Smooth-Talking Cowboy. Maisey Yates

she was a hypocrite. She had to keep everything locked down so tight. She couldn’t even let go of it in private.

      But a few minutes in private with Luke, a few minutes in his arms, with his hands on her body, and she had let go of everything she had worked so hard for. Everything that she had trained herself to be.

      Without thinking, she stumbled back toward the bathroom, flicking on the switch, flooding the room with light that was far too bright. Far too revealing of everything that had happened over the space of the last half hour. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were swollen. Her eyes were bright and fevered.

      She was suddenly aware of the fact that her neck burned, and she angled her head to the side, looking at her reflection, looking at the trail of red that ran down her skin.

      Whisker burn, she realized.

      Those whiskers that had been captivating her for all this time had left their mark, that was sure.

      Who was she? She didn’t have an answer to that. Or at least, not one she liked.

      She pulled her dress up over her head, whirling around and turning on the hot water knob in her shower. Then she wrestled with her bra, extricating herself clumsily before shoving her leggings and her underwear down her thighs.

      She stepped beneath the spray of water before it was warm, shivering as it slowly grew hotter and hotter, sluicing over her bare shoulders.

      She was determined to stand there until she felt normal again. Until she could no longer feel the impression of his lips on hers, his stubble against her neck, his hands on her hips.

      She stood there until the water got cold again, and she could still feel his touch. She stood there until she was too miserable and exhausted to do anything but turn the water off, wrap herself in a towel and sit on the edge of her bed.

      Slowly, she became aware of her body. Of the fact that her breasts still felt sensitive, of the fact that she felt achy and restless between her thighs still. That got her moving. Spurred her to dry herself off and get herself covered up in sensible, cozy pajamas.

      She hoped that would make her feel more like herself.

      But as she slipped beneath the covers and curled up into a tight ball, she still felt wrong. Still felt like somebody new. Somebody she didn’t want to be.

      And she was afraid that good girl Olivia, the Olivia that was so essential, wasn’t someone she could simply get back to. Because she was afraid she had shattered that Olivia irrevocably in the cab of Luke Hollister’s truck.

      As she finally drifted off to sleep, all she could think was that nothing was right. She didn’t know how it ever would be again.