His Tempting Love

by Anya Summers

  His Tempting Love

  Cuffs & Spurs, Book 5

  Anya Summers

  Blushing Books

  ©2018 by Blushing Books® and Anya Summers

  All rights reserved.

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  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

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  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  The trademark Blushing Books®

  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  * * *

  Anya Summers

  His Tempting Love

  * * *

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-947132-17-7

  Print ISBN: 978-1-947132-47-4

  Large Print ISBN: 978-1-947132-48-1

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  * * *

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Anya Summers

  Chapter 1

  The Cuff & Spurs Night Club was just your everyday, average, ordinary club—with kinky hot sex tossed in.

  The members’ only club was decorated with a cowboy motif, pretty much like almost every other establishment in Jackson Hole. Not that Cora Roberts was complaining; she found the flair for Western-themed décor was part of this town’s charm.

  Cuffs & Spurs was the only business she was aware of in town that was located and operated below ground. Then again, it was a private establishment and the general population was not permitted to enter. For all she knew the stores along the main drive could all have secret basements with operating businesses in them.

  Up the stairs on the first floor was the Teton Cowboy Bar & Grill. The popular restaurant for tourists and locals alike helped to finance this nightclub. Both places were owned by Spencer Collins, her cousin on her mother’s side and the reason she had lucked into this job.

  Spencer had done a lot for Cora upon her moving back to their old stomping ground.

  The bar along the far-right wall was a lake of glossy golden wood with brass trim and fixtures. Overhead there were chandeliers crafted like wagon wheels, hung horizontally with glass cylinders on top that resembled the old-style kerosene lanterns. Even the bulbs inside were shaped like flames.

  Hard rock music—there was some old-school Rod Stewart currently playing—pumped from hidden speakers in the paneled wooden walls.

  The barstools were the most unique feature of the bar; they were saddles, as in going for a trail ride horse saddle. And on each stool there were silver loops in various positions for a Dom to restrain their submissive. Scene areas were cordoned off along the wall opposite the bar with black velvet rope.

  There was a seating area with umber brown leather couches the color of dark tree bark and Western style décor tables in complementary colored golden woods. It reminded her of a gentleman’s study, all masculine in design with a splice of Western flair. The constant hum of conversation was overshadowed by the slap of flesh and moans.

  Cora didn’t mind the bump and grind action taking place in the scene areas, the small alcoves partitioned off with thick black velvet rope. Inside the separated areas was dungeon sex style furniture designed with the kinkster in mind, which attendees used to live out their sexual fantasies. And not just any kind of sex, this was the ‘tie me up, tie me down’ style of action. The fact that this club catered to those in the BDSM lifestyle was a minor trifling issue in the scheme of it all. Whips, chains, copious amounts of flesh on display, and dungeon sex furniture didn’t make Cora blush or embarrassed. Nor did witnessing the myriad number of blow jobs and all manner of raunchy sex, not when her tips waiting tables were more than she would make anywhere else in this town. A job was a job. And she needed the cash. Who cared if she had to address the guys as Sir? For the money she was making, she’d call them whatever the hell they wanted her to.

  Then there was the added bonus of the sheer amount of masculine eye candy on display. For Cora, it was as if she had stepped into a fantasy. Like the rugged outdoors of Jackson Hole, Wyoming had imbued the male club members with an extra dollop of testosterone the size of one of the nearby mountains. They were men who exuded control, masters of the world around them, including the women who were lucky enough to catch their eye. If the blissed-out expressions on the submissives’ faces were any indication, a woman could do worse than hooking up with the tough-as-nails manly men at the club.

  The fact that the super alpha Dominants proliferating the club in nothing but jeans, cowboy boots, and Stetsons, with their muscular chests on display, stirred her in ways she hadn’t experienced in three years, was a relief, more than anything. In all honesty, at thirty-one, Cora had begun to worry, in the dead of night when she finally got a moment to herself, that that part of her life was over: being a woman desired by a man and feeling that ping of electrical sexual current in response. That innate chemical reaction between two people that was all pheromones and passion. But here at Cuffs & Spurs, her hormones were shaking off the dust from their long, Rip Van Winkle style siesta and sizing up each hunk of dominant male as a prospective possibility.

  A part of Cora thought she should just choose one and get back in the saddle. It had been more than three years since she’d been with a man. And lately, that need, the desire to touch and be touched in return, had left her achy and unsettled. Those feelings made her contemplate more than one of the overtures she’d received in the three nights she’d worked the club so far.

