Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

He stroked himself faster, harder, as he thought of her. Then closed his eyes and pretended it was her hand, her mouth, that was on him. That it was her body stretched out next to him instead of a pillow.

He came seconds later, head swimming and hips arching off the covers in one of the most powerful orgasms of his life. He wasn’t sure what it said about Lyric, or more accurately his feelings for her, that just the thought of her had him coming harder, deeper, than he had since he was a kid.

After a couple minutes of recovery time, he stumbled into the en suite bathroom, his head still a little messed up with the pleasure of it all. He took a couple of minutes to clean himself up with the towel he’d used after his shower last night, then slipped back into his room and pulled on his jeans with hands that still shook, just a little.

Next door, the water had stopped, and he forced himself not to think about Lyric getting out of the shower dripping wet. Forced himself not to imagine her toweling herself dry or smoothing lotion over all that silky skin or—

He broke off with a groan. Jesus, he was acting like a horny kid with his first girl, his dick rising again and again at just the thought of her.

Deciding he needed to do something to take his mind off of the delectable Lyric and her too-perfect everything, he grabbed a shirt from his suitcase and yanked it over his head. Then made his way downstairs to the kitchen to start cooking breakfast.

After the day they had had yesterday, he was starving, and he was pretty sure Lyric must be feeling exactly the same way.

Livinia’s fridge was fully stocked, as always, and he pulled out the makings for a Denver omelet and quickly got started making it. There was something soothing in the act of chopping up the onions and peppers and ham, something mind-numbing, in the best way, in grating the cheese and beating the eggs.

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It had been a rough couple of days in every area of his life, and it was nice to just concentrate on something normal for a while. Something besides the fact that his career—and his life—were pretty much over.

Oh yeah, and he was engaged … to be married … to Lyric.

Actually, that seemed minute compared to everything else.

But no one liked a pity party, certainly not him. And if his knee twinged more than a little while he was walking around the kitchen making toast and coffee to go with the omelet, then no one needed to know about that shit but him.

Lyric had enough on her plate.

Fifteen minutes later, he slid an ooey gooey omelet bursting with meat and veggies and cheese onto a plate and divided it into two pieces. Then he poured a couple cups of coffee, doctoring one to sickly sweet, just the way Lyric liked it.

Then, after putting everything on a cookie sheet he’d found in the cabinet next to the oven, he headed up the stairs to serve Lyric breakfast in bed. Or at least breakfast on a bed, considering she had already showered and was probably completely dressed by now.

Except, when he knocked on the door, she didn’t answer immediately. Had she passed out on the bathroom floor after slipping when she was getting out of the shower and hitting her head on the tub? Or the vanity? Or—let’s face it, this was Lyric—the edge of the toilet?

She’d actually done that in fifth grade. He still remembered finding her lying prone and calling 9-1-1.

Freaking out now even as he told himself he was being insane, he managed to twist the knob on the door even with his hands full and then shove the door open.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me.” Lyric put a hand to her chest.

He took in a very wet, very flushed Lyric—obviously fresh out of a bath instead of a shower—standing in the middle of the room, soap suds on her legs and the skimpiest towel ever invented wrapped around her unmentionables. Unmentionables that he really wanted to mention because—like her—they were so fucking gorgeous.

“What are you doing in here?” She stared at him.

“I knocked and you didn’t answer. I thought you might have slipped and hit your head like before …” He should leave, he knew that, but his legs wouldn’t move, and he couldn’t stop staring at her.

“Why are you still here?” She took a step toward him, tripped over her own two feet, and caught the edge of the dresser. Her towel came undone and fell to the floor. “Oh God.” She tried to cover herself and leaned over, grabbing for the towel and pulling it in front of her.

She was standing there beautifully, gloriously almost naked.

He should walk away, or at least look away, but for long seconds he could do nothing but stare at Lyric, absolutely spellbound. If that made him an asshole, then he was willing to live with it. Some things were worth being an asshole over, and this look at Lyric’s wet, flushed, gorgeous body was definitely one of them.

“I brought up … um … food.” He sounded like an idiot. Hell, he’d been charming ladies out of their panties since he’d realized the difference between girls and boys, but this time he was flustered.

For long seconds, neither of them moved. Instead, they just stood there staring at each other as arousal arced between them like an ungrounded electrical current. Powerful, unchecked, and dangerous enough to burn everything in its path.

“Lyric.” Her name was as much groan as it was prayer as he stepped forward.

She sucked on her bottom lip, but she didn’t turn him away.