His lips found hers, then moved to her cheek, her temple, each kiss offering the tenderness absent from the rough motions of his body. Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and a breath hitched in her throat.
He was just so good.
She let her head fall back and ground her teeth, alternately fighting and surrendering to the orgasm seeping into the edges of her awareness. She ground her abdomen against him, searching for more contact, needing that last touch to push her pleasure over the brink.
His lips still pressed to her temple, Tyler reached between them and stroked his broad, rough-padded thumb over her clit.
A strangled cry ripped from her throat, alien, alarming, and she clawed at his back in a futile attempt to grab the last shreds of herself before her world melted into an indecipherable, unending wave of sheer pleasure. She got lost somewhere deep inside her body, immune to emotion or reason or fact, what remained of her consciousness spinning with fulfilment and delight and unutterable joy.
She surfaced to the depleting sensation of Tyler easing out of her, her thick cloak of satisfaction barely breached.
“Okay?” she asked breathlessly, that word no longer seeming quite so inaccurate.
He hauled himself up and propped his elbows on his knees, shaking his head disbelievingly.
“Hot damn, girl. You about killed me.”
He stripped off the condom and lurched to the trash bin, the powerful authority in his movements now replaced by post-coital clumsiness. He found his way back to the bed and slid under the duvet, holding it up for her to join him. As the fevered heat of lust drained she felt the chill in the bedroom and gratefully slipped in beside him.
He put his palms on her cheeks and kissed her, tucking her hair behind her ears before yanking her into his chest. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat, relishing the smell of his skin.
“You can stay if you want,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she replied promptly, so glad he asked.
“Are you hungry? I ain’t got much, but I could fix up some grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.”
She shook her head, the warmth of the bed and the deep rumble of his voice making her drowsy. “Maybe later.”
She felt him relax, apparently satisfied with that answer. He turned onto his back and she draped her leg over his rock-hard thigh. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and as his fingers began to trace lazy patterns up and down her skin, she thought this might be the happiest she’d ever been.
“Hey, Tyler?”
“Hm?”
“I think I’m halfway to loving you already.”
“Is that right?”
She hummed in the affirmative. “Can’t quite believe it myself, but it’s true.”
“Well. Halfway, huh?”
“At least.”
“I’ll meet you there, then.”
He kissed the top of her head, and within seconds she was asleep.
6
Tyler roused from a deep, dreamless sleep to someone banging on the trailer door. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, quickly putting together the pieces. Margot came over last night. They made love, then dozed, then ate dinner, then made love again, and now…
Panicked, he turned over in bed, then released a long breath. She was still here, peacefully sleeping beside him, hands shoved under the pillow.
She stayed. She’d meant what she said. This—them—was really happening.
The banging sounded again and he slid from the bed, stifling a curse as he fished for his boxers, then pulled on his jeans and yanked his thermal shirt over his head. Sunday was usually the one day no one came looking for him, so whatever this was had to be urgent.
Better be urgent, he corrected, casting a last, longing glance at the woman asleep in his bed.
He checked his phone on his way to the door. A few minutes before eight o’clock. The Morses had usually left for church by now—but maybe that was the issue. Maybe Mr. Morse had taken a turn for the worse.
He hurried to pull open the door, heart sinking when he saw Mr. Morse’s son, Loren, waiting outside.
He looked at the boy expectantly, crossing his arms against the icy morning air. Loren took his time, overturning a rock with the toe of his Tony Lama boot.
“Spoke to my dad this morning,” he said finally. “He’s doing a lot better. Probably be back this week. I guess he’s had some time to think, sitting up there in the hospital. He wants to give you a share in ownership of the ranch. Thirty percent. So it’d be me, you, and him.”
Tyler felt like his stomach had just dropped clean through the ground to the other side of the world, but he did his best not to let on. “All right.”
“Thing is, I’m not sure ranch life is really for me. It’s just so… repetitive. I told my dad, so he’s going to give you a call later and work out the particulars, but he asked me to stop by and tell you in person right away.”
Tyler translated that as old Mr. Morse had found out Loren was booting his long-serving ranch hand off the accounts and chewed his son out. Whether Mr. Morse’s awakening about how and to whom he should pass the ranch on came before or after, Tyler doubted he’d ever know. And he didn’t care a snip.
“I appreciate you coming by. Anything else I can do for you this morning?”
Loren shook his head. “I’m going back down to Emporia in a couple of days, once my dad’s settled. I guess I’ll see you around in the meantime.”
“You will,” Tyler confirmed, and raised his hand in farewell as the young man climbed back into his gleaming double-cab truck and headed toward the ranch house.
He lingered outside the trailer for a few minutes despite the cold, watching the late-rising sun burn away the clouds, surveying the rolling, winter-brown land. Part of it would be his, soon.
Just like that.
He walked back inside, peeled off his clothes and slid back into bed next to the woman who’d become his so suddenly, so perfectly. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“Who was that?” she asked, voice still thick with sleep.
“Boss’s son. Boss wants to cut me in on the ranch. Give me part ownership. I just became a landowner, Margot,” he told her, grinning as it registered.
