I don’t argue as she leads me back to the house, past the porch and through the screen door, and I’m hit with a wave of warmththat smells like cedarwood, something citrusy, and the faintest trace of cinnamon.
The inside is pure Southern comfort—high wooden beams, cream-colored walls, and a mismatched mix of antique furniture that somehow works. A stone fireplace anchors the living room, and an old guitar leans against a leather armchair like someone just got done playing it. There are pictures tucked into the edges of the mirror—Brooke at a rodeo, Brooke holding a ribbon, Brooke hugging a woman who looks enough like her to be her mom.
She guides me to the couch with a touch that’s both firm and careful, like I might break if she pushes too hard. The cushions dip beneath me as I sink into them.
She disappears for a minute, the soft click of the stable doors echoing faintly behind her. I hear Osy whine once in protest, low and drawn out like he’s annoyed to be put away so soon. Then the creak of the front door swings back open.
She comes back with a first-aid kit, a bag of frozen peas, and a glass of water. Brooke kneels beside me focused on the cut in my hairline.
“Lay back,” she says. Her hand presses against my shoulder, guiding me back onto the couch.
“You’re a bossy nurse.” I mutter, and admire the blush that explodes across her cheeks.
Her fingers thread through my waves, parting them with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. She inspects the cut at my hairline, her brow drawn tight in concentration. The pads of her fingers are warm and steady as she moves my hair out of theway. She grabs the first-aid kit and parses through until she pulls out the materials she needs.
She dabs the wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze, the sting immediate and sharp—but even that feels muted beneath her touch.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, her voice thick with concern.
“Only when you stop touching me,” I murmur, mouth tilting into a crooked grin.
She glances down into my eyes. Her hazel eyes are bright and alive as she looks at me. “Are you flirting or concussed?”
“Little bit of both,” I reply, propping myself up on one elbow to get a better look at her. The moonlight streaming in through the window casts her in silver, tracing her cheekbones, catching in her lashes.
“You’re impossible,” she mutters under her breath, reaching for a Band-aid and gently pressing it to my forehead. Brooke pulls back, her bottom on the heels of her feet. “I think you’ll live.”
I sit up slightly on my elbow, eyes never leaving her face. “Thank you,” I murmur, letting the words drip with something slower, thicker than gratitude. “For your life-saving service.”
Brooke lifts a brow, but the corner of her mouth tugs into a smile. She tries to play it off with a shrug, reaching for the used gauze and neatly folding it away. But I can see the flush creeping up her throat, just beneath the delicate skin, and the way her fingers hesitate slightly.
I sit up fully so that Brooke is kneeling between my legs on the floor and she tilts her head up to look at me, “I feel like I should thank you properly.”
She freezes, breath catching. Her eyes flick down to where my hand is touching her, then back to my face. Her pupils dilate. Her hands are braced lightly on my knee, as I grip her chin between my pointer and thumb.
“Oh?” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “And what exactly does proper thanks entail, Rivera?”
Her eyes drop to where my fingers are barely brushing the hem of her dress, then flick back up to meet mine. I watch her pupils flare, her breath falter.
I lean in, slow and easy, so our faces are only inches apart. My voice drops to a husky whisper as I trace the edge of the collar of her dress with one lazy finger, along the curve of her breast. “I don’t know, babydoll. Maybe you let me show you.”
My lips barely graze her ear as my finger continues its slow, teasing path along the neckline of her dress. Brooke shivers, her breath hitching audibly, and I can feel the tremor that runs through her. Her hands tighten on my knee, nails digging in just enough to make me aware of her presence, her need.
“Jasmine,” she whispers, her voice trembling with both hesitation and desire. “We shouldn’t?—”
“Shouldn’t what?” I interrupt, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. I can see the conflict there, the way she’s trying to rationalize this, to find some reason to stop. But I also see theheat, the undeniable hunger that’s burning beneath the surface. “You’re the one who said you wanted me to show you how to thank you properly. I’m just offering to show you how.”
Her lips part slightly, and I can see the moment she gives in, the way her body relaxes and her hands slide up my thighs. I grin, triumph and arousal mingling in my chest as I lean in again,this time capturing her lips with mine. The kiss is soft at first, exploratory, but quickly deepens as Brooke responds, her mouth opening to mine with a low moan.
I feel her hands grip my hips, pulling me closer, and I can’t help but smile against her lips. “That’s more like it,” I murmur before breaking the kiss and leaning back slightly. My eyes drop to where her hands are clutching the hem of my shirt, and I reach down to the hem of her dress that has bunched up around her waist. “Why don’t you let me take care of you, Brooke?”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods, her eyes locked on mine as I slowly pull the dress up her torso. I can see the way her chest rises and falls with each breath as I pull the fabric over her shoulders, revealing the soft curve of her breasts encased in a lacy white bra. I toss her dress to the side, my hands tracing the smooth skin of her stomach as I lean in to press a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper against her skin, my lips trailing down to her neck as my hands slide up to cup her breasts. I feel her shiver again, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as I tease her nipples through the fabric of her bra. “And you were so good…taking care of me like such a good girl.”
Her hands are in my hair now, gripping tightly as I lean down to take one of her nipples into my mouth through the lace. She moans, her hips bucking slightly as I suck and tease, my tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. I can feel her hands tugging at my hair, urging me on as I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention.
I feel her hands move to my shoulders, pushing me back slightly, and I look up to see her flushed face, her eyes dark withdesire. “Jasmine,” she breathes, her voice trembling with need. “I want?—”
