by Anne Marsh
His familiar face watched hers. “Rose Jordan,” he responded. “Don’t get cold feet on me now.” That was pure plea she heard in his voice, but he didn’t need to worry. Her arousal was a sweet ache she had no intention of ignoring.
“You walk out that door, Cabe Dawson, and I’ll come after you. Your brothers will be getting an eyeful.”
“We can’t have that.”
“Wouldn’t be a wise move,” she gasped as his hand found her breast. “Not unless those stories I’ve heard are true, about you boys liking to share any and everything.”
A spike of bright pleasure shot through her as his work-hardened hand found her nipple and did something impossibly sweet.
“I’m not sharing you,” he promised. She’d never been one of the girls who watched the Dawson boys, naughtily wondering if the rumors were true that, sometimes, the brothers shared everything.
“I’m not sharing you, either.” Threading her fingers through his hair, she learned the shape of his head, her fingertips making the big man in her arms shiver. God. She liked that. Liked that she could make him every bit as hot as he made her. Cabe Dawson had always been so in control of every situation. Right now, he was just a little bit undone, and she wanted more of him.
What would happen if he let go of all that careful control of his?
When, she promised herself. Right now, he was all hers.
“So I’m taking that as a yes.”
“Yes, Cabe.”
“Good,” he growled, and he kissed her. The raw hunger of that kiss had her arching into his touch. His mouth parted hers, his tongue stroking inside to tangle with hers. God, he tasted so good. She wanted more. Wanted to crawl right inside him.
His thumb nudged the straps of her top down, revealing the wicked little strapless push-up bra. She’d bought the bra on impulse, the barest scrap of white lace and cording. He liked it, though, she could tell. He inhaled sharply, his fingers tracing the lacing between the valley of her breasts. “This is nice.”
“Think of these as a very belated birthday present.” She covered his hands with hers, tracing the curves pushed above the bralette. “A little something for you to finally unwrap, Cabe.”
For whatever reason, against all the odds, they were here, together. Maybe because it just wasn’t possible to deny the heat building between them any longer. Maybe because she’d wondered about Cabe Dawson so many years ago, and maybe, from what he’d said, he’d wondered about her, too. Now, she couldn’t stop saying his name, trying to make herself believe that this was really happening. That they were here, in his bed, together, even if it was only for a handful of stolen hours.
His big hands cupped and stroked her breasts, those work-roughened fingers of his tracing wicked, knowing, slow patterns against her skin. She’d watched those capable hands rope a calf or hold the wheel steady as he took the truck off-road. Those hands knew long days and sometimes longer nights of work, but right now all they gave was pure pleasure. Each rough-gentle brush of his skin against hers stoked the fire burning inside her, teased her higher.
Despite his own hoarse breathing, he moved slowly, deliberately, as he explored her body. There was no rushing him. Not now. Other parts of her burned for his touch, impatient, but he was not to be hurried. Would he make her wait to come?
Unhooking the bralette, he put it aside and made short work of her shorts and panties. She was finally, deliciously, naked.
“Touch me, Cabe,” she demanded, lifting herself into his touch, until his hands cupped her breasts fully.
“Like this?” he whispered roughly, his fingers finding her nipples, stroking and teasing the greedy nubs. That was what she wanted. That and more. She stroked her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, tracing the muscles of his back as his fingers caressed her breasts. He was so hard and unyielding, his legs tangled with hers as he pressed her down into his bed.
She needed to touch him, couldn’t deny herself that pleasure anymore. She wanted to know what every inch of Cabe Dawson felt like. Looking up at him, she palmed his erection, wrapping her fingers around the hot length of him.
“You still want to wait, cowboy?”
