Cowboy Heat

by Delilah Devlin

Something about that, about having that effect on him, made her feel powerful, and she rose to unfasten his belt. Her fingers faltered a bit, but she managed before he had to come to her aid. She pushed his pants down just enough to free his thick cock. Just thinking the word had her blushing.

  He was hard and long and arching toward her, as if understanding what she meant to do. She rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth for a moment, then bent to lightly swipe it across the head of him.

  His groan echoed in the small room, so she did it again. He reached down to close his fingers around himself.

  “Right here,” he said huskily, pointing to an arrow of flesh beneath the thicker head. “Lick there.”

  She did, hesitantly, with the point of her tongue, then again, with the flat of it. The taste of him wasn’t unpleasant, and the scent of him was arousing, concentrated. She licked again, then changed her angle to guide him into her mouth, parting her lips wide.

  He tensed his stomach, his thighs, his hips, as if he was holding himself back. “More,” he rasped, and she did her best to comply, easing her way with her tongue along his shaft.

  The sound that ripped from him was barely human, and she felt his muscles quivering, his pulse hot and fast against her tongue. She felt suddenly very powerful, and opened her mouth wider to take more of him.

  “Up and down,” he urged. “My god, Sybil.”

  She did as he asked, mimicking what she thought it must feel like to be inside her channel, bobbing her head, sliding her tongue. His hands fisted in her hair, guiding her movements before he pushed her away, leaving her mouth swollen and empty.

  He rose from the bed and shed his pants with an economy of movement, then dropped back over her, parting her knees with his hips, parting her lower lips with the head of his cock before driving into her.

  They both cried out as he plunged in to the hilt. He cupped the back of her head and pulled her up, covering her mouth with his in a carnal kiss, giving her a taste of herself on his lips and tongue, absorbing his own taste from her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck, returning his kiss, and wound her legs around his hips, holding him to her, deep inside her.

  Then he began to move, his cock caressing the depth of her channel, stretching her so that every nerve inside her felt exposed, aroused. His hips flexed, each movement powerful, each thrust, each withdrawal exciting her. His body pressed rhythmically against the nub that focused her passion, and she bumped against him with each plunge, driving her own desire higher.

  They found their rhythm, reaching together for the pleasure they could only find with each other. He rose over her to look into her eyes as he made love to her, as he reached between their bodies to find the nub with his rough thumb, to circle it, flick it until…

  “Oh!” She pushed up against him as the orgasm swamped her, tightening everything in her before sending her spiraling in long, deep pulses.

  The contraction of her orgasm tightened her channel around him rhythmically, pulling on him, and her legs tightened on his hips. With a shout, he broke free, pulling out of her and coming on her stomach in hot wet streaks.

  He collapsed beside her, one arm crooked over his eyes, the other tightening around her, pulling her to his side, unmindful of the mess he’d just made. When he caught his breath, he brought her close for a long, deep kiss.

  “We should get married,” he murmured when the kiss ended.

  The tension that had washed from her body with her climax, with his kiss, returned triple-fold, and she pulled away, rolling off the bed to deal with the mess. “I’ve no desire to marry again, to give any power to a man.”

  “You give me power every time you come to my bed,” he said, rolling onto his side, not appearing the least bit offended.

  “And you give it to me.”

  “What’s to say that wouldn’t carry on in our marriage?”

  “Because that’s not the way of the world.” She wiped her stomach with a rough towel dipped in water from the basin near the window.

  “Sybil, we’re in Texas. The ways of the world don’t matter much here. You know that better than anyone.” He rose and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back against his chest.

  She loved it when he held her like this, loved his strength and his heat and his tenderness. But not enough to give over the control of her ranch, her life.

  “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, riding hell-for-leather after those rustlers. At first I thought you were just a kid.” He cupped her breasts briefly and smiled against her neck. “Never was I so glad to have my powers of observation fail me.”

  She remembered his surprise so well, first anger, then grudging admiration for a woman who took matters into her own hands. He’d joined her in her search for the rustlers, though she knew he’d wanted to send her home. She’d proved to him she could take care of herself, and anything else that came along, and saw the shift in his attitude.

  And when he’d kissed her for the first time out on the trail of the bandits, well, she had let him. Who was she fooling? She’d loved it, and everything else he’d done to her. But was she ready for something more permanent?

  “Don’t you want to stop waiting for a month to see each other? To stop sneaking around? To have children?” He curved his hand over her belly. “I would love for you to be the mother of my children. They’d be fierce and strong and loving.”

  His words made her heart trip. She had thought about children—after all, why work so hard on the ranch if she had no one to pass it to? And children with him—why should the idea of growing large with his baby send this rush of pleasure through her, a pleasure almost as strong as when his body was inside hers?

  Because she was in love with him. But she could never tell him, could never give him that ammunition. As soon as he knew that, he’d never give up on this crazy desire to marry.

  “I need to go. Mr. Damien will be waiting for me.”

  “We haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “I need to get back.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “There’s so much to do.” She broke free of his embrace, though it pained her to do so, and went about the business of getting dressed.

