Chapter 39
Boone swore his brain short-circuited. Every rational thought he’d clung to—gone. Whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have—torched.
All he could think was, lord help me, this woman is going to ruin me—and I'm going to thank her for it.
She leaned in and first nipped his lower lip, then his upper, and finally she went in for the kill. And it wasn't just a kiss.
Nope.
It was an open-mouthed, lip-dragging, hair-tugging, holy-hell kind of kiss that scorched every kiss Boone had ever had clean off the map and replaced them with one blazing neon sign:
This woman. This moment. This was where everything is heading.
Boone decided right there—with the cows mooing in the pasture and his sanity probably out back smoking a cigarette—that he'd follow Vivi anywhere she pointed. No hesitation. No questions asked.
He'd spent years keeping people at arm's length, acting like distance was safety. Turns out what he'd needed all along was the opposite—someone brave enough to dig under every layer he'd used as armor and actually want what was underneath.
But that wasn't just someone. That person was Vivi freaking Calder, and nothing had ever felt better.
Well—he amended, when she bit his lower lip and released it with a wicked little pop—maybe one thing could.
The way she moaned into his mouth made it real clear this was only the warm-up lap. A full-blown tailgate-before-the-rodeo situation.
And speaking of tail, his hands were all over hers.
Palming. Squeezing. Mapping every perfect curve of that heart-shaped ass like he was committing it to memory and intended to revisit often.
But it wasn't enough—hell no—so he slid his hands inside her shorts and dragged her flush against him.
Fair play, considering her hands were doing some exploring that made his knees wobble.
"You keep that up and it's game over before I even get those shorts off you," he rasped, voice already shredded.
"Then you'd better get to work because this feels too good to stop."
Message received.
He ran his hands down her thighs, gently unlocking her ankles from around his waist, and helped her to stand.
He slid his fingers under her waistband and peeled her shorts down inch by torturous inch—over her hips, down her legs—until she was standing in a scrap of red lace that barely qualified as clothing.
His breath bottomed out completely.
"Tell me you wore these for me," he rasped, staring at her like she was a miracle wrapped in sin.
"I wasn't sure when I put them on," she murmured. "But I'm sure now."
"If I'd known you DIYed in dental floss and daydreams, I would've started playing Guess-What's-Below-the-Line a long damn time ago.
" He cupped her backside and yanked her to him in the same breath—then gently wrapped his fingers around her ankle and pulled it up, resting her foot—still wearing those pink boots—on the arm of the chair.
He dropped his mouth to her inner thigh. It was hot, open-mouthed, and close enough to her center that she gasped—but not close enough to give her what she wanted.
Yet.
He shifted to the other thigh, nipping the sensitive skin, kissing away the sting, feeling her muscles jump under his mouth. Then he moved lower—at a torturous pace—and practically heard her toes curl.
"You're going the wrong way, Cowboy," she complained, voice thin with need.
He looked up at her, smug as sin. “Remember that little saying about the best things in life? I’m a man of principle."
He slid her thong down even further, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin as he went, taking his sweet time while she trembled under every brush of his mouth.
He worked it off one leg, then the other, making sure her foot never touched the floor.
He wanted all of her—open, vulnerable, and entirely his.
He ran his tongue from her ankle to that soft curve between thigh and hip, then glanced up. She looked wrecked. The best kind of wrecked.
She exhaled like she was bracing for the main event and he went right back down.
"Boone," she pleaded, the word barely holding together. "I'm more of a show-don't-tell kind of woman. Why don't you skip to the showing part?"
His grin was feral. "You might want to grab onto something because I'm about to demonstrate just how talented my mouth is."
She leaned forward until her cleavage was right in front of his face and wrapped both hands around the back of the chair.
Without another word, he lowered his head and licked her right up the center.
One slow, deep stroke of his tongue. Her head rolled back, a choked sound breaking from her throat. But she didn't close her eyes. Hell no—his woman liked to watch. And if she liked to watch then Boone would give her the best damn show of her life.
Bracing his hands on her bent knee, he nudged it wider and buried his face between her legs—kissing her southern lips—slow and reverent, then faster, dirtier, his tongue and teeth working her until her hips were moving like she was trying to take him hostage.
