Lip Service

by Susan Mallery

  He got out of the truck, then winced when he took a step. His stump ached. He’d done too much, too fast, ignoring the advice from his doctor and therapists. He was supposed to get used to the prosthesis over time, to use crutches or a walker. Not that he would.

  He limped over to a big rock and sat down, then pulled up his jeans and unhooked the plastic and metal replacing what had once been flesh and bone.

  His knee was all banged up, scarred and still red in places. The field surgeon in Afghanistan had done his best to save Mitch’s leg, or at least what had been left of it. For that Mitch would always be grateful. Not happy, exactly, but grateful.

  He hurt everywhere and on the days when he didn’t want to bother getting out of bed he reminded himself that, compared to a lot of soldiers, all he had was a scratch and he needed to get over it. His buddy, Pete, had risked his life to drag Mitch to safety and had gotten shot for his efforts. So Mitch owed him, too. There were…

  The sound of steady hooves caught his attention. He started to stand, remembered too late he was missing a foot and nearly fell over. He grabbed for the rock and managed to stay upright. But before he could strap his prosthesis back in place, a horse and rider joined him on the rocky ledge.

  Mitch stared at the one person in all the world he never wanted to see again. Did it have to be now? With him holding his fake leg in one hand? Did he have to look like the cripple he was?

  Anger welled up inside of him. Living, hot anger that wanted to explode and burn and destroy.

  “Get the hell off my land,” he growled. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “Hello, Mitch,” she said, not acknowledging his order. “I just heard that you were back.”

  Skye Titan drew her horse to a halt, slid from the saddle and onto the ground. She pulled off her cowboy hat.

  Despite the years that had passed, she looked exactly as he remembered. Her dark red hair contrasted with her pale skin. Eyes the color of spring grass stared into his. She looked good. Too good, all curves and temptation.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  He motioned to the prosthesis. “How do you think I am? Go away. You’re not anyone I want to talk to.”

  She wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, one that hugged her breasts in a way that irritated him even more.

  “I don’t think I’m leaving just yet,” she said.

  His gaze dropped to her left hand. He didn’t see a ring. “What happened to husband number one? Daddy tell you to dump him?”

  “Ray died,” she said, her gaze never leaving his.

  “Living life as the rich widow or has Jed married you off again? Who is it this time, Skye? An old tycoon or some international banker?”

  THE MITCH CASSIDY Skye remembered had been a funny, easygoing guy who rode like the wind and could kiss her senseless in a matter of seconds. He laughed as hard as he played and Mitch had loved to play. She knew war changed a man, but she hadn’t expected him to be a cold, mean stranger. His crack about a second arranged marriage hit close and hard. She took a step back.

  “I’m sorry about your injury,” she said.

  “I’ll sleep better knowing that.”

  “Is the sarcastic bastard act specifically for me, or are you sharing it with everyone?”

  He turned his back on her.

  She supposed that was an answer of sorts, even if she wasn’t sure of the specifics.

  She’d missed him, she thought sadly, staring at the familiar broad shoulders. His dark hair was military short, which suited him. The scar on the side of his jaw wasn’t one she remembered and she remembered everything about Mitch’s body.

  He’d been her first love, her first lover and there had been a time when she would have walked through fire to be with him. But she hadn’t been willing to defy her father. Had that been a mistake?

  “I wish things had been different,” she said, before she could stop herself. She meant the past, but then he spun toward her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin line, she realized he thought she was talking about his leg.

  “I don’t need your pity,” he growled. “I don’t need sh—”

  He lost his balance and started to go down. Skye reacted instinctively, springing toward him. She grabbed him around the waist as he reached for the rocks. The prosthesis dropped to the ground.

  He was heavier than she’d anticipated and the weight of him knocked her sideways. Her foot slipped. She scrambled to stay upright, then they were both falling.

  The ground was hard. She landed on her back, him on top of her. Rocks jabbed her but that didn’t matter. She couldn’t draw in air.

  Mitch was off her in a second. “Breathe,” he said, propped up next to her. “You’re fine. Just breathe.”

  She sucked in a breath, then another.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You’re too small to hold me up. What did you think you were doing?”

  He looked furious, which was oddly better than cold and sarcastic.

  “I’m not weak,” she told him. “I could so kick your ass.”

  “On what planet?”

  “Zorgon.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t, Skye. Don’t try to make this okay.”

  Because it wasn’t or he didn’t want it to be? “I missed you, Mitch.”

  The humor faded and the coldness returned. “You should have thought about that before you dumped me.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Sure you did. Daddy asked you to jump and you got out the ruler to make sure it was high enough.”

  She sat up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How much did I get wrong?”

  Nothing and that’s what annoyed her most. “Mitch, please.”

  “Please what?”

  They were both sitting, facing each other. She could see all the colors that made up his irises, the individual hairs of his lashes. The scent of him was familiar, as was the heat rising inside of her.

  He was so different, yet she recognized every part of him. It was as if the nearly nine years between them vanished and there was only this moment and the man she had once loved with a desperation that had left her weak.