He’d believed he was ready for this, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer erotic jolt of Rose’s hand palming his erection. He wanted more. He wanted to freeze the moment forever and live it over and over. The heat of her hand surrounded him, stroking gently, softly upward, as the palm of her other hand cupped his balls. Up and then down, her clasp an erotic pressure when she reached the tip of him. He was about to come out of his skin, and then her fingers danced down the hard length again, pressing teasingly against him. Gentle and then firmer, keeping him off-balance, that wicked touch as unpredictable and delicious as the woman in his arms.
Her hand closed over the tip of him again and then stroked down the hard shaft in one long, luxurious stroke, and he pressed into her touch, wanting more. The soft, slick sound was an erotic precursor of what was going to happen real soon, a hint of the sweet in-and-out to come. The fingers of her left hand ringed him, her index and thumb forming a wicked circle that squeezed pleasurably while her other hand stroked down his shaft. God, he was going to come, just like this, if he wasn’t careful.
“Your turn to wait,” he whispered hoarsely against her skin.
His fingers found her center. The sweet, creamy scent of her arousal filled the small space between them, and a primitive satisfaction filled him. This was his Rose, spread out in his bed. In his house. He’d show her just how well he could take care of her. She’d let him in, and he wasn’t going anywhere. He had her exactly where he wanted her.
In his arms. In his bed.
Rose Jordan, waiting for him.
Moving down her body, he pulled her legs over his shoulders.
Cabe Dawson’s dark head covered her pussy. She could feel herself growing wetter by the moment. She’d wanted him inside her, but now—well, maybe now waiting wasn’t so bad. Cabe Dawson was driven. Determined. And right now, he was hell-bent on giving her pleasure. A woman could live with that.
Hell, just knowing that she was wide open to him, that he was looking at the most intimate part of her as his warm breath feathered over the sensitive flesh, she couldn’t stop herself from moaning.
“Cabe.” She was so close to begging.
One big finger stroked down the very core of her, parting her folds, and a bright shock of pleasure fired through her. She hadn’t known she could feel that intensely or that Cabe Dawson could be so impossibly gentle. She was so close to coming.
“Apples,” he said, his voice husky. “You smell like apples.”
Then he lowered his head, covering her with his mouth, and thinking became impossible. He gave her more than any fantasy or lover she’d ever had. His tongue parted her, dragging through the thick, lush folds. Each wicked stroke pushed her higher, feeding the fire burning her up. Her hands fisted the sheets, holding on because she was coming apart.
“So good,” he whispered hoarsely against her, the raw words making her jerk in his hold.
His lips and tongue slipped deeper into the soaked folds of her pussy. So good. Yes. When he found her throbbing clit, the first pass of his tongue was gentle. The second was harder. She wanted to scream, but all she could do was hang on and ride that wicked, wicked mouth of his.
Tension built inside her, too sweet, too fast. She wanted this moment to last forever, but the little quivers were already finding her, and she started to come.
“Now, Cabe,” she groaned. “I want you right now.”
He came up over her, and she heard the welcome sounds of a foil packet opening as he rolled on a condom.
“You taste just right,” he whispered, the broad head of his cock finding her opening.
“Don’t talk,” she demanded. “Move.”
His masculine chuckle warned her he wasn’t done playing with her. He was still going to make her wait for the pleasure. Sure enough, he stroked just inside her, st
retching her. God, he was so big, and so there. His fingers then threaded through hers, pinning her hands to the bed as he penetrated her one slow, delicious inch at a time.
Her hips bucked upward, demanding. “Faster, Cabe,” she begged.
She didn’t want to wait. She was so very, very done with waiting.
“If you’re sure, darlin’,” he groaned.
“Now,” she panted, reaching for the pleasure he could give her. Right now she wasn’t alone. Right now, she belonged exactly where she was. In Cabe Dawson’s arms.
Then he was giving her what she wanted. Hot and hard, that cock of his driving into her, driving her inexorably over the edge into complete surrender.
After their breathing had returned to normal, her last thought before she let herself go, tumbling into sleep in his arms, was that Cabe Dawson had been well worth the wait.
