Cowboys & Kisses

by Summers, Sasha

  “I thought that was sort of obvious.”

  “I missed you.” His arms slipped around me, pulling me against him. Somehow that made it easier to breathe…and harder to think. His scent wrapped around me, like his muscled arms, his lean thigh… I shivered in his arms, overwhelmed. “Just a little rain. Nothing to worry about.” His voice was low, soft, wonderful.

  I believed him. Fear was quickly being replaced by sensations that were just as powerful, but completely different. My head fell forward, against his bare chest, my cheek against his shoulder. I took a long, deep breath—drawing him into my lungs—and managed to sound almost normal. “How’d you do?”

  “Came in second.” He yawned, making my head go up and down against his chest.

  “That’s great.” I stared up at him. It was kind of hard not to notice how tired he was. Dammit. “I really am sorry I woke you.” I was…now.

  “You didn’t. I’ve been tossing.” His gaze was dark in the dimly lit room, dark black-brown-warm-and-wonderful. His fingers brushed a hair from my eyelashes.

  The thunder made me jump, the springs of the bed squeaked, and the flashlight rolled out from under the bed—illuminating us on the bed. Wyatt, all backlit rippling muscles, was mind-blowing.

  “Storms bother you, too, huh?” I sounded breathless.

  “No.” His jaw clenched. “I was worried about you.”

  “Oh,” I managed.

  His smile grew, his gorgeous dimples making my stomach hot and heavy. He took my hand in his and pressed it to his lips.

  Hot and heavy and twisting in an alarming way.

  He smile dimmed a little. “I wanted to see you but I didn’t want to risk it.”

  I slipped my arm around his waist. “Risk it?”

  “Slipping into your room. At night. Thought your folks might not appreciate that.” He sounded worried. “I wanted to…but…”

  He was right. Him, in my room, at night—probably not a good thing. He was, after all, the golden boy. I hadn’t really thought through what would happen if Dad found me here with him—in his bed in the middle of the night. Probably not the best idea I’ve ever had. But I’d needed to know he was safe. And now, being wrapped up in his arms, in him, I felt too good to leave. Being with Wyatt made me feel loved and wanted…and a little crazy.

  For a split second I wished I was wild-and-rebellious Allie again—just long enough to throw myself at Wyatt guilt-free. I didn’t want to think about my father right now. I didn’t want to think about anything but me and him.

  “Things any better with your dad?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry things are so hard, Allie.” His voice sounded so sincere.

  “You’re sorry? For me?” After everything he’d been through? “Wyatt… You’re kind of…amazing, you know that?” I looked up at him, loving the sound of his heart under my ear, the shift of his back muscles beneath my hand. “Yeah, my dad and I aren’t exactly in a happy place, but it’s just the way things are.”

  “Your dad doesn’t seem all that unreasonable.” He seemed hesitant. “I don’t exactly have the best measuring stick to compare him to, but I like him.”

  “He’s not unreasonable. I like him too,” I agreed. “I don’t not like him, I guess. We’re messed up, we don’t get each other. He wants a loving, smiling daughter. I want a loving, smiling father. Which is kind of hard, since I sort of made hating on him my second favorite hobby—after soccer.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he looked…sad.

  “I don’t have any excuses, Wyatt. I wish I did. I did this.”

  “Allie…”

  “When I was old enough to kick a soccer ball, he made it my thing—our thing.” I shrugged. “I gave it one hundred and ten percent. I wanted him to be proud of me. My victories were his victories, but so were my losses. It was a lot of pressure. Making State Select Team changed things. My coach, my team…Lindie…made me realize I didn’t need to prove myself to him anymore. I played for the team, for me. And the less I listened to Dad, the more frustrated he became.”

  Wyatt didn’t say anything. But the frown on his face said enough.

  “I told him I had a coach, I needed a father. I wasn’t all that nice about it. I know it sounds stupid and selfish now. I do.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “And then after Lindie’s accident I went a little…mental.”

  Wyatt’s voice was soft. “Losing her like that…you were upset.”