  “Mitch,” she said, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt, closed the space between them and kissed him.

  For a moment, there was nothing. Just the feel of his lips against hers, but no reaction. She pressed harder, wanting him to want her, wanting him to respond. When he didn’t, she knew she’d made a mistake. That whatever she’d been longing for, it had been on her side alone. He hadn’t missed her at all.

  She drew back.

  Heat climbed her cheeks. She released him and started to get to her feet.

  He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down next to him. He leaned over her until she was forced to sink onto the ground.

  “There is no way this is going to happen,” he told her.

  Then he kissed her. His mouth moved on hers, all desperation, taking and claiming.

  He kissed with a need that stole her breath far more effectively than her recent fall. His arms wrapped around her, she clung to him and everything was exactly as she remembered. It was hot and hungry and perfect.

  He thrust his tongue inside of her mouth. She welcomed him with darting strokes. They teased and danced, relearning, discovering.

  She ran her hands up and down his back. He was stronger than she remembered, the muscles thicker. He’d filled out even as he remained lean. He shifted closer, his body bumping hers. She turned toward him and felt the thick ridge of his erection.

  The proof of his desire thrilled her. She hadn’t been with a man since Ray. For a while, she’d thought that part of her was dead. Recently it had tried to surface, but she was a single mother with a lot of responsibility. Sex wasn’t possible in her world.

  But now, with Mitch, desire flared to life. Liquid ache poured into her belly, moving lower as she recalled the feel of him filling her, takin
g her beyond this reality to a place that was pure pleasure.

  He continued to kiss her, circling her tongue with his. Then he pulled back enough to move his mouth along her jaw. He pushed up her T-shirt and jerked down the cup of her bra, exposing her left breast. He bent over her and sucked on her nipple, drawing it in deeply, flicking the tight tip with his tongue.

  She gasped and strained to get closer. Her skin burned for more and her body throbbed with pent-up need. She dug her fingers into his back, then moved lower so she could cup his rear. His arousal surged against her.

  He shifted her onto her back, unfastened the front of her jeans and shoved his hand under her panties.

  They were outside in the middle of the day, with her horse standing close by and the sky above them. She should have been shocked or embarrassed, but she could only hold her breath until his skilled fingers slipped between her legs, into her wet, waiting heat.

  He didn’t disappoint. Even as his thumb settled on that one, sensitive spot, he pushed two fingers inside of her. She was already swollen and desperate. The second he began to rub, she felt herself losing control.

  It was too fast, she thought as he stroked her, at the same time moving his fingers in and out of her. Too fast and too much and so incredibly perfect she didn’t want him to stop. She arched her hips to get closer, to take more. She moaned and writhed. Wanting filled her.

  He abandoned her breast, then shifted so that he could kiss her again. She welcomed him in her mouth, then closed her lips around his tongue and sucked until it was his turn to groan.

  He moved his hand more quickly—rubbing and pushing, taking her closer and closer. When she was within sight of her release, he drew back.

  “You’re going to have to get on top,” he told her.

  What?

  He rolled onto his back and undid his jeans. Rational thinking returned just enough for her to realize he probably didn’t know how to be on top. Not yet, anyway. And who on earth cared?

  She jerked off one boot, pushed down her jeans and panties, pulled one foot free, moved the clothing out of the way and settled herself on his erection.

  He filled her completely, perfectly, and her body responded with a sigh. She rode him a couple of times, letting herself stretch around him, taking in the sense of being with a man again. This man who had taught her the pleasures possible.

  “Lean forward,” he said.

  She did as he suggested. He reached under her shirt and unfastened her bra, then cupped her breasts in his hands.

  Rocks cut into her knees and her palms, but she didn’t care. Even as he teased her nipples, she moved up and down, filling herself with him, letting the heat rise between them. The wanting. Everything faded except the feeling between them.

  She felt him getting closer, felt herself responding to each deep thrust. The sun was hot on her back. Muscles tensed, she strained forward. Then he dropped one hand, slid it between them and rubbed her with his fingers.

  She came with a sharp cry that silenced the birds. Her orgasm crashed over her, making her ride him faster and faster as she drew out the experience as long as possible. Her thighs clenched, her hips moved up and down. There was nothing but the perfection of being with him again.

  Beneath her, Mitch met each of her movements with a hard thrust that satisfied every part of her. He grabbed her and steadied her rhythm, then tensed and lost himself in her. When she was sure he was done, she slowed, then stopped. And then it was just their breath in the air, both of them recovering.

  Reality returned in the form of an ant climbing up her arm. Skye brushed it away, then stood, feeling exposed and awkward. She had one boot on, one off. Her pants and panties hung on one leg. Her bra was loose under her shirt. Mitch zipped up and was dressed in about five seconds. She was left with her ass hanging out for all the world to see.

  While she struggled to dress, he stood and leaned against the rock, watching her.

  His jeans hung empty on the left side, but she was the one who stumbled and couldn’t get herself together. Finally she was dressed and pulled on her boot. She straightened, not sure what to say.