  The men’s blatant attentiveness was most likely in response to the uniforms the waitresses were required to wear, not her personally. Or, rather, the lack of clothing the waitresses wore. Cora’s uniform was a pair of jean short shorts—as in they scarcely covered her bottom—a black halter top with the club logo written across her chest, and feminine black leather cowboy boots. That, of course, was in addition to a pair of black leather wrist cuffs and collar so that she looked the part of a submissive, whether she was one or not. They were fashioned with the club logo laser burned into the leather. It was a way for the Doms to discern at a glance that she wasn’t free to do a scene—at least, not until her shift was over. Once she was off the clock, she could take one of them up on their flirtatious invitations and play to her heart’s content.

  Cora admitted she was intrigued by some of the men and their ideas of a pickup line. Things like: how many licks against your clit does it take to make you come, want to let me find out? Or her f
avorite so far: How about a screaming orgasm?

  A naughty illicit part of her had said yes, please!

  It had been years since she had been touched, since she’d been held, and the thought of losing herself, even for a short period of time, in the delights of the flesh was enticing.

  But Cora was her own worst enemy, at least where her personal life was concerned. She tended to eschew entanglements of any kind—with just cause. Cora had believed Jeff’s promises, and the one that mattered most, he’d broken, leaving her to deal with the continual fallout. It put having a relationship at the bottom of her over packed to-do list. Besides, with her limited time, where she was barely able to carve out more than four hours of sleep for herself a night, she didn’t have much room to contemplate a relationship.

  Tonight was her third night working at the club. As much as she was tempted by the available slabs of sexy man meat, she needed the work more than she needed a mutual orgasm. Although she doubted her vibrator would agree with that statement. If anything, it would beg her for a night off.

  The club was semi-packed. For a Wednesday evening, it wasn’t bad traffic by her estimates. In fact, each night so far had been like this, and she couldn’t complain where her tips were concerned. From what she understood from the other waitresses, the weekends were when this place was swarming with half naked cowboys. Given the amount of tips she’d earned on weeknights, the prospect of a full house was prodigious. She needed the extra income to help pay her upcoming rent, as the low balance in her checking account could attest to.

  Cora reminded herself that her finances, or the lack of them, were temporary. They were just a minor setback in the scheme of things. It was why she had moved to Jackson Hole in the first place. She was determined to build a better life for her son. Milo deserved more from her, a life that wasn’t a constant financial struggle. It wasn’t that their life had been horrible in Seattle, but she’d not been able to afford their little house anymore. The house she’d brought her infant son home to from the hospital, which at one time she’d hoped would be their home, if not forever, for a longer period than it had been.

  At least the sale of the house had provided her with some much-needed cash. It had paid for the move to Jackson Hole and given her just enough savings that they weren’t destitute.

  Besides, Cora had fond memories of Jackson Hole. This was where she’d grown up, back when her biggest hardship was whether they would get a snow day or not. She had a child’s love for Jackson Hole. Now, as an adult, she hoped that the smaller community would be better for raising her son. It wasn’t for herself that she’d moved to Jackson Hole, but for Milo.

  Cora’s feet were killing her, the arches throbbing. Already. It was only ten and she had four hours to go. But these boots were made for looks, not comfort and the endless walking required. She made a mental note to speak with Spencer about them the next time she saw him. He wasn’t here tonight but was off remodeling the house he’d purchased on the outskirts of town.

  The club had thirty tables, plus an entire sofa section with brown leather couches. Cora wasn’t on couch duty, that was Willa’s station tonight. The petite redhead made her think of fairies and, as far as Cora was concerned, she could have that section with Cora’s blessing. There tended to be a ton more action in the couch area. In her three nights thus far, she’d witnessed a number of blow jobs as well as sex. There’d been a couple in the couch section last night who had put on a show good enough that she could have sold tickets for it. Voyeurism was alive and well at Cuffs & Spurs.

  Her section tonight was the round bar height tabletops near the front entrance. Most of the tables seated four. Unlike the seats lining the bar, they were brown leather barstools. Her section was half full, and held couples waiting for one of the ten scene stations lining the wall.

  At least no one was up on the bull at the moment. Her first night on the job she’d been treated to a bird’s eye view of that contraption, and no thank you.

  A pair of shirtless cowboys settled onto the stools at table ten in her station. Cora approached and couldn’t help but notice that the man with his back to her had one hell of a sexy back. Could a back be sexy? Because this one was. His muscles were defined, flexing with each slight movement. She had an image of herself dragging her tongue along the clearly distinct line of his spine, right down to the two dimples peeking above the line of his low-slung blue jeans.