  “I was. And him sitting there, not saying anything while I lay in that hospital bed—knowing I’d killed Lindie. I said horrible things to him, told him I knew he’d wished I’d died instead of Lindie.” I could still see the shock on his face…the anger…the sadness. “Part of me believes…believed it. Now it’s too late for me and him. Just too much stuff. I don’t want to disappoint you but I don’t want to lie to you either. I am a mean girl. I am. Or I was. I’m trying not to be now. I really am trying not to be.” I sucked in a deep breath. “I-I don’t know how to have relationships…” I shook my head.

  His hand cupped my cheek. “He’s your father. It’ll never be too late to make things right with him.”

  I leaned into his hand. “I hope you’re right.”

  He smiled. “Don’t give up on him.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t give up on yourself,” he added. “One thing my mom would say, the past can make you or break you, but which one is up to you.”

  I nodded, repeating the words softly to myself. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “Smile. Live. Love.”

  “She had another expression. Momma was full of them. Fake it ’til you make it.” He shrugged, his hand rubbing up and down my arm, his heart thumping steadily beneath my cheek. “I did a lot of faking it until I met you.”

  It was my turn to frown. “Me me? The bitch me?”

  He sighed. “You’re hurting, Allie. I get it. The anger. My dad’s not your dad, but I get hating your father and still wanting his respect—maybe his love. I understand.”

  “You do?” It was a revelation. He understood. Sort of. “But you have an actual right to feel those things. I don’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re this awesome, caring, gentle guy. Lindie’s death was my fault—”

  “You didn’t make the car hydroplane.”

  “No, but I—”

  “You weren’t driving drunk. In an ice storm.” He paused, whispering, “Dumb shit.”

  “He wouldn’t have driven us if I hadn’t—”

  “Allie.” He tilted my face back, our eyes locking. “The eighteen-wheeler? That driver lost control on the ice. His brakes locked up. He hit your car. It was an accident.” His fingers slipped through my hair. “I know you said things to Lindie you wish you could take back, that you two fought, but you can’t own this.”

  “How do you know all of this?” I asked, feeling nauseous.

  “Dax.” He looked at my hand in his. “People.”

  “People?”

  “Around town—the little old ladies that sit in Peggy’s on Sunday nights… It’s not hard to find out anything if you know who to ask. And I know everyone.” His smile was uncertain.

  “But…why?”

  “So I can be here for you. I need to be here for you.”

  He was so matter-of-fact about it. I sat up, putting some space between us. Not because I was upset with him, but because I was going to cry. And I didn’t want to cry. Too many thoughts were racing together, bouncing off one another, making my emotions just as mixed up. I tried to calm myself, to take deep breaths, to count backwards and clear my head.

  I don’t know how he made things so clear, but he did. One thing I accepted immediately, because it was true. He needed to be here for me. I needed to be here for him—I needed him.

  But Lindie…The crash…Was it an accident? I swallowed. But…it was my fault, wasn’t it? Or…maybe not… The hope he stirred was powerful, and painful too.

/>   “You mad at me?” he asked softly, anxious.

  I looked at him over my shoulder. “No. I’m not mad at you. I just…It’s just that…” I had to keep swallowing. I didn’t want to fall apart on him but I sounded desperate. “I want to believe you.”

  “About?”

  “Lindie. The c-crash.” My voice hitched. “I know what really happened. If I hadn’t made her leave, none of it would have happened.”

  “You would have left eventually, Allie, right?” He waited for me to nod, then kept going. “Say you two didn’t argue and you waited to leave, how would you have gotten home?” he asked, making no move to touch me.

  I shrugged. “Lindie probably would have driven us back to her place.”

  “In the storm, on the ice, at night, after drinking…” His voice faded away.

  He was making sense, but my guilt was strong. I turned toward him. “We might have made it home just fine.”

  “Maybe.” He nodded. “Maybe not.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” I argued.

  “I know,” he agreed, sharing in my sadness.

