Page 67 of One Last Rodeo

I hand him the bottle. He takes it carefully; his thick fingers look clumsy around the tiny brush as he attempts to balance it. It’s almost comical—this big, rough bull rider concentrating like he’s handling a newborn baby as he tries to steady the thin handle between two of his massive fingertips.

He takes my hand and holds it steady, dragging the brush down each nail with slow, careful strokes before dipping it again. I don’t tell him to wipe off the excess between each dip. I don’t boss him around like I would anyone else to be sure it’s perfect. I just let him do his thing the way he wants to do it because I know, however it ends, it’ll be perfect.

His brows are furrowed. He bites the inside of his lip. He curses under his breath when the polish slips onto my skin. It doesn't bother me, the messiness, if anything I find it adorable.

An uninvited image flashes through my mind of Jensen, on his knees, next to a couch, doing this for his future daughter someday. A child that he desperately wants. She’d have his eyes and long brown hair and be giggling each time he messes up.

I quickly blink, and the image disappears. I try to focus on him again, but all I can think about is that little girl.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, brushing another stroke down my thumb.

I don’t say anything. I focus on his strong jawline. His handsome face. His soft insides that don't match the exterior. He’s focused harder than I’ve ever seen him focus on a ride.

When he finishes, he studies both my hands proudly and then lifts my wrist for me to see like he’s lifting a trophy.

“How’d I do, Kitty?”

I look from my red, messy nails back to his face, and something warm and terrifying blooms in my chest. Something that feels a lot likeemotional connectionand even more like I might be falling for this cowboy.

It’s not perfect; in fact, much of the polish is on my cuticles and the flesh on the pads of my fingertips, but it's the best my nails have ever looked to me.

“It’s perfect,” I say softly.

He grins, leans in, and then kisses me on the mouth. It's slow, soft, tasting faintly like the lake breeze and the sweetness of his grandma's tea we drank this morning before heading out. It's something I could get used to. Something I shouldn’t. It shouldabsolutely catch me off guard that I don’t flinch when he kisses me without warning anymore. It feels right.

I don’t know what we’re doing. I didn’t expect this brief time off to turn into… whateverthisis. But wow... it feels good to be seen. To be taken care of. To matter to someone. To not have to worry about tomorrow or the future. For right now, I’m just living in the present with this wild man at his home in Tennessee.

He pulls back just enough for his fingers to find the hem of my dress. Another thing Tennessee seems to have brought out in me is a fondness for dresses.

He eases the fabric up around my waist, his knuckles grazing my hips before his hand slips beneath the waistband of my panties.

“May I?”

I lift my hips without a second thought, allowing him to peel them down until I’m seated bare on the boat bench, exposed to the warm air and his hungry gaze.

“Come here,” he murmurs, shifting me closer until my thighs are draped over the edge on either side of his hips. My hands grip the back of the bench for balance, and I part my knees wider to make space for him.

He takes my legs and places them on either of his shoulders.

“I don’t want to hurt your shoulder,” I say.

He chuckles. “You couldn’t. Don’t worry about me. Let me eat.”

He lowers himself between my legs and drags his tongue up my pussy like he’s tasting something he’s been dreaming about all day. A shiver rolls through me. He pauses, eyes flicking up, mouth inches from me.

“You have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I like being between your legs. Are you having fun here?”

I laugh. “We’re making small talk now?”

He slides one hand up my thighs, caressing the skin and massaging it. His fingers dig into the soft flesh like he’s staking his claim, his beard brushes against the inside, scraping me. Then he sinks two fingers inside me firmly.

“Yes. Talk to me while I lick you.” His tongue circles my clit.

“Yes,” I whisper, my head tipping back, feeling the stretch and fullness of his fingers. “It’s been fun.”

He smiles against the inside of my thigh, his lips brushing my skin like he can’t decide what he wants to do next. His wrist twists as he rubs inside me, edging me.

“Good. I’ve had fun too. Got something special I want to show you tomorrow.”