Take Me, Cowboy by Maisey Yates Page A

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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou’re going to be the death of me,” he said, every word raw, frayed.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou’re a miracle,” he said, tracing the line of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “A damn miracle , do you know that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œKiss 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