  We were quiet for a while. My mind was racing, turning over everything he’d said. Sitting here, not quite touching him but completely aware of him, I wished there was some way to convey how much he meant to me. I loved him, but that word didn’t seem enough…

  “I wish I could change what happened, Allie, to make that hurt go away.” His voice was rough. “But I’m…I’m glad you’re here…with me…now.”

  My heart responded. The guilt was still there, missing Lindie was still there, but his words stirred a vital warmth deep inside me. “Me too.” I couldn’t think of one place I wanted to be more, which really freaked me out. “But I don’t know how to make this work. You’re…you.” You’re perfect and I’m me. “You’ve been through enough. I’m…I’m…me.” I turned away, having a hard time getting the words out. “I…I…God, Wyatt, I don’t deserve you.”

  He didn’t say anything. The only sound was the rain and thunder and our breathing. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I looked at him. He was staring at me, sad, tired…loving. “You’re going to have to get over that.”

  I almost laughed. “What?”

  “Thinking like that. You don’t deserve me?” He shook his head and reached forward, his hand cupping my cheek—finally touching me. “I love you, Allie. You make me happy. I feel like…I’m home with you.”

  It was still raining. Thunder was still rattling the whole damn house. But nothing compared to the thumping of my heart. I was light-headed, euphoric, and overwhelmed all at once. Everything about this moment was perfect.

  He loved me. I might not deserve him, but I knew—without a doubt—that I loved him. I loved him in a way that I didn’t understand yet, not really. It was so…complete. And it scared me, to accept what he was offering. His gaze held mine, boring into me without wavering.

  His eyes held such promise, such faith. I knew, then, there was one thing that scared me more—losing him.

  I moved quickly, kneeling between his legs and resting my hands on his bare chest. His skin was warm and smooth beneath me, making me breathless and shaky as I leaned forward to press my lips against his. “Welcome home, Wyatt,” I murmured.

  It was a soft kiss, lips brushing feather-light. The sweep of air, the mix of our breaths, the stir of longing and love all mixed up. I smiled down at him.

  He looked happy…and sort of like he was in pain. His jaw was locked, his nostrils flared, and a dark flush colored his cheeks. It was holy-hell hot, making my stomach quiver and every inch of me tense. Waiting. Hoping. Anticipating. His hands twisted in the sides of my shirt, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or hold me back. And all I could think about was kissing him again, with a little less sweetness and a whole lot of want.

  He shook his head. “You make it hard for me to remember whose house I’m in.”

  He is such a good guy. “You’re worried about disappointing my dad? You’re thinking about my dad. I’m thinking about yanking off my shirt—” I broke off, stunned that I’d admitted what I was thinking. And I was thinking about it. My mind was full of what might happen if…

  His hands released my shirt, but his palms brushed along my exposed thighs in the process, making us both jerk with awareness. He sat back, resting his fisted hands on the sheet at his waist.

  Was he caught up in this all-consuming yearning? Was he…throbbing? I certainly was. I so was. Thinking about being shirtless, here, now, in Wyatt’s bed—with Wyatt—was making me feel totally out of control, breathless, hollow, heavy.

  He closed his eyes. “Allie…” It was a plea, I knew it. He did feel it. Thank God. And the way he said my name did something to me, called to me. It was a new kind of ache, a new kind of pull. He was fighting for control, and…I was ready to let go.

  “If it makes it any easier, I feel…this, too.” I sat back, the space between us humming with pure, unfiltered desire. “Even if I’ve never felt it…this…before.”

  His eyes opened, the need in his gaze boring into mine.

  Keep breathing. “I know we can’t. And we won’t. Not tonight. But I want to. With you,” I murmured.

  He swallowed, the muscle in his jaw twitching and his mouth pressed flat.

  Way to lay it all out there. What am I doing? “Was that the wrong thing to say?” I whispered.

  “No.” The word was pinched.

  I reached out, searching for his hand. His fingers wrapped around mine. He hesitated for a second before he drew me against him. Somehow this felt different. Maybe it was because I felt every inch of him pressed up against me. Maybe it was because I wanted more.

