Had held my face like I was something worth being careful with.
I wasn't the kind of woman who confused sex with feelings. I'd been around long enough to know the difference between a man who wanted me in the dark and a man who'd still be there when the sun came up.
And Roman was still here.
His breathing shifted into a deeper inhale, and the arm around me tightened just barely. His mouth pressed against the curve of my shoulder. Not quite a kiss, but with Roman it seemed like more.
“You're thinking too loud,” he said, his voice sounding like gravel and sleep.
“It’s an occupational hazard.”
He exhaled against my skin and his lips curved. Not quite a smile, but close enough.
I rolled over to face him. His eyes were open, dark in the half-light, watching me with that same unreadable focus he gave everything. The scar pulled when he shifted his jaw. I traced it with my gaze and didn't look away.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“I'll make it.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood without a shred of self-consciousness. Seeing his bare skin in the dim light confirmed what I’d felt with my hands. He was built like a mountain with a broad back and muscles earned from working the land. His skin puckered in a few places, the landscape of old damage mapped across his shoulders. He pulled his jeans on from the floor and walked barefoot to the kitchen.
I stayed in bed another minute and let the sheets hold the heat of him. Let myself feel the ache between my thighs and the tenderness at my hip where his fingers had gripped hard enough to bruise.
This wasn't casual. I knew it. He knew it. Neither of us had said it, and that was fine. Some things didn't need words to be true.
I pulled his shirt on over my shoulders. It was too big, but the soft flannel smelled like hay and soap, then I padded out to the kitchen. He stood at the stove cracking eggs into a cast-iron pan he must have found in a cabinet I hadn't opened since arriving. Coffee already dripped into the pot, filling the small space with a comforting scent.
He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes dropped to his shirt on my body, the hem hitting mid-thigh, and something shifted in his expression. It wasn’t heat, but something more settled than that. Like a quiet claim. Then he turned back to the eggs.
I poured coffee into two mugs. My hip brushed his as I reached past him to set his down on the counter. He didn't move away, and I didn't either.
“Do you cook for all the journalists you sleep with?” I teased.