“Tyler, that’s amazing,” she exclaimed on a happy little intake of breath, more alert as she popped up on one elbow. “You deserve it. And you deserve to be reminded that I don’t care whether your name is on five title deeds or none, but if it’ll make you happy, then I’m happy.”
“It does. You do.” He ducked his head, reached for the brim of his hat, realized he wasn’t wearing one and looked up at her instead.
“You think you might want to stay out here sometimes? I know it’s a fair old drive from town, but–”
“I’d love to,” she interjected before he could finish. “My work takes me all over the place so I’m only in the office a couple days a week at most. Maybe Rob could get one of his friends to move into my room and we could make this a permanent arrangement. If things work out,” she added.
“They’ll work out. We’ll work out,” he told her, more confident than he thought possible. “I never thought I’d find someone like you. You better believe it’s going to take a hell of a lot to get rid of me now.”
“You’ll have to get rid of me first,” she vowed with a teasing smile, pressing her body against his.
“You normally go to church on Sunday mornings?”
She shook her head. “Do you?”
“Nope.”
“Why’d you ask?”
“Just making sure you won’t be rushing off anywhere anytime soon. I got plans for you, girl.” He swept a hand over her breast, down her bare stomach until his fingertips found that sweet, soft entrance that drove him wild last night.
“I’m all yours,” she told him softly, the damp sheen in her eyes assuring him she meant that to the depths of her soul.
He kissed her. Allowed himself to trust her. Believed her when she said h
e was enough—he was what she wanted. Because he wanted her too, more than anything, more than he’d dared to acknowledge all those months standing side-by-side in the cold and wind and rain.
He deserved her. She deserved him. And now they were together.
Just like that.
Thank you
I hope you enjoyed Parking Lot Cowboy! If you like the strong, silent, cowboy hat-wearing type, you might also enjoy Boots on the Ground (Homefront #1), the first in a military trilogy featuring a Texan of very few words. Thank you for reading!
Also by Rebecca Crowley
Atlanta Skyline Series
Crossing Hearts (Atlanta Skyline #1)
Defending Hearts (Atlanta Skyline #2)
Saving Hearts (Atlanta Skyline #3)
Hearts in Extra Time (Atlanta Skyline #3.5)
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Homefront Series
Boots on the Ground (Homefront #1)
Alive Day (Homefront #2)
Thunder Running (Homefront #3)
About the Author
Rebecca Crowley writes smart romance about imperfect people finding their perfect match. Having pulled up her Kansas roots to live in New York City, London and Johannesburg, Rebecca currently resides in Houston.
* * *
Find her on the web, on Twitter, on Facebook, or sign up for her newsletter. For a full list of her other titles, visit the Books page on her website.
Dare to Dream
Hudson Lin
After the 2016 election, Derek Lam kicked his political activism into high gear—it’s what anyone with half a conscious would do. Which is why he doesn’t understand how Diego Ortega, a classmate from law school and a Dreamer, could be so politically disengaged.
For Diego, pursuing law had never been about social justice. His priority has always been providing for and protecting his undocumented mother and his kid sister. Getting political did nothing but draw attention his family didn’t need.
Working on a class assignment together, Diego and Derek’s mutual attraction bubbles just under the surface. But any potential relationship will have to survive the sparks that fly from their clashing political views.
For all who dare to dream.
1
For the past ten minutes, my seat had been shaking like a tremor rising up from the San Andreas fault. The guy two seats down from me was bouncing his leg and driving me up the goddamn wall. If I wanted a fucking butt massage, I’d go find one of those big cushy black massage chairs. I didn’t need my lecture hall seat vibrating in the middle of Legal Research and Writing. It was hard enough to concentrate on the assignment Professor Mallard was introducing without the constant jiggling.
“The course will be made up of a series of assignments wherein you will construct an argument both for and against an assigned issue. These issues may be controversial. You may have strongly held views. The goal is to craft compelling arguments regardless of your personal opinions. The assignments will be completed in pairs. You may form your own pairs or see your TA to be matched up. Any questions?” Professor Mallard waited a few seconds as the class stared at her in silence. “Good. Class dismissed.”
The bouncing stopped, thank god. When the guy stood and stretched his arms above his head, his shirt lifted up and revealed a thin band of golden tan skin. I’d seen him around campus a couple of times, and he was attractive enough that I could almost forgive the annoying leg tic—almost. Black hair cut short with a crisp side part, clean shaven, pouty lips, neatly shaped eyebrows.
I might have stared a little too hard. He glanced over at me. I dropped my gaze to my laptop, but not before I caught his knowing grin and—oh my god—dimples. Symmetrically placed on both cheeks, deeper than an ocean trench, I could get lost in them and never find my way to the surface. For those dimples, I’d forgive him for anything, leg bouncing included.
“Hey.”
A shadow fell over my laptop. With his backpack slung over one shoulder and a hand stuck in his pocket, dimples guy stood close enough that I had to crane my head all the way back to look him in the eye. Make no mistake—the journey up there was more than pleasant. Narrow hips, trim body, light dusting of hair across his forearms that my fingers itched to stroke.
