The Cowboy's Wife For One Night

He watched her for a long time and she wondered what thoughts were twirling around that big old brain of his.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, and her head jerked sideways.

“Jack—” she murmured, embarrassed.

“All night I looked over at you, expecting to see Mia, the kid who used to ride horses and herd goats. Who threw punches better than the guys on the football team and never backed down from a fight.”

“Everyone grows up,” she said, her mouth dry, her palms sweaty.

“Not like you, they don’t. I told myself I’d never…” He stopped and she held her breath.

“Never what?” she asked.

His smile was so male and sexy. “Never ask for more than you were willing to give,” he murmured.

He had no idea how much she was willing to give.

Kiss me, she thought, waiting for him to lean forward. To press those perfect lips to hers. But he didn’t. He watched her until she thought she might die from the tension. From the painful desire spilling through her body.

It hurt to want him like this and have nowhere to take it.

And, she realized, she could continue to wait her whole life for Jack McKibbon. Or she could start doing things her way.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

He started, and she waited for him to push her away, to tell her that he didn’t feel that way about her. But he didn’t.

His fingertips touched her wrist, curled around her hand, keeping her close.

Oh, she thought, oh, he wants me, too.

It was careful. Soft. Two old friends testing the waters.

His lips were firm, chapped slightly and tasting of yogurt and mint. He smelled like everything good and warm in the world. Sun-baked pine needles and clothes fresh from the laundry.

She held her breath, keeping the moment close, memorizing every detail of this kiss. The electric distance between them. The way his nose bumped her cheek, how his lips opened and his tongue tasted the corner of her mouth.

A sigh slipped from her and she let him in.

He pushed the plate of food onto the ground and she tossed the skewer of meat over her shoulder so she could get her arms around him.

Jack McKibbon in her arms.

Solid and heavy. Real.

She held him hard, her fingers finding the curves of these new muscles of his. The jacket got in the way and she pushed her hands under it, feeling the heat of his skin through the fine white shirt he wore. He was so hot. So alive.

This was better than every fantasy she’d ever had about him. Even the ones she’d tried to forget.

His tongue stroked her mouth, her teeth and lips. He shifted, rearranged himself, so he could hold her closer, kiss her deeper.

“Mia.” His fingers toyed with the hem of her dress and the painfully sensitive skin of her leg just under it.

She felt every brush of his hand on that small inch of skin, as if he were stroking every part of her naked body. And just how long it had been since someone touched her came hammering home and her body practically levitated with lust.

It had been a long, long time.

She was thirty years old. A wife who’d never been a wife, with only one terrible night of lovemaking she wished she could forget.

All of that was about to change. Right now.

She kissed him hard, pushing him back against the cushions. Yanking at the buttons of his shirt until something gave and she could finally—oh yes, yes!—get her hands on the smooth skin of his chest. The muscles of his stomach. He groaned, deep and low in his throat as if the animal in him was coming alive, and that’s what she wanted. His hands, rough now, slid up under her dress, cupped her ass and squeezed.

She moaned, wanting more. Wanting rough. Wanting everything.

But he leaned back, breaking the kiss, leaving her panting above him.

“I don’t want you to think that I am in any way reluctant to do this,” he said, arching slightly against her so she knew just how not reluctant he was. “But…” His eyes searched hers in the moonlight. Liquid and knowing. “Are you sure?”

She nearly laughed. She was wet and hot and dying.

So “sure” just about covered it.

“We never had a wedding night,” she whispered, watching his mouth and wanting it on her breasts, between her legs.

“No,” he said, with a slow, sly grin that made her body clench and shiver. “We never did.”

His eyes froze her. Locking her in place, aching, against him.

His hands slid out from under her dress and found the small zipper under her arm, and he pulled it down. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the electric silence between them. The dress bagged and he put a finger under a sleeve, lowering it, oh so slowly, until the dress caught on her breasts.