Page 8 (1/1)

Prologue

Blakely

I’ve known the McCray boys—well, men, really—for what see farms; that still doesn’t h, he’s been the star of my fantasies for more years than I can count Too bad he doesn’t know I exist It could be because I’ed his path in the local rodeo circuit when he’s not working on the far to do my best to finally capture his attention

His dark chocolate-brown hair with shots of blond running through it fros in front of his face when he’s not wearing his cowboy hat His green eyes with specks of yellow in them remind me of the hay fields when they’re tall and ready to be cut Then there’s the scruff of his day’s old stubble Add the way Knox looks in a white T-shirt, showcasing his s brown tag Wrangler jeans And, Jesus, what he does toa bale of hay or on those rare occurrences we’re both at the saht seconds It’s also why I’own hiked up toine Knox would do, and my other hand is inside reedy fingers, playing out hoould take me, his body on top of ht now, it won’t take ers too deeply, saving that precious gift of mine for Knox and only Knox

“Knox,” I h I’e of eighteen—technically, almost nineteen—well, it’s definitely a downfall I throw the pillow over er to slide insideas heavily, yet it doesn’t do anything to stop the soul-aching need to be with him

Toht idea to finally get Knox to notice me

One

Knox

“God da to fix the fence at the north pasture where our duh to the next ranch over There are four corners on our ranch To the right is where Trace is talking about right now The fucker is consistently trying to goad , but I’m far too old to even think about Blakely that way

“I’irl will be swooped up, and you’ll be the miserable old fart people talk about I o? That woman can fill out a pair of jeans, not to mention her in a dress” The cutters slide out ofthrough loves

“Are you done yet?” My brother isn’t looking atat her

“Fucking told you, numb nuts” He patsme withabout is in the pasture walking in the wildfloith her dark chestnut hair hanging down her back, eyes that I know are as blue as the bonnets that grow in our home state of Texas, deep cherry-red lips, a dimple that appears when she s at

“Trace!” I call out once I hear the motor start up on the side-by-side we use to haul equip ripping my cock more often than not

I hear hiht This is who est of us McCray boys I’ in at thirty- three, and Trace is twenty-seven Monant with both of us, the reasoning for the age gap between us Which is why I should be locked up in a jail cell for looking at Blakely She’s eight-fucking-teen, barely legal, but daht now Hair flowing in the wind, a dress that’s molded to her body, white in color with small flowers It’s the way her breasts shake as she walks, the subtle glih with every swoosh of that damn fli to return to the fencing before this bull goes over and inates their cows like he tried with the Boyd’s