Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

“Chase?”

“Hmm?” He was drugged by her scent, incapable of more.

“See that bottle over there?”

He didn’t want to look. Anything that robbed him of one moment when her heated skin joined his was one moment too long. So, when he didn’t stop his incessant, grazing, open-mouthed kisses over the bra’s lace to the veiled nipple, she took a firm hold of him through his jeans to get his attention.

Every muscle in his body tensed in sweet exhilaration, none more so than the ones lining his shaft, all in one deliciously painful push to stretch him to impossible lengths and squirm free of his waistband. He sucked in a breath. At once demure and decisive, she was an intoxicating blend of give and take as a lover.

“Bottle, Chase.”

Now, her voice was unquestionably take. With a suggestive finger at his chin, she nudged his focus away from her tits to a shelf near the sink where a bottle of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 stood erect near a shot glass.

“Bring it here.”

The idea of Gretchen asking for whiskey snagged in his head, but he was under the command of a different head at this point. Had she asked him to strip and sing a tune from The Little Mermaid, he would have given it hell. He fetched the bottle and shot glass and set them beside her, riveted as to what she may do next.

No way she would drink it. Not whiskey. No fucking way.

She untwisted the cap, poured an ounce into the shot glass, and resealed the bottle. The dry, oak-ish scent reached his nose. Mesmerized, he leaned his backside against the adjacent sink, arms crossed, cock pained—expanding, pulsing, demanding to be set free of his jeans. She reached behind her and unfastened her bra’s clasp. In a glorious display of plummeting red lace, her breasts lowered, unbound. Gently, she removed the belt from around her neck and laid it on the counter beside her.

“You’re killing me.” His voice was like a hot match, blown out to prevent an inferno.

“That’s not the surprise,” she said, sporting a jaunty angle to her brows.

He fucking loved surprises. Whatever it was. The seams of his jeans were a vice, his balls an anvil. He reached for the top button of his fly to relieve some of the mounting pressure.

Her gaze tracked his movements. She shook her head, forbidding him from leaping forward down her agenda. Never had his cock begged for relief more, but in the next breath, the mind-blowing ache ceased to matter. Life ceased to matter.

Gretchen de Havilland dipped her index finger into the shot glass then drizzled whiskey on her nipples—first the one he had come so painfully close to devouring, then the one that had been neglected for far, far too long.

Fuck me. “I’m dead,” he strangled out. “You can’t kill me because I’m already there.”

The coppery-dark spirit blended with the rosy circumference of her areolas, charged down the fullness of her breasts, and dripped a lazy path to her panties.

“Want a taste?” she asked.

Did bulls have massive testicles? He seized the opportunity for her to share it with him, to put the monster she feared most out the door and out of her life.

“Together,” he said.

He cupped one heavy breast gently—higher and higher—until her wickedly deft tongue extended fully past her lips and met the tip of his tongue, right at the volcanic crest of her nipple. He knew without asking that it was her first taste of the forbidden; he had to know.

“What do you think?”

“I think it tastes like dirt.”

A robust laugh bubbled up from his gut. He chuckled and spoke against the swell of her perfect globe. “Water for you then.”

He felt her smile all the way to his toes. Such a simple thing. Such a monumental step for her. Never had he felt closer to her than this moment. Not because she was spread-eagled, inviting him to consume every part of her, but because she trusted him enough to lay out her most painful fear for mutual consumption.

Chase was not one to let whiskey go to waste. His tongue retraced its every tributary in reverse. He reached the straining, pebbled nubs of her breasts and rolled them, tugged them, kneaded them, barely skimmed them with his touch, alternating pressure until she moaned exactly as he wanted her to—uninhibited, breathless. When he had done all he could to ripen her nipples

with his hands, he circled their circumference with his tongue then tugged the rock-hard center into his mouth. Against his palette on top and stroked by a rhythmic licking of his tongue below, he suctioned her nipple toward his throat until she threaded her fingers through his hair and jolted off the counter. Her first buck of a long, long ride.

Not to be ignored, he laved her other nipple with the same attention, refusing to stop until she cried out something new. This time, his name, married to what sounded suspiciously like the whispered hint of an f-bomb.

Surprise, indeed. It seemed the fairy-tale princess had a hidden naughty streak. From that moment on, his goal became to incite a passionate, sharp curse from her unadulterated lips. Nowhere better to advance his goal than beneath her panties, askew from his cursory touch and riding a hard line between her two gloriously russet-haired, fleshy folds.