Page 77 of Homebound

The memory douses the heat. This past week has been hell on earth. At the rodeo, Teton, the bull, rammed into my shoulder something fierce. I had to sit in the bath for over an hour, so staying on during practice has been even tougher.

“You and two-stepping, huh?” I say. “You really think it’ll help?”

Wyatt touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth, lifting it back up. “I might have an ulterior motive.”

“Oh?” I lift a brow. “And what’s that?”

The cover band starts playing the song “Damn This Heart of Mine” by William Beckmann. With an infectious smile, he guides us to the dance floor, twirling me effortlessly, and just when I’m about to spin out of control, he tugs me against his solid chest. “It’s the perfect excuse to keep you close.”

And keep me close he does—all night long.

31

COME HOME TO ME

DAKOTA

Lust is such a little shit.

On Sunday, I can’t stop staring at the dimples on Wyatt’s lower back, just above his ass cheeks, as he reaches for a coffee mug in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of workout shorts slung low on his hips.

“See something you like?” he drawls.

I snap my gaze up to find him smirking that smirk that reminds me nothing of my summer boy and everything of the sizzling kiss at The General. But I don’t have the headspace to be thinking about electric kisses today, no matter how much I want to. I need to focus on the rodeo that I have to leave for in… I check the time on my phone.

Dammit. Ten minutes.

I scoot back from the granite counter, half smiling up at him. “Yeah, you, but I have to go. I was just leaving.”

“You sure about that?” He cocks a brow, sipping his coffee. “’Cause it looked like you were admiring my ass, not walking out the door.”

“It is a nice ass,” I say, aiming for casual, but the words are tight, like I’ve been sucking helium. “Looks like it’s carved out of marble. Michelangelo would be admiring that view.”

He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “I do a lot of lunges. Maybe I’ll let you feel it sometime.”

I mimic his posture. “How about you let me feel it now?”

“Mmmm.” He leans back, sipping his coffee, teasing me. He looks too good in the morning. “See, I would let you feel me up, but you have to leave for the rodeo, and I want to take my time with you, honey.”

This new blasé confidence makes my heart pound a little harder. He looks so unaffected, sipping coffee in the kitchen with his hair tied back and a few strands falling across his forehead. Meanwhile, I’m finally understanding exactly what historical romance authors mean when they claim their loins are burning.

I can’t do anything about my burning loins now, so I grab my boots. “Fine. You’ll have to let me feel up your marble ass another time. Let’s hope a bull doesn’t get me. I hear they’ve got some mean ones to pick from this round.”

That comment is 60 percent joke, 20 percent gut-wrenching fear, and 20 percent unadulterated excitement.

A second later, my back is being pushed up against the wall.

Wyatt grips my chin, turning me toward him, and then his lips crash against mine. I’m so stunned that I don’t respond at first, but then his tongue invades my mouth, and I’m kissing him back just as fiercely.

Our teeth bang together, and there’s this urgent edge to his kiss that sends a ripple of fear through me. It feels like one of those scenes from the forties, where a newlywed husband kisses his wife goodbye before heading off to war—desperate, frantic, and tinged with worry.

He pulls back just as quickly, and whatever emotion he poured into that kiss, he hides from his face, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs. “Stop talking about a bull getting you. You’ll be good. I wish I could be there, but I’ve got to watch Vienna today since my moms are delivering flowers.”

“It’s okay,” I pant out, still gasping. Wyatt Patterson is one hell of a kisser. “I’ll be fine. Take care of the little devil. She needs you more than me.”

“I need you, though.” He kisses me again, rough. “Don’t forget that. You’re important to me.”

That shoots two jolts of emotion right to my heart—unease and warmth. Unease because I can’t make any promises, and warmth because I’ve never been needed. It makes me want to hold onto the rope with everything I’ve got so I can come home to them.