  She was perfectly presentable when she walked back into the general store to pay for her supplies. It wasn’t until she was on the road to the ranch that she burst into tears.

  A little over a week had passed since she made her escape from Addison and his proposition. She couldn’t exactly call it a proposal, could she? He hadn’t asked her to marry him, just stated that they should. And while she dreamed at night of waking up beside him, of corralling their children—she thought maybe three, God willing—she had fought long and hard for this ranch and was damned if she’d hand it over to a man who could do as he pleased with it.

  She didn’t know what she’d do, exactly, when she went back to town, if she’d act like the conversation never took place, or if she’d ignore him completely. But at the same time, she didn’t want to cut him out of her life. She would just make him see the arrangement they had was the best all around.

  One of her hands gave a shout and she stepped out of the barn to see two riders approaching the ranch, one tall in the saddle on a roan horse she recognized, the other shorter and clearly uncomfortable on the back of the paint pony.

  She wiped her hands on her britches, her heart thundering. Addison never came out here, even when she’d had the rustling trouble. What could have gone wrong? She moved to the gate to meet them, trying to read Addison’s expression as he rode toward her. He nodded at her and touched his hat, a respectful gesture that belied the heated look in his eyes as he took in her attire.

  “Mrs. Morgan, would it be possible for us to speak in the house?”

  She looked from him to the stranger and lifted a brow.

  “This is Mr. Cavanaugh, a lawyer from San Antonio.”

  A lawyer? Nerves dancing along the outside of her skin, she motioned for the two men to ride toward the house while
she followed on foot. She watched Addison dismount with easy grace not echoed by his lawyer friend, then pumped fresh water into the trough by the hitching post.

  “A lawyer, Marshal?” she asked, not allowing her voice to show her nervousness.

  “We’ll speak inside,” he said, removing his hat and gesturing with it to the house.

  Mind whirling at the possibilities, she led the way into the house and into the sitting room, where she offered both men a seat. The lawyer took her up on it; Addison didn’t. Instead, he drilled her with those whiskey-brown eyes. She held his gaze for a long moment, but then he looked past her out the window.

  He cleared his throat. “After our last conversation, I decided to consult a lawyer. I had a hard time finding one who would do what I wanted, which is why I haven’t been out before today. Mr. Cavanaugh here is from San Antonio because every other lawyer told me he couldn’t create this.” He turned back to Sybil. “What we have here is a contract, legally binding, saying I want no part of this ranch, that you will have the final say as long as you’re living, and that you and any children we might have will be in total control.”

  “Any…children?”

  He stepped forward and grabbed her hands in his.

  She realized she still wore her work gloves, and his hands were bare. She wanted to feel his touch but didn’t want to remove her gloves in front of the lawyer, and thus draw attention to her rough ways.

  “I love you, Sybil, and I want to marry you and have a life with you, a family. If this ranch is in the way, well, I won’t let it be. And now it’s not. It’s yours, and we have the contract to prove it.”

  He turned to the lawyer, who held the piece of paper and a pen. Addison released her hands and took the pen, signing his name with short, spastic movements. Then he knelt on one knee.

  “Sybil Morgan, I just signed away any claim or rights to this land in order to win your hand in marriage. I want to go to bed with you, wake up with you, grow old with you. I want you to be the strong and brave mother of my children. I love you. Will you marry me?”

  Since he’d made his announcement, she couldn’t catch her breath. He’d done this for her, so she would retain control? So the ranch would never come between them? How did she deserve a man like this, so giving and so appealing? She looked down into his eyes and saw he was holding his breath as he waited for her answer.

  “Yes, Addison, I’ll marry you.”

  He rose then and cupped her face in his hands to kiss her, a very improper kiss in front of the lawyer, who cleared his throat.

  Addison drew back, his fingers stroking her wild hair back from her face. She looked into his beloved eyes and said the words she never thought she’d say, never thought she’d feel.

  “I love you.”

  REMEMBER

  Mia Hopkins

  There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning.

  —Louis L’Amour

  Eliza was almost through her first bottle when the phone rang. She checked the number before answering.

  Penny, Eliza’s maid of honor, didn’t waste time with hello. “Should I come over? We can get takeout and watch old movies.”

  Eliza sat down on the floor, still clutching the neck of the bottle. “No. It’s all right.”

  “Have you even gotten out of bed today?”

  “I went to the gym a couple of hours ago,” Eliza said. “I even showered. I’m just dandy. No need to worry.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Drinking the wine. All of it. ’Til I pass out.”

  “Jesus. Two hundred bottles. Can’t you return them?”

  Eliza looked at the stacks of boxes in her living room and took another swig. “No,” she said. “He wanted custom labels. ‘Eliza and Ryan, Today I Marry My Best Friend.’” She sighed. “At least it’s good cabernet.”

  “Sure you don’t want company?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Tonight was supposed to be your bachelorette party. We should do something involving alcohol. Alcohol and promiscuity.”

  Wine fumes swirled in Eliza’s head. “Well,” she said. “I’ve got the alcohol part covered. After that I’m going to bed. You go be promiscuous tonight.”