  She inhaled a steadying breath. Clearly her vibrator wasn’t getting the job done if she was having lusty thoughts about a strange man’s back.

  The gentleman was a large guy—had to be at least six feet or taller—with dark chestnut hair peeping from beneath his ivory Stetson. His long, muscular, jean-clad legs were tucked beneath the table. The jeans rode low on his hips, even with the brown leather belt circling his waist, and the material lovingly cupped his behind. It wasn’t one of the flat butts so many men had but firmly rounded to give a woman something to hold on to as he thrust.

  Clearly it had been far too long since she’d done the deed if she was envisioning holding on to his sexy butt while he had his way with her. She had to be careful or she’d wind up sleeping with someone she had no business getting entangled with.

  The hot cowboy’s friend was an equally big fella. Although, for her at least, he was eclipsed by his friend.

  Cora plastered a smile on her face as she rounded the table and faced the two Doms.

  “Sirs, what can I get for you this evening?” she asked and finally lifted her gaze up to the man’s face. And holy smokes, what a face. Sinfully handsome didn’t even begin to describe her hot cowboy. Nor the fact that one glance at him made her skin feel three sizes too small.

  “You’re new,” the cowboy said, and his voice reminded her of melted dark chocolate. Her gaze dipped from his ‘melt your panties off’ face to his brawny shoulders. Viewing them from the front, suffused with lines of ropey muscles, made tingles tighten in her core. Her gaze lowered to his solidly formed chest, the pectorals well-defined and liberally dusted with fine dark hair. Her mouth watered to taste the flat disks of his dusky brown nipples and then follow the singular line of his happy trail with her tongue over his ripcord abs. She inhaled a steadying breath. What the hell was wrong with her? She flashed her gaze back up to his face. His chestnut hair was shaded with hints of deep auburn and the color extended to the trim beard covering his square jaw. But it was the Dom’s eyes, framed by thick chestnut brows, the sharp cobalt orbs reminding her of the deep blue waters off the bay in Seattle, that caused her breath to catch in her throat. They stared at her, glittering with interest as they gave her body the same studious perusal.

  “Perceptive,” she replied, as she attempted to reel her pulse back from its fluttering, thumping madness. Just because she found the cowboy sinfully attractive to the point that all her erogenous zones had taken notice, didn’t mean she could act on said lusts. “My name is Cora and I will be serving you this evening.”

  “I’ve not seen you around here. New to the area?” the other cowboy said.

  She directed her gaze his way. He was equally attractive, with his fawn-colored hair showing beneath the brim of his black hat and hazel eyes that leaned more toward brown with flecks of emerald and gold. His jaw was clean shaven, a bit more angular, and he had a slight cleft in his chin. The cowboy’s chest was certainly noteworthy, a tad leaner, his build more like a swimmer’s, and dusted with light fawn-colored hair. But this guy didn’t make a five-alarm fire ignite in her nether regions. Which made him safe territory, regardless of the fact that his eyes weren’t all that warm.

  She addressed him and said, “Yep. Moved here two weeks ago.”

  “From where?” Blue eyes asked and she swiveled her head, feeling her high ponytail swish against her shoulder blades. She was drowning in his stare, pin pricks of heat swarming her system. With a simple glance, the man caused every nerve ending to tingle with awareness. Her breath backed up in her lungs and she had to fight the very real de
sire to touch him. See if his skin would burn at the touch.

  “Seattle. Would you two like anything to drink tonight?” she asked, wanting to steer away from her personal life.

  “Quite a long way,” the other cowboy said, his stare assessing her, and she couldn’t help but feel he was attempting to divine all her secrets.

  He had no idea. She missed her friends, she missed her tiny little house. She missed home. She shook herself. This was home now, whether she liked it or not.

  “It is.”

  Blue eyes said, “I’m Garrett and this is Jackson. Why don’t you bring us a bucket of Coronas to start?”

  “Absolutely. Hungry? Anything to eat?” she asked.

  “Not for anything on the menu.” Garrett gave her a lopsided, sexy grin. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his intense gaze. And Cora felt a resounding ache in her core. Smooth. This Dom was a charmer. A panty melting charmer, and by the wicked gleam in his cobalt gaze, he knew how to make a woman scream in ecstasy. And if she was reading correctly into his innuendo, sexy Garrett would only be too happy to show her just how exemplary he was in matters of the flesh.

  Damn it all if her body didn’t respond and heat from the inside out. Ignoring the curling desire slithering through her, she kept her smile pasted on and said, “Perfect. I will be right back with your beers.”