The Maisey Yates Collection : Cowboy Heroes: Take Me, Cowboy / Hold Me, Cowboy / Seduce Me, Cowboy / Claim Me, Cowboy / The Rancher's Baby. Maisey Yates
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watched as his strong, masculine hand pushed her shirt out of the way, revealing a wedge of skin. The contrast alone was enough to drive her crazy. Man, woman. Innocuous porcupine pajamas and sex.
Above all else, above anything else, there was Chase. Everything he made her feel. All of the things she had spent years trying not to feel. Years running from.
She couldn’t run. Not now. Not only did she lack the strength, she lacked the desire. Because more than safety, more than sanity, she wanted him. Wanted him naked, over her, under her, in her.
He gripped the hem of her top and wrenched it over her head, the movement sudden, swift. As though he had reached the end of his patience and had no reserve to draw upon. That left her in nothing more than those ridiculous baggy pajama pants, resting low on her hips. She didn’t have anything sexier underneath them, either.
But Chase didn’t look at all disappointed. He didn’t look away, either. Didn’t have a faraway expression on his face. She wasn’t sure why, but she had half expected to look up at him and be able to clearly identify that he was somewhere else in his mind, with someone else. But he was looking at her with a sharp focus, a kind of single-mindedness that no man, no one, had ever looked at her with before.
He knew. He knew who she was. And he was still hot for her. Still hard for her.
“You are so hot,” he said, pressing his hand flat to her stomach and drawing it down slowly, his fingertips teasing the sensitive skin beneath the waistband. “And you don’t even know it, do you?”
Part of her wanted to protest, wanted to fight back, because that was what she did. Instead, everything inside of her just kind of went limp. Melted into a puddle. “N-no.”
“You should know,” he said, his voice low, husky. A shot of whiskey that skated along her nerves, warming her, sending a kick of heat and adrenaline firing through her blood. “You should know how damn sexy you are. You’re the kind of woman who could make a man lose his mind.”
“I could?”
He laughed, but it wasn’t full of humor. It sounded tortured. “I’m exhibit A.”
He shifted his hips forward, his hard length pressing up against that very aroused part of her that wanted more of him. Needed more of him. She gasped. “Soon,” he said, the promise in his words settling a heavy weight in her stomach. Anticipation, terror. Need.
He continued to tease her, his fingertips resting just above the line of her panties, before he began to trail his hand back upward. He rested his palm over her chest, reaching up and tracing her lower lip with his thumb.
She darted her tongue out, sliding the tip of it over his skin, tasting salt, tasting Chase. A flavor that was becoming familiar.
Then she angled her head, taking his thumb into her mouth and sucking hard. His hips arched forward hard, his cock making firm contact, sending a shower of sparks through her body as he did.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, every word raw, frayed.
“I might say the same about you,” she said, her voice thick, unrecognizable. She didn’t know who she was right now. This creature who was a complete and total slave to sexual sensation. Who was so lost in it, she could feel nothing else. No sense of self-preservation, no fear kicking into gear and letting her know that she needed to put her walls up. That she needed to go on the defense.
She was reduced. She had none of that. And she didn’t even care.
“You’re a miracle,” he said, tracing the line of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “A damn miracle, do you know that?”
“What?”
“The other day I told you you didn’t look like a miracle. I was a fool. And I was wrong. Every inch of you is a miracle, Anna Brown.”
Those words were like being submerged in warm water, feeling it flow over every inch of her, a kind of deep, soul-satisfying comfort that she really, really didn’t want. Or rather, she didn’t want to want it. But she did, bad enough that she couldn’t resist.
But it was all a little too heavy. All a little too much. Still, she didn’t have the strength to turn him away.
“Kiss me.”
She said that instead of get the hell out of my house, and instead of we can’t do this, because it was all she had strength for. Because she needed that kiss. And maybe, just maybe, if they didn’t talk, she could make it through.
Chase—gentleman that he was—obliged her.
He angled his head, reaching up to cup her breast as he did, his mouth crashing down on hers just as his palm skimmed her nipple. She gasped, arching up against him, the combination of sensations almost too much to handle.
Yeah, she did not remember sex being like this. Granted, it had been a million years, but she would have remembered if it had come anywhere close to this. And her conclusion most certainly wouldn’t have been that it was vaguely boring and a little bit gross. Not if it had even been in the same ballpark as what she was feeling now.
There was no point in comparing. There was just flat out no comparison.
He kissed her, long, deep and hard; he kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. Until she thought she was going to die for wanting more. He kissed her until she was dizzy. And when he abandoned her mouth, she nearly wept. Until he lowered his head and skimmed his tongue over one hardened bud, until he drew it between his lips and sucked hard, before scraping her sensitized flesh with his teeth.
She arched against him, desperate for more. Desperate for satisfaction. Satisfaction he seemed intent on withholding.
“I’m so close,” she said, panting. “Just do it now.” Then it would be over. Then she would have what she needed, and the howling, yawning ache inside of her would be satisfied.
“No,” he said, his tone authoritative.
“What do you mean no?”
“Not yet. You’re not allowed to come yet, Anna. I’m not done.”
His words, the calm, quiet command, made everything inside of her go still. She wanted to fight him. Wanted to rail against that cruel denial of her needs, but she couldn’t.
Not when this part of him was so compelling. Not when she wanted so badly to see where complying would lead.
“We’re not done,” he said, tracing her nipple with the tip of his tongue, “until I say we are.” He lifted his head so that their eyes met, the prolonged contact touching something deep inside of her. Something that surpassed the physical.
He kissed her again, and as he did, he pulled his T-shirt over his head, exposing his incredible body to her.
Her mouth dried, and other parts of her got wet. Very, very wet.
“Oh, sweet Lord,” she said, pressing her hand to his chest and drawing her fingertips down over his muscles, his chest hair tickling her skin as she did.
It was a surreal moment. So strange and fascinating. To touch her best friend like this. To see his body this way, to know that—right now—it wasn’t off-limits to her. To know that she could lean forward and kiss that beautiful, perfect dip just next to his hip bone. Suddenly, she was seized with the desire to do just that. And she didn’t have to fight it.
She pushed against him, bringing herself into a sitting position, lowering her head and pressing her lips to his heated skin.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, his voice rough. He took hold of her wrist, drawing her up so that she was on her knees, eye to eye with him on the couch. “We’re not finishing it like that,” he said.
“Damn straight we aren’t,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to get a little taste.”
“You give way too much credit to my self-control, honey.”
“You