“Don’t worry about my leash, Callan. Worry about what happens if I decide to take it off.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on—the kind of quiet that really screams,Hate-fuck me against a wall.
“You two fighting already?” Dillon interrupts, and the three of us look up to find him standing there, hat in hand, blue eyes glinting like some romance novel cowboy come to life.
“You know Lettie,” Callan says, flashing a grin that’s as lethal as his brother’s. “She doesn’t take a day off from giving me shit. Not even on my birthday.”
“You’d hate it if I was nice to you, and you know it,” Violet counters, and when Dillon takes a seat, I’m honestly not sure whether I need a cold shower, to drag my sister away and demand what the fuck that was, or go tell Christian that I’m pretty sure his brother and my sister were about three seconds away from rage-fucking across the table.
“Dillon, what can I get you?” Callan pushes back from the table, and I swear the temperature in our little corner drops ten degrees the second he puts distance between himself and Violet. “Whiskey or beer?”
“Whiskey—it is your birthday, after all.”
Callan nods and walks off, leaving the three of us in a silence that isn’t quite awkward but sure as hell isn’t comfortable.
“You’re both lookin’ lovely tonight,” Dillon says, dropping his hat on the table before running a hand through his tousled blond hair.
“Thank you,” Violet replies, raising her glass with a smile, and I offer him one of my own.
“Surprised to see you here though,” he adds with a chuckle.
“She dragged me kicking and screaming.”
“Not true,” I protest, bumping her shoulder playfully. “I asked nicely, and you didn’t say no.”
“I’m pretty sure my exact words were, please don’t make me do this,” she mutters, taking a sip of her wine.
“He might not admit it, but Callan will be glad you’re here even if it just means he gets to rile you up all night. That’s a gift all by itself.”
“What did you get him, Dillon?” I ask.
“Nothing… Just another year of friendship. That’s what my dad and Rowland Fisher always say anyway.”
“So basically, ‘Happy birthday, I am the gift’?”
“Exactly,”he says, the grin still stretching across his face.
“How’s your dad doing?” Violet asks, and I hear the way her voice softens with him.
“He’s good. Tired, but you know how he is. He won’t listen to anyone who tells him to take it easy.”
“He’s stubborn,” Violet replies.
They fall into conversation without even trying, and watching them together like this, I understand what everyone saw. I get why the whole town just assumed Violet and Dillon were endgame.
“Give me a second. I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.” I stand up, ignoring my sister’sdon’t you dare leave meglare because I can see it written all over Dillon’s face—he wants to talk to her.
I make my way across the room, weaving between tables and the crowd of people, but I don’t get far before I lock eyes with my cowboy. Christian’s standing at the bar, deep in conversation with Preston, one boot propped up on the brass rail, an elbow resting on the surface with a tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers. But those rich brown eyes are all mine as he tracks every step I take.
The lust in his eyes drags over my skin, and my body responds the way it always does when he looks at me like that. I know that look—he’s mentally calculating how quickly he can hike up my dress, bend me over the nearest flat surface, and ruin me in the best possible way. But beneath that hunger is a tenderness that promises no matter how hard he takes me apart, he’ll be the one to put me back together again.
When I step out of the bathroom, he’s already waiting, leaning against the wall like every wet dream I’ve ever had. He’s got one boot propped against the wood, his cowboy hat tipped low, and I can see the muscle in his jaw working as his gaze travels over me. I don’t say aword. I don’t need to. I just take one slow step toward him, then another, watching the tension coil in his shoulders as I close the distance.
“Keep looking at me like that, Piper, and I’ll stop caring where we are or who’s watching.”
“Maybe I don’t care who’s watching, cowboy.” The words barely leave my lips before my back hits the wall, and his arms cage me in, one hand planted above my head, the other already sliding down my side like he’s daring me to stop him. We’re technically hidden from view, but anyone could walk by, which only makes the fire between us burn hotter.
He grabs my wrist and presses my hand against the thick length straining his jeans. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Got my cock damn near begging to be buried in that tight little pussy.”