My mouth might have been hanging open as I looked up at him, but that was the angle of my head—it had nothing to do with the thirst that parched my throat. “Hey,” I croaked.
“You got a partner?” His one hand was wrapped around the strap on his shoulder, fingers thrumming a rapid rhythm like a rattling pressure valve releasing the restless energy that seemed to course through him.
“Partner?” All I’d heard was his fingers going thrum-thrum-thrum.
He let out a half chuckle, jaw shifting to one side like he was trying to keep the other half in. “For the assignments.”
“Oh, uh, no, not yet.” Jesus, what was wrong with me? “You?”
He shook his head, lips tilted in a wiry grin that was flanked by those dangerous dimples.
“So, uh, wanna be partners?” Could I sound any more pathetic?
“I’d love to.” The slight hint of surprise in his voice made it sound like the whole thing was my idea, even though he’d been the one who’d come over and assaulted me with those dimples. “What’s your number?”
He had his phone out, corners chipped, a long crack running down the front. I rattled off my number as I stared at his fingers flexing and moving around the device.
“Name?”
“Uh, Derek?”
One eyebrow arched up at my uncertainty.
“Derek. I’m Derek. Lam. Derek Lam.” Jesus Christ, I’d really lost it.
He gave a single nod and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Diego Ortega. I’ll give you a missed call. Later.” Without waiting for an incoherent response from me, he slid out of our row and took the stairs to the top of the lecture hall two steps at a time. I didn’t stare at how his shorts pulled taut across his ass with each stretch of his legs—I definitely did not.
Who meets for a study session at ten o’clock at night? Who is then thirty minutes late without even a text message to let me know he’s on the way? Not cool, Diego. Not cool. I mean, I could have gotten started on our assignment by myself, but why do that when social media beckoned?
And besides, it could be called a form of research. The Dream Act was our first assignment. Talk of it and the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals was all over social media lately. With the uncertainty around whether the program would continue and whether people would get their statuses renewed, the internet was rife with opinions. The whole thing was terrifying.
I empathized with the DACA kids. A lot of them were about my age, and we all came to the US at around the same time. My family had come on visitor visas, overstayed when the visas expired, and were lucky enough to get green cards after years of applications. There wasn’t much difference between me and the DACA kids, really, just the type of ID cards we held.
My Twitter feed and Facebook timeline were a steady barrage of articles and opinions about DACA. It was all one-sided, I know, but if the Republicans could live off a steady diet of Fox News, why couldn’t I gorge myself on progressive, liberal goodness?
My phone vibrated next to me, but it wasn’t Diego.
Leon: Can you bring snacks for the meeting tomorrow?
Leon was the president of the UCLA School of Law LGBTQ club. Normally we were focused on promoting LGBTQ initiatives at school, but ever since the last federal election, a bunch of us had started getting more politically involved. Leon spearheaded all of it—I was club secretary and, occasionally, snack-provider.
Derek: Yeah, sure.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Diego dropped into the seat next to me, bringing with him a faint whiff of greasy motor oil. His hair was still parted on the side but was nowhere near as neat as it had looked during class. He rubbed his hands over his face, fingernails and skin stained dark. There were no dimples anywhere in sight.
�
�Hey…” I should have called him out for keeping me waiting, but the part of me that was pissed was distracted by the sheer exhaustion painted over every inch of his body.
His elbows were planted on the table, hands folded in front of his mouth, eyes half-lidded. Vibrations traveled across the floor and up my chair as he started bouncing his leg up and down. That goddamn leg.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He took a deep breath and reached for his backpack. “Let’s get started.”
A deflection if I ever saw one, but it was late, and I wanted to get this done. Since I’d already started—remember, social media counted as started—I launched into the primary arguments supporting DACA and the Dream Act. “So I think the ‘for’ side of this should be pretty easy. I mean, DACA recipients are American in every sense except for their legal status, right? Like, they’re all upstanding citizens, pay their taxes, contribute to society, etcetera, etcetera. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been granted DACA status to begin with.”
Diego was staring at the screen of his laptop, a big old clunky thing that must have weighed a ton. I wasn’t sure if he was still waiting for the ancient thing to boot or if he was thinking… or if he was even awake.
“So, what do you think?”
“Huh?” His gaze shot up to mine, pupils dilating rapidly as if he’d been asleep with his eyes open.
“The ‘for’ argument? Why should we be in support of the Dream Act?” I fought the sinking feeling I’d be doing this assignment on my own. Served me right for picking a partner based on his hots rather than his smarts.
“Oh, right. Uh…” Diego picked up a pen and started tapping it against the table. “Those are all fine. But I think we should forego the morality argument and go for how this will benefit the people who oppose the act. For instance, allowing DACA recipients to stay in the country permanently will benefit the economy, drive up the GDP, encourage job creation, and things like that. People respond better when they realize they’re being directly impacted by what’s going on.”
Rogue Nights Page 15