  A strange little sound came from him, part growl, part laugh. I shivered…the sound amping up the already crazy intensity between us.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, turning my face into his chest, brushing my nose over his collar bone, and breathing deep. He shivered this time.

  “Not sure,” he admitted. “You just told me you wanted us to…well, that you…want me.”

  My face felt hot. At least he couldn’t see my flaming cheeks in the dark. Besides, my face was basically buried in his chest. “Yeah…I guess I did. I do.”

  There was that little growl again and then he cleared his throat. His hand slid up my back, under my hair, to rest at the base of my neck. “Kinda surprised,” he whispered, pulling me closer to him.

  “In a good way?” I managed before his lips closed over mine.

  I was gripping his shoulders then, pressing myself close as his hand slid up and into my hair, holding me. His other hand pressed against my thigh, his callused fingers stroking my skin, unsteady and amazing.

  We fell back onto the bed. I’m not sure which of us made that happen…but once we were there, our hands were searching, our mouths were locked together, and our bodies couldn’t seem to be close enough—even though there wasn’t much between us.

  When he rested between my legs, I felt a flare of nerves. He wasn’t naked, neither was I, but there was no mistaking that things were getting carried away. He rocked against me, his back flexing beneath my hands, his arms bracing him over me. I couldn’t tell who was breathing harder, me or him. All I could do was feel. His skin, his muscles, his breath, the way he pressed against me. It was overwhelming, and wonderful, and desperate—heat raged in my blood.

  “Allie,” he rasped, his hands cradling my face. “I don’t want to rush this.”

  I heard him, but my body was still on fire. My knees pressed against his hips, my fingers slid through his short hair, pulling his lips back to mine. His kiss was soft, his lips lingering…before he groaned and flopped onto his back beside me.

  I wanted to cry. I was gasping for breath, my hands gripping the sheets at my sides. Part of me, a little tiny part buried deep down inside, was relieved. He was right. We didn’t need to rush things. Was I ready for sex with him, now? I didn’t know. Did I want to? Yes. More than anything I’d ever wanted.
I took a deep breath. Definitely.

  He slid his arm beneath my head and pulled me against his side. We lay that way for a while, but the pull was too hard. When my hand rested on his chest, his heart picked up. When he turned his nose into my hair, I slid closer to him. The tension was too strong to ignore.

  He slipped from the bed, pulling Grandma’s old rocking chair to the bedside. He pulled the extra quilt off the wrought-iron footboard and sat in the chair.

  “You can’t sleep in that,” I argued.

  He laughed, low and soft. “I can’t stay in bed with you.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that. “I’ll go back to my room.” The storm was still raging, but so was my pulse. This is ridiculous.

  “Stay,” he said, taking my hand in his. “I’ve slept in rougher spots than this.”

  “Like?” I said, rolling onto my side to face him.

  He yawned. “Horse trailers. I can’t always find a motel room floor to sleep on.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

  I sighed. “That chair is wood. At least you had some hay in a horse trailer.”

  “And horse shit,” he added.

  We both laughed.

  “Get some sleep, Allie. I’m here,” he promised, squeezing my hand.

  I squeezed his hand, staring at him until my eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer.

  ***

  “Allie?” Someone yelled.

  The coo of a dove. Pickett barking.

  I opened my eyes, exhausted—disoriented.

  I glanced over at Wyatt, still in the rocking chair. He was sound asleep, his chin on his chest, leaning towards the bed. He’d have a crick in his neck this morning.

  “Allie!” Again. Not dreaming? Footsteps on the stairs.

  I realized what was happening as Wyatt’s door opened. My father stood there, his hair on end, his face pale. When he saw me, he froze. A ragged breath escaped, his chest rising and falling so quickly I worried he was having a heart attack.

  “Dad?” I sat up, wary. I was in Wyatt’s room… Shit.

  He walked into the room, his eyes never leaving my face. When he reached the side of the bed, he sat, grabbing me by the shoulders. “You were gone.”