But she’d tempted him beyond all endurance, and he’d skipped steps so that he could arrive at . . . this . . . pounding into her over and over, feeling her tighten around his cock, knowing that she was close . . . and closer still.
“Fletch . . .” Her plea was rich with passion. “Fletch, I’m . . .”
He dragged in air. “Hope so.” He kept stroking, holding the rhythm steady, relentless. “That’s the idea.”
She whimpered, and then she came apart with a wail of surrender. That sweet sound would stay with him for a long, long time. He exulted in her climax, pumping faster to bring her higher, and higher yet.
Then his control snapped, and he drove in once more with a groan of satisfaction. Pulsing within her, he touched heaven and knew that from this moment forward, he’d never be satisfied with anything less than making love to Astrid.
* * *
Drifting in the hazy afterglow of her climax, Astrid listened to the rain and wallowed in bliss. That, she concluded, was how a real man made love—with confidence and complete disregard for little things like mud on the quilt. After he’d eased away from her, he’d made sure she was settled comfortably on the bed before walking into the attached master bath.
He was a wonderful combination of masterful gestures and gentle consideration. She’d never found that before in a lover, but then, she’d never been in bed with a cowboy. She wondered if the nature of his work, caring for animals that depended on him to be both strong and empathetic, brought out those qualities.
Maybe, but she also thought he was naturally that way, which was why he’d been drawn to raising horses. Her work required the same qualities, and normally she reveled in taking charge. But letting someone else do that, someone she trusted, felt amazing. For the first time in ages, she was completely relaxed.
After disposing of the condom, Fletch returned and climbed into bed. He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring any leftover mud. “This needs to come off.” Unfastening her bra, he tugged it free and