Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Hey, I’m not the one with champagne tastes.”
“I’m a rancher. A rancher who drinks beer. I don’t have champagne tastes either. I’m not Dale or Uncle Ryan.”
“Honestly,” Rory says, “the place has a bed. That’s really all we need, right?”
“God,” I groan.
I’ve already checked in, so I grab her hand, haul her to the room, get us both inside—
Then I crush my mouth onto hers.
Her lips are already parted, and I dive in with my tongue. I’m hungry for her. Aching for her. Especially after the freaking day I’ve had.
Not to mention the night.
I haven’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours.
Sleep can wait.
Nothing is more important right now than being with Rory.
She meets my tongue with her own, and we kiss harshly, passionately. One of those kisses we’re famous for—all lips, teeth, and tongues.
She’s dressed provocatively, having just come from a concert with the rock band, and those thigh-high boots are making me insane.
I’m going to remove them one by one. Peel those tight jeans and tight tank off her glistening body.
Right now, though, I can’t take my mouth from hers.
Can’t stop the kiss long enough to do any of those other things.
It’s not my decision, though. Rory breaks the kiss and then gasps in a breath of air.
Her lips are swollen already—red and puffy from the kiss.
God, she’s beautiful. So beautiful and sexy and—
“You look hot,” she says.
Do I? I don’t know what a hot guy looks like. We got home from Wyoming, and I took a shower. A long hot shower to wash the filth of the past twenty-four hours off me.
I’m wearing cowboy boots, Levi’s, and a blue-and-white striped button-down.
Hardly hot in my book, but what do I know?
“Baby, you define hot,” I say.
Her spiked thigh-high boots… Her skinny black jeans… Her tight black tank with Dragonlock written in silver sequins.
Her hair is down, floating over her shoulders, and she’s wearing makeup.
Rory doesn’t need makeup, but I understand its necessity under the lights.
Her eyes are heavily lined in black with gray and bronze shadowing. What Diana and Brianna call a smokey eye. Again, nothing Rory needs, but it works right now with the clothes she’s wearing.
The clothes she soon will not be wearing.
“I’m going to undress you,” I say. “And I’m going to take my time. Even though I want you naked right now, my cock embedded inside you. But this… You’re a fucking work of art right now, Rory. You’re fulfilling all my lurid sex fantasies of fucking a hot girl rocker. I’m going to peel those boots off your legs.”
I push her gently until she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Then I kneel before her.
God, those boots. I almost want to lick the sleek black leather as if it’s a part of her.
I resist the urge and instead slowly unzip the boot, beginning midway up her thigh and moving downward, all the way down to her sexy ankle.
I peel the black-and-silver boot off Rory’s foot.
Damn. The leather again. I grew up on a ranch. I should be used to the smell of leather. But this… Rory’s boot… I inhale its earthy scent. This isn’t the scent from the ranch, though. It’s the leather of the boot mixed with Rory’s aroma. Her natural perfume, which smells like roses and musk and sweet cinnamon spice.
I set her boot down and remove the other.
Then her socks, and her pretty feet come into view.
Yes, this woman even has pretty feet. Perfectly formed, with perfectly square toenails painted red.
That’s new.
Usually they’re light pink.
I kiss her big toe. “Red?”
“Seemed appropriate.”
“Appropriate for what?”
“Appropriate for my sexy boyfriend to surprise me in Utah.”
I smile. “You knew?”
“Of course not. I just missed you, and in the back of my mind I hoped.”
“Being away from you was like being without air,” I say.
“For me too.”
“You had plenty of air, sweetheart. You sang like a freaking nightingale tonight. You are amazing.”
“Maybe on some level I knew you were in the audience.”
“You didn’t see me?”
“Not until I got your text. But don’t take that personally. I get really into the performance. The audience doesn’t really exist.”
“Not at all?”
“Okay,” she says. “I didn’t explain that very well. I perform for the audience. It’s all for the audience. But the lights are usually so bright that it’s difficult to see them, and I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular tonight.”
“Not even the agent?”
“Especially not the agent. If I think I’m auditioning, I get nervous. So I put agents out of my mind.”
“Do you?”
“Brock, I have to. When I was auditioning for agents and companies in New York, I didn’t have any luck. I can’t let that cloud my mind during a performance.”
“I understand.” I kiss her toe again.
Time to get back to the task at hand. I move to her jeans, unsnap them, unzip them, and then I slide them over her hips, down her legs. I set them next to the boots.