"Boone," she gasped, fingers yanking his hair, thighs quivering around his head. "I'm about to—"
He clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes glinting like he’d just stolen the best prize in town. “Remember, the ranch hands are right outside that damn door.”
"I don't care," she whispered, muffled and completely defiant.
"You will tomorrow." His voice came out low and rough. "So, keep quiet or I stop. And you know I don't do half-measures."
"Quiet," she gasped, tilting into him. "I promise. Just go faster."
She arched, pressing into his mouth like a demand, so he added a teasing finger and felt her whole body answer.
"Yes," she breathed. "More of that."
He groaned against her, letting the scrape of his teeth and the flex of his fingers chase every reaction off her body.
Her thighs were shaking, her hips rolling, her hands gripping the chair like it was the only fixed point in the universe.
He'd memorized what she liked the first time she'd looked at him like he was equal parts trouble and salvation—and he was making her love it, one delicious curl, one teasing swirl at a time.
Her voice cracked when she said, "I need to come."
He slowed his pace, teasing just enough to make her wait, torturing her with a brush of lips, the press of fingers, until her eyes, wild and glazed, bore into his. She was ready to combust, and he wanted to be the match, but dammit, she had to admit he’d won the war first.
“Boone,” she breathed, arching into him, fingers now clutching at his shoulders.
“Good things come to those who wait because I swear you’re going to come like a damn volcano in seconds.”
“I’ve waited a long time for you. I don’t want to wait anymore.” Her pupils were blown wide, desire flashing like a storm. “Now make me blow like a volcano or I swear I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
"Like hell you will," he growled.
And that was all it took. He pressed closer—lips and fingers moving in perfect, sinful harmony—until she came apart, shuddering, every inch of her shaking, her voice stolen by him as he kissed her through the chaos of her orgasm, until she sagged, spent and perfectly pliant.
"Who needs patience when I've got you," she whispered, flushed and boneless.
"Just wait for the main event." He pulled back and looked at her—every curve he'd been thinking about all day, and felt something tighten in his chest that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with her. "But first, this goes."
In one motion he pulled her tank top up and over his head, his hands tracing every inch of skin he’d been wanting all day to reacquaint himself with.
"Now this." He tugged her bra strap.
And to his absolute delight, she reached back, flicked her wrist, and the bra was gone—falling to the floor and leaving her in nothing but bare skin.
Holy hell. It was even better than he remembered. Full and natural, and so damn perfect he nearly wept.
"Is this a lesson in patience again?" she asked, a smile in her voice.
"Just deciding where to start."
"How about here?" She touched her lips with one finger.
He kissed her—long and thorough—hands moving over every inch of her like he had no intention of stopping. Then he trailed his mouth down her throat, into the valley between her collarbones, and took a taste.
"Mmmm," she murmured and the sound made him groan against her skin.
He found her nipple, teased it with his tongue until it hardened, then took his time with both—exploring and sucking, kneading until her soft moans were filling the space. He switched sides because fairness mattered.
"Perfect," he whispered against her skin. "Just. Perfect."
"I feel underdressed," she teased, voice sharp and sultry. "Or are you overdressed?"
Before he could answer, her fingers were in his waistband, popping the button like she'd done it a hundred times. "Lift up."
He did. And in about one second flat, his jeans and boxer-briefs were at his ankles and her hands were already running over him in her grip, stroking him with a slow, intentional rhythm she'd somehow already learned made him tremble and swear under his breath.
Every teasing, and—holy fuck—pass of her fingertips had him closer to the edge of something he was not ready to fall off yet.
He caught her wrists.
"You didn't like that?" she whispered, knowing full well he was unraveling.
"When I come," he said, voice scraped raw, "it's going to be inside you." He stopped. "I don't have a condom."
"I'm on birth control. And Lewis and I always used one."
"I haven't been with anyone since Kayla."
Her warm hand came up to his face and she looked at him the way nobody had looked at him in longer than he could name. "I know the kind of man you are," she said quietly. "You're the real deal, Boone. Don't forget that."
Goddamn her. He felt his chest tighten and his eyes went a little glassy. Never in a million years did he think a woman—this woman—would look at him like that, like he was worth it, and like he was exactly the man she wanted.