  “Eliza, you take care of yourself. I’ll come round tomorrow and we’ll go to brunch. Okay, sweetie?”

  “Okay.” Eliza put down the phone and stood up slowly, putting her hand on the wall to steady herself. After another swig, the bottle was empty. She plunged her hand into the nearest box for another. She opened it, took a swallow, and lay down on the floor.

  Eliza had been hiding out for two days, ever since she’d come home to an empty apartment and a letter from her fiancé. The wedding was supposed to have been in a week, but Ryan had run off with his ex-girlfriend as though his relationship with Eliza had been nothing but an ill-advised fling.

  The doorbell rang. Eliza staggered up to open it, the wine bottle still in her hand. She was wearing a T-shirt, yoga pants, and a messy ponytail. “I told you not to come over, Penny,” she said, opening the door.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said the stranger. His voice was a deep drawl. “Is this Apartment B?”

  Eliza put the bottle down on the hallway table and turned on the porch light. The man was wearing a white cowboy hat; his face was still in shadow.

  “Um, yes. Who are you?”

  Well over six feet with long legs and a broad chest, he cast a big shadow over Eliza, whose eyes widened as she looked him over. Jeans, chaps, cowboy boots and a sleeveless flannel shirt that showed off arms that were manifestations of the diagrams in her old nursing textbooks. And he was carrying a boom box.

  “I’m here for Eliza, the bride-to-be. I believe Penny’s arranged a party for her.”

  Oh, Jesus, thought Eliza. She forgot to cancel the stripper.

  He tipped his hat back, inadvertently flexing his bicep and revealing the most incredible eyes Eliza had ever seen. They were sky blue, but half of the iris of his right eye was brown shot through with shards of gold. Heterochromia, thought Eliza. Eyes of different colors. As if God couldn’t make up His mind.

  Her skin began to tingle under his gaze.

  “Are you Penny?” he asked.

  Once, after watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid over chow mein, Eliza had mentioned to Penny that she thought cowboys were sexy.

  “Cowboys? Really?” Penny had asked. “But you’re such a city girl.”

  “I know,” she’d replied. “There’s just…something about cowboys.”

  Like she always had, Penny stored that tidbit of information away, waiting for the opportune moment to use it. Mr. Opportune Moment flexed his jaw as he squinted at Eliza. Five o’clock shadow shaded his perfect cleft chin. “Wait, are you Eliza?” he asked, taking a step forward.

  Eliza thought wine was supposed to dull the senses, but as he came toward her, his scent filled her nose. Sagebrush and pine, but also something more elusive: leather. His own skin. He smelled like sex. Eliza breathed deep.

  “Um,” she said, blocking his way and nearly colliding with his chest. “The party’s been canceled. I’m sorry.”

  “Rescheduled?”

  “No. The wedding’s off,” she said.

  He stood so close to her that she could feel the heat rising off his arms. “But…you’re Eliza, right?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” Again his gaze raked over her.

  Her body tightened in response.

  “Listen, Eliza,” he said slowly. “Your friend’s already paid me in full, and I’ve got no other appointments tonight. I can still dance for you. If you’re up for it.”

  “Let me guess. You have a no-refunds policy?”

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “And you dance for one person at a time?”

  “Sometimes,” he said with a smirk.

  He was all kinds of handsome. She was all kinds of heartbroken. Eliza reached back a
nd picked up the bottle of wine again and took a drink to give her courage. Then she opened the door wide and let him in. “What the hell,” she muttered.

  Heaven help her, he sauntered right in.

  “Do you want a drink?” she asked, closing the door.

  “Got any whiskey?” he asked. He put his boom box down on the coffee table and sized up the room.

  “No,” she said. “But I’ve got red wine. Lots of it.”

  “Red wine gives me a headache,” he said. He looked at all the boxes.

  “And whiskey doesn’t?”

  “I like the kind of headache whiskey gives me.” He turned off the overhead light and switched on a small lamp on the mantle. “Can I move this?” he asked, indicating an armchair that she had set up next to the window.

  “Sure,” she said, then watched with fascination as he hauled up the sturdy chair as though it weighed nothing. He set it down carefully in the middle of the room.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Chase,” he said.

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Nope,” he said, smiling. He sat down in the chair and bounced as if to make sure it was comfortable. “But I’ll tell you my real name if you tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Who left whom at the altar?”

  She wasn’t expecting the question, but something about his manner made her feel at ease. “He left me,” she said.

  “Did you see it coming?”

  “No,” she said. “Not at all.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Four years.”

  “How old are you anyway?”

  “I’m twenty-three.” He squinted at her, and she put the bottle down. “My turn,” she said. “What’s your real name?”

  “Chase.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sure. And the accent? Fake or real?” she asked.

  “Real.”

  “Texas?”

  “Tennessee,” he said. “Born and bred. And I’m not a cowboy. I’m a hillbilly. There’s a difference.”

  “So…hillbillies wear chaps?”

  “They do when they’re strippin’.” He stood up and walked toward her. “Shall we start, Eliza?”