When she drifted awake, hours later, the sheets were tangled around their legs, and the bedroom was full of evening shadows. She could hear the faint sounds of others moving around in the house. That was going to be awkward, if Seth and Rory caught her leaving Cabe’s room. But she needed to go. The restlessness was back, an itch she couldn’t quite scratch.
At some point, Cabe had draped himself over her, pinning her to the bed. She wanted to get closer, to surround herself in his delicious heat. Even though she should be getting up. Should leave. When she turned her head, she saw his hat sitting on the bedside table next to the orderly pile he’d made of her clothes. That was her Cabe.
He wasn’t hers, though. She couldn’t afford to forget that truth. Whatever they’d done here in his bed was just a temporary thing. Because, if she let him, a man like him could swallow her up, and she needed to keep on standing on her own two feet. He was a play-by-the-rules kind of man, honorable to the core, while she needed a little more gray in her life. She didn’t expect him to understand.
The arousal was still there, quieter now, but a slow, sweet heat, a low ache inside her. Cabe Dawson was a threat to her heart.
It was already too late, she realized. She already loved him. Maybe she always had.
Even as she admitted that to herself, she tried to roll away, but his large body stopped her. He was awake. There was no shifting Cabe Dawson once he’d made up his mind.
“I need to go,” she said quietly.
“Stay a while,” he countered, drawing her even closer. “There’s no need to rush off.”
There was. There was every need. She wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him, wasn’t supposed to want more than whatever memories he could make for her. If she stayed here much longer, in his arms, she’d be hoping for a future that couldn’t happen. She’d screw it up, wouldn’t be what he needed or who he needed.
But, God, she wanted to be perfect for him.
So, so badly.
Chapter Five
He was a bastard for destroying Rose’s dream. The lowest kind of bastard, because she believed Cabe was helping her. Hell, she’d even thanked him when he’d volunteered to bring the local inspector and a different contractor back out to Auntie Dee’s to meet with her. “You should know what you’re looking at. Get a second opinion,” he’d said, and her face had lit up with that smile of hers before she hopped in that Honda Civic of hers and headed out to Auntie Dee’s to wait for him.
Yeah. He was low, all right.
Twenty years of ranching, and he’d watched other cattle ranchers come and go. He’d gone to their auctions and put in his bids on what was left of their herds and their equipment. Ranching wasn’t an easy business, and no water meant no cattle. It was that simple.
Now, she stood on the sagging porch, picking at the ribbons of paint curling from the railing while she looked over a tube of architectural drawings she’d brought with her, but she didn’t look defeated. Not his Rose. The inspector had already left—after pointing out a dozen-plus code violations she’d need to remedy before he’d even consider giving her a certificate of occupancy—but the contractor either smelled blood in the water or was enjoying the sight of Rose Jordan, because the guy was taking his own sweet time coming up with a bid that was all but guaranteed to have her turning green.
Her getup was just plain ridiculous. She’d chosen a pair of itty-bitty denim shorts that cupped her ass and actually stopped short of covering her cheeks. Then, as if those shorts weren’t impractical enough, the four-inch wedge sandals gave her legs that went on for miles. Cabe should have been worried about her breaking an ankle. Instead, he was imagining those legs wrapped around his waist.
Just like the damned contractor was.
Making her vision a reality wasn’t going to be easy. Lonesome didn’t have the contractors she needed. The house needed more major repairs than he had fingers. And yet her passion for her dream was infectious. He wanted to give her what made her happy, protect her from the blow that was about to fall.
He could do it, too, he realized. As long as he consigned his ranch to hell.
She caught his skeptical glance. “You expect me to fail,” she accused him.
No, that wasn’t it. This wasn’t about her succeeding or failing. This was about the house, the property, the water, and the sheer impossibility of her living there. “This house needs major repairs.”
“But it could be fixed,” she argued. She plopped down onto the top step of the porch. The contractor had disappeared back inside to “check one more thing,” even though Cabe couldn’t imagine what the man hadn’t investigated already.
“You’d need thousands of dollars, Rose.” He leaned back against the porch pillar, crossing one booted foot over the other. “Tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars. That’s what it would take. Do you have that kind of cash?”
“I could try for a mortgage,” she countered stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest. That defensive movement pushed her breasts up into luscious little mounds. He wanted to carry her back to bed, make her forget all about this crazy dreams of hers. He’d make it up to her. She’d get over it. Wouldn’t she?
“We both know a bank won’t lend on this place. There’s no value in a tear-down house.”
“Auntie Dee’s place is not a tear-down.” Fingers rubbing her arms, she tilted her head back, letting it hit the railing. Maybe, with her eyes closed, she hadn’t noticed the shower of paint flakes. “Not to me,” she said, but now she sounded tired. “Even though I can see how you’d think it was. This place is worth fighting for.”
He’d hoped this second inspection would wear her down. This despair should be what he’d wanted, he told himself.
“So what is it you want me to do, Cabe? Just up and leave?” She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Is that why you brought the inspector and the contractor out here? So they could tell me the same things you had, only with an even longer checklist of everything that’s wrong with the place?”
Yes, he thought. That was exactly what he’d wanted. He narrowed his eyes. “Be reasonable, Rose,” he said, because he had no intention of answering her question. “Tell me what’s right about this house.”
She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe he was asking that particular question. “This was our home.”
“Four walls”—barely—“a roof. And a door.” He shrugged. “I don’t see anything so special.”
“No, you wouldn’t. But Auntie Dee would sit right there”—she waved a hand at the two-seater swing behind them—“and I’d sit right there beside her. You can see the sunset from here, and we’d watch the mountain go all pink and gold. Sometimes she’d tell me stories about places she’d gone, people she’d known before she settled down in Lonesome for good. Other times we’d just sit there together. It was my job to push.” She stared at the swing as if she could still see the woman who had taken her in. As if that old woman really had been the center of her world, even after she’d up and gone.
“Every night,” she said quietly, “we came out here and we sat and we smelled the roses. She said that mattered, taking
that time together. She said she’d planted that rosebush when she first moved in here. She joked it took up more space on the porch than she did.”
The rosebush was a Lady Banks. The yellow flowers had climbed over the roof of the porch, the sheer weight of the blooms threatening to bring the whole thing down beneath its canopy of green and yellow. Rose reached out, stroking a soft petal, lost in thought.
For the first time, he wondered what it would take to make Rose Jordan look at him that way. She’d let him love her last night. Hell, she’d been a wildcat in his arms. But she hadn’t given him any words at all. Hadn’t really ever looked him in the eye. She’d let him touch and taste her, and now she was under his skin, all right. He wanted more. He was, he realized, feeling jealous of a rosebush and of a dead woman Rose couldn’t, wouldn’t, forget.
Of course, Auntie Dee had been a good woman.
Cabe wasn’t good.
“This is mine,” she said. “I’ve spent months dreaming about it, drawing up plans for the renovations. This is my home, and I plan on hanging on to it. Even if it is falling down around my ears,” she added wryly.
Problem was, the place wasn’t hers. She just didn’t know it yet.
“Start over,” he said quietly. “My offer still stands. I’ll cut you a check, and you can pick out a place that doesn’t come with the largest colony of termites west of the Sierras.”
She opened her mouth, and he could just about see the refusal coming, when the contractor banged open the screen door and joined them on the porch.
“Christ,” the contractor said. “She’s a tear-down, all right. Not sure why you’d want to put her to rights.” He shook his head. “Thought you were putting a well in here, Cabe, not doing renos.”
Hell. Cabe glared at the man, but the damage was done.
“The house already has a well.” Rose sounded confused. “It’s not dry.”
“We’re done here,” Cabe snapped.
The contractor nodded, glancing down at the yellow legal pad where he’d been jotting his endless notes.