Cowboy Lust: Erotic Romance for Women

by Delilah Devlin

  “Nothing to tell.” I glanced at him.

  “Everyone has a story.” His huge brown paw touched my thigh with surprising softness.

  I studied it. Jake worked with his hands. I’d seen him earlier, thighs clamped around his stock horse like a nutcracker, those same hands working ropes, reins, and fencing posts.

  His fingers moved on my skin, crawled higher. The grit of the desert transferred from his fingers to my thigh. The friction seemed to spark a connection between us, fragile and tenuous now, but it was there, strung as taut as fencing wire.

  I rested back against the chair where the wicker unraveled like the L.A. freeways and contemplated Jake. He wouldn’t fit into my world; he would stick out like dog’s balls in the L.A. bar scene. But here, he flowed seamlessly into the landscape. He wore the uniform of the outback male: a man’s undershirt—they called it a singlet here—an Akubra hat, and a dusty pair of jeans.

  “What brings you here?” I asked.

  “Heard this place had a good foreman. One who lets us get on with it.”

  “Get on with what?”

  “Mustering. Cutting and branding cattle, mending fences. No health and bloody safety lectures.”

  Jake’s hand shifted higher on my thigh, but although I was definitely interested, I stood. If he was the only amusement here, I’d make him wait and sweat a bit. That would make it all the better when it happened.

  “I’m going to bed.” I pretended not to notice his half-smile as his hand fell away from my leg.

  As I ambled off, Jake swung his feet onto the verandah railing, cigarette smoke curling lazily to the stars.

  I didn’t see Jake the next morning, but when I went out to the verandah after dinner, a tang of sweat and dust told me I wasn’t alone.

  “Still here?”

  I saw his face in profile. The starlight etched his cheekbone into steel. “Where else would I go?”

  “Someone was asking after you. I was on the radio to Avoca Downs, and they said someone had driven up looking for an American.”

  I stared, nerves instantly jangling. No one just “drives up” to outback stations. “Who was it?”

  “No idea. They said their cousin was jillarooing on a station, and they wanted to drop in.”

  I processed that information. “I don’t have cousins.”

  “Guess they’re wrong then.”

  I could hardly swallow for the crushing weight of fear in my throat. Until now, it had been a game, one I’d expected would follow the rules. I was to stay here until the case came to trial, at which point they’d recall me to Los Angeles to give evidence. Then they’d relocate me permanently to an anonymous large American city.

  Americans looking for their cousin. Maybe it was really as simple as that. But the leaping waves of panic kept coming.

  Jake was still staring at me. “You okay? You’re looking crook as a dog all of a sudden.”

  I forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just hoping it’s not Uncle Bertie deciding to drop in.”

  “Even if he finds out where you are, he’s still a day’s drive away.”

  “Maybe I won’t be here when he arrives.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’ll take a bedroll. Stay out overnight.”

  For long moments the only sound was the whirr of the insects.

  “Must be serious, whatever you’re running from.” Cigarette smoke curled lazily through the air. “You’ve never shown any interest in going bush. I’m fencing near Bulloo Bore tomorrow—come along if you want. I’m camping, but you’ll be safe with me.”

  I hoped he was right.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. Thoughts of Tatamura and what he would do kept looping through my head. Each loop had a worse ending than the one before. I’d seen too much when I’d walked innocently and unknowingly into the backroom of Tatamura’s bar, just a contract cleaner wanting to do her job and go home. I’d seen the piles of banknotes, the bags of white powder, and the spread-eagled body of a man pegged out on the floor. How could a man suffer so much pain and still be alive...

  The FBI said my evidence would put Tatamura away for thirty years. And if he went down, one of the biggest drug cartels in the L.A. Basin would collapse.

  When I woke before dawn, my skin filmy with sweat, I gave up trying to sleep. I threw clothes into a bag and stole down to the kitchen to put coffee on and make toast. I ate standing up, watching the sky lighten.

  Someone entered the kitchen from the hall, and without turning around, I knew it was Jake. Maybe it was the masculine smell of the coal tar soap he favored, or maybe the sense of security that crept over me. That and desire.

  I poured him a coffee, which he gulped scalding hot.

  “I’m ready.”

  Cramming toast into his mouth, he swung out the door. I grabbed my bag and followed, throwing it into the back of the pickup amid rolls of fencing wire.

  It seemed we bumped along red sand tracks forever. I stared out at the spinifex rings and the white gum trees that reminded me of bones. Clouds of dust billowed behind the pickup, and when Jake slowed for a washout, we were enveloped in a choking cloud. A mob of red kangaroos bounded alongside us, and Jake braked abruptly when its leader swerved in front of us. The pickup stalled.

  Without the engine noise, I could appreciate how totally alone we were. I stared at Jake, seeing his sun-browned shoulders shift under his singlet. He was not a handsome man—too rugged, too tattered around the edges for that—but he was attractive. And sexual.

  I put my hand on his thigh, just to see what he’d do. It was the first time I’d touched him in such a deliberate way.

  “Christ, Sam,” he said and reached for me, lunging over the gearstick to haul me close.

  His hands were everywhere: running up my thigh and under my cutoff shorts to cup my ass, smoothing over my belly to stroke the underside of my breasts. Even through my thin cotton shirt they seared like branding irons.

  His mouth teased my neck, his lips hot and slow in contrast to his fast, skimming hands. I tilted my head, trying to direct his mouth to mine, and when he finally slid over my cheek and claimed my mouth, I was already as stratospheric as the Southern Cross.

  He kissed me deeply, his tongue delving in to stroke around my mouth. He tasted of cigarettes, dust, and coffee. “Chrissakes,” he muttered, when his mouth lifted from mine. “The bloody gearstick’s digging into me.”

  The blood thrummed in my veins. I ignored the offending gearstick and leaned across, pushing him back into his seat. I flicked open the snap on his shirt, bent, and trailed my lips down his rough, hairy chest.

  He was right. This was too uncomfortable and probably too impossible.

  I sat back, pressing a kiss to my fingertips and smoothing it over his lips. “Later, cowboy. We’ll check out that bedroll of yours.”

  Frustration and irritation warred on his rocky face, then he shrugged. “You’re right, darl. I’ll be harder and hotter for waiting.”

  For the next hour we drove in silence. My hand rested on Jake’s thigh, and between frequent gear shifts for the rough track, he held my hand to his leg with casual possession.

  During the heat of the day, I pretended to read my book, but really I watched Jake stride along the fence, stopping to bang in a post or tighten a wire. It was two hours before he returned, bringing with him the grassy smell of fresh sweat and a fine coating of red dust.

  “Done,” he said, and leaned over to kiss me hard.

  My lips tingled. “Where will we camp?”

  “Not far.”

  “Not far” was still an hour’s drive through the bush. Jake stopped at the base of an escarpment, curved like the inside of a seashell, all red and ochre in a smooth unbroken wave.

  Jake tossed the bedroll down under a gum tree. When next I looked, he was buck naked, pouring a billy can of water over his head. The liquid sluiced in rivulets down his back, winding through the dust to his firm, rounded buttocks.

  I stood in the l
ate afternoon sun looking...okay, admiring his body. For such a solid man he carried no surplus weight, and his bulky thighs and arms attested to physical work. He looked right in this environment, totally natural, as if the rugged landscape was somehow an extension of him.

  Jake swung around and gave me a view of his chest and cock, which was as mouthwateringly solid and strong as the rest of him. He toweled carelessly with his discarded T-shirt before stepping back into his jeans. He caught me staring and grinned, shameless and smug.

  I swatted a mosquito. “Do you always go commando?”

  “Nope. Too uncomfortable most of the time. But I’ll be right for a while.” He hoisted the billy. “You want a wash? I’ll pour.”

  I hesitated. There was an intimacy involved that made me hesitate. This moved our relationship more than a single step; it pushed it to a familiarity I’d never attained with any other lover.

  “Scared?”

  “Not of you. More of what’s going to bite me.”

  “You’re making enough noise to scare off the snakes. As long as you stay out of the bull ants’ nest, you’ll be fine.”

  I was sweaty and dirty. Without stopping to consider further, I stripped off my clothes and marched over to Jake.

  He hadn’t moved. The can was still gripped in his hand, and the heat in his eyes could have scorched the already parched landscape into a conflagration.

  The bulge in his jeans drew my eye, but I ignored it. “Well?”

  I was deluged abruptly in a stream of water. I soaped and stood so that Jake could rinse me. This time, he poured the water slowly. Mindful of his gaze, I turned the rinse into a sensual self-caress, running my hands over my breasts, down my stomach, slowly, slowly between my legs, and along my thighs.

  Jake put down the billy and hauled me into his arms His jeans were rough against my stomach and his chest hair abraded my breasts. His kiss was assured, a kiss which said he already knew the outcome of this. I wasn’t going to argue.

  My fingers snaked down to the soft skin above his jeans, before curling around to palm the bulge that swelled them. “You’re overdressed.”

  He tugged me in the direction of the bedroll.

  “Here?” I asked.

  “Who’s going to see us except a few birds? We’ve seen no one else all day.”

  My hesitation vanished. Suddenly, it seemed right, perfectly natural, to do this outdoors, under the bright blue sky, on the hard red ground. Australia was not a place for subtleties.

  I shook off his hand and unsnapped his jeans, carefully lowering the zipper. His cock sprang free into the sunlight, hard, thick, and ready. I ran a finger from base to tip, passing over the moisture I found there.

  Jake growled deep in his throat and kissed me again, his hands palming my breasts, fingers seeking my nipples. Somehow, we were on the sleeping bag, and his hands moved swiftly over my skin, curving around my hip for a moment before dipping between my legs.

  I gasped. This was so quick, so urgent. If Jake had been one of my L.A. lovers, I’d have ordered him to slow down, directed his tongue to my nipples, not allowing him near my pussy until all the parameters of foreplay had been met. Somehow, though, as fast as Jake was going, I wanted him inside me as urgently as he obviously wanted to be there. This cowboy was in control; I was just hanging on for the ride. I fumbled for his cock and ran my fingers along its jutting length.

  In turn, Jake’s thick finger parted my sex and penetrated me, curling around to press on my pleasure point while his thumb stroked rhythmically on my clit. “Christ, Sam, you’re so wet.”

  I gripped his cock tighter. “Then get inside me and make me even wetter.”

  He swung on top, and I parted my thighs to receive him. Dimly, I wondered when I’d last had sex in the missionary position. I like to be in control during sex. But here in the outback, with my life so totally in others’ hands, I didn’t consider arguing. Jake wanted control? He could have it. Besides, he felt damn good above me, his heavy body balanced on his elbows like a gentleman, his cock branding my belly.

  I tilted my hips and he slid home in one smooth movement, then withdrew so that only the fat head of his cock was inside me. Another powerful thrust and he started a fierce pounding so intense that all I could do was grab his ass and hang on. I’d been poised at an acute level of arousal since he first kissed me, but now he took me to new heights. I closed my eyes, the better to focus on the feelings in my pussy, the sensation of being so fatly and completely filled, the steady rhythm, the ripples and shivers of impending climax.

  “Look at me,” Jake commanded. Sweat dripped from his face onto mine, and his blue eyes compelled me.

  I locked gazes with him, dimly aware of the sunshine on my face, the caw of a crow. Then an extra deep thrust and my orgasm consumed me. I clenched down on his cock, arching and crying out with the intensity and power of each burst of pleasure.

  He was still hard inside me, his movements only a gentle rocking. I felt boneless and so wet that I wondered if he could feel anything in my pussy. He smiled, leaned to kiss me, and started again, with deep thrusts that felt so damn good I wondered for a breathless moment if I was going to come again.

  I clenched down on his cock and was rewarded by his hoarse cry as his cock twitched and spilled inside me.

  And then it was over. Jake moved up and took me in his arms, rolling so that I lay over his chest. His heart pounded a steady rhythm.