  There were a thousand things she almost blurted out. Like, “that wasn’t supposed to happen.” Or, “I don’t have sex with strangers.” Except Mitch wasn’t a stranger. Not exactly.

  His dark eyes gave nothing away. She couldn’t read him at all. Finally, one corner of his mouth lifted.

  “Thanks, babe. I needed that. Next time you’re feeling like you want to get laid, give me a call and I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

  The verbal slap landed with perfect precision. She flushed, as shame filled her. She walked toward her horse, grabbed her hat, shoved it on her head, then swung up into the saddle and rode away.

  It was only when she was a mile or so from the rock outcropping that she allowed herself to give in to the tears burning in her eyes. She cried all the way to the barn—some for herself, some for Mitch, but mostly for how young and in love they’d once been and how much had been lost.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER GETTING his prosthesis reattached, Mitch got into the truck and drove back toward the house. He stopped a half mile or so from the buildings that made up the heart of the ranch. He wasn’t ready to face Fidela again. Or anyone.

  When he’d awakened on the naval hospital ship and realized what had happened, all he could think was that it was time to go home. That after nearly nine years, he was ready to go back where he belonged. But now that he was here he realized it wasn’t home anymore. Everything had changed…including him.

  He turned off the engine and leaned back in the seat. He hurt all over, but the worst throbbing came from the part of his leg that didn’t exist anymore. He’d been told that would happen and given pages of instructions on how to deal with the pain. Everything from massaging his stump to some stupid-assed hand-rubbing energy woo-woo crap he hadn’t bothered reading. He was strong—he would will the pain away. Eventually. Until then he would deal.

  The sun had moved in the sky and long shadows crept along the land. Time was passing, although not fast enough to suit him. He wanted it to be a year from now, or five, so he wouldn’t have to be adjusting to everything. He wanted that behind him.

  Without him wanting it to, his body clenched as if remembering what it felt like to be inside Skye. She’d taken him with a passion he’d never been able to completely forget. She hadn’t cared about his missing leg or the years they’d been apart. She’d wanted what he had always been able to give her—what they’d given each other. Then he’d hurt her because she’d deserved it.

  Pain had flashed in her eyes and he didn’t regret causing it. He could only hope it kept her up nights, that she couldn’t breathe for feeling it. He wanted her to have nothing but regret. That might be the first step in evening out the score.

  But all the revenge in the world didn’t take away the wanting. Even now, not thirty minutes later, he ached for her. Ached to be inside of her, touching her, tasting her. The kissing had been good, but hadn’t lasted long enough. He wanted to savor all of her, to lick her between her legs until she screamed and he nearly lost control himself.

  He told himself it wouldn’t be like that anymore, but he knew he was lying. Whatever happened between them, the fire still burned. It was—

  Something moved in the shadows.

  He sat up and leaned forward, trying to figure out the shape and speed. A coyote, he thought, disgusted. Scavengers.

  Instinctively he reached behind the truck seat, but he hadn’t thought to bring a shotgun. Then he saw where the coyote was headed and realized it didn’t matter.

  The skinny predator moved with a confidence that spoke of experience or extreme hunger. It slipped through a break in the fencing. The hated chickens squawked and tried to get away, but they weren’t nearly as fast as the coyote and they were trapped by the fencing. The coyote used that to his advantage. He grabbed one, snapped its neck with a quick, violent shake and retreated, dinner han
ging limply from his jaws.

  Mitch started the truck’s engine and headed back to the house. As he pulled up in front, he saw Arturo standing on the porch, shotgun in hand.

  “Did you see what he did?” the older man demanded. “I checked that fence line yesterday but it must have gotten damaged this morning. Damn coyotes are always prowling, always looking for a weak spot. I wish I’d gotten here sooner. I would have shot him.”

  Mitch hadn’t seen Arturo in nearly nine years but, except for a few gray hairs, his manager hadn’t changed much. He was still tall and barrel-chested, with a permanent squint as if the sun was always in his eyes. As a kid Mitch had loved watching old Westerns on TV. He’d thought Arturo was the Latin version of John Wayne—big, brave and able to beat the bad guys, despite any odds.

  “It’s good to see you, old man,” Mitch said.

  Arturo dropped the gun onto the bench by the front door and grabbed Mitch by the upper arms. “I’m glad you’re back. We missed you. Every night Fidela prayed for your safe return.”

  “She told me.”

  “She worried. We both worried.”

  There was love in the old man’s eyes. He had been there for Mitch far more than his own father had ever been. Arturo had taught him all he knew about life.

  Carefully, aware of his balance, he hugged the other man. Arturo squeezed him tightly, then slapped him on the back.

  “You look good. How do you feel?”

  “About what you’d expect.”

  “Fidela is going to fatten you up. Be prepared to eat. You know how she gets.”

  “Tell me we’re not having chicken,” Mitch grumbled, hating the birds.

  “We have plenty, even with the one that got away.”

  “The coyotes can take them all.”

  Arturo stepped back. “Why would you say that? They’re your chickens.”