  It was a long, lazy night. Jake cooked steak and potatoes on the campfire and produced beer from the cooler. The moon rose early, painting the landscape with a silver glow. We sat and listened to the night birds and the thump of a kangaroo before moving to the bedroll to make love again. Softer, sweet love, less desperate than before but no less satisfying.

  We were both up early the next morning. It was one of those breathless outback mornings when the light is so clear and sharp it hurts your eyes and the birdsong is a glorious chorus.

  Jake had tossed the bedroll onto the back of the pickup and was shoveling sand over the campfire when he stiffened. “Got company.” Along the track, a cloud of dust moved fast in our direction.

  “Probably someone from the station,” I said.

  “Doubt it. Probably those Americans who were looking for you.”

  I’d managed to forget about them. Instantly, it all came rushing back. I shot a glance at Jake, wondering if I should tell him.

  A white Toyota slid to a stop in the dust, and three men got out. They weren’t local, that much I could tell by their clothes.

  “Can I help you?” Jake asked. His laconic drawl belied his tight posture.

  “We’re okay,” said one of the men. “We were looking for our little cousin Samantha from Los Angeles, and I reckon we’ve just found her.”

  “I don’t know you,” I said, looking from one to the other. Then the third man moved around the Toyota into view, and I gasped. It was Agent Dolan.

  “Hello Sam,” he said. “You’re difficult to track down. Grab your things, we’re outta here.”

  “We’re going back to L.A.?”

  “Yeah. So say goodbye to your friend, and we’ll be off.”

  I glanced at Jake. There was an icy stillness about him that was unnerving. I went across to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can’t explain. It’s sorta complicated.” Rising on tiptoes, I kissed his mouth.

  He grabbed me by the waist and kissed me deeply, breaking the kiss to lean his forehead against mine. “Sam,” he breathed against my lips. “Try and trust me on this.” His grip tightened around my waist. “She doesn’t want to go with you.” His tone was altered from his usual mellow drawl; it was hard, cold—the voice of a different man.

  The hairs rose on the back of my neck. “I have to—”

  “Shut the hell up, Sam, and do as I say.”

  I hesitated. Something was very wrong here. Why was Jake behaving so strangely? And why had Agent Dolan appeared here instead of waiting at the homestead until I ret
urned? I frowned, trying to piece together what was wrong, what felt wrong. Then it hit me. The Americans hadn’t known where I was. Agent Dolan should have known where to find me. Why had they gone to Avoca Downs yesterday?

  I shrugged, feigning casualness. “We’ll have to go back to Malory to get my stuff. I’ll ride along with Jake and see you there.”

  “There’s no time for that, Sam.” Agent Dolan came closer.

  Jake grabbed my arm and shoved, and I went sprawling into the pickup.

  “What are you doing?” I struggled to sit up and pushed my hair out of my eyes.

  Jake leaped into the driver’s seat, turning the key and slamming the pickup into gear in one movement. “Shut up.” Dust and small stones sprayed behind the wheels as he gunned the engine.

  I stared across at him, fear leaping into my mouth with a metallic taste.

  I swallowed over the pounding of my heart. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Sam, I know you’re scared, but you have to trust me on this. Right now, I have to get us away from here alive.”

  “Alive?” My voice squeaked, and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the cab. “What do you mean?”

  A noise registered over the roaring engine, a noise I’d heard a time or two in L.A. Gunshots.

  “They’re shooting at us! But that’s—” I gathered my thoughts still unable to make a leap of trust and confide in Jake.

  The pickup fishtailed wildly as Jake rounded a bend on the dusty track. Another shot sounded.

  “Get down, Sam.”

  I stared at him. He was a jackaroo, a cowboy. What the hell did he know about guns and how to drive as if the hounds of hell were after him?

  “Sam.” His voice was clipped, the laconic drawl gone. “Get the fuck down before the next shot sprays your brains over the dash.”

  I slid lower, crouching like an air passenger on crash drill. But I could still hear the noise, the hammering pursuit, and it was worse not knowing.

  “We’re going off road. Only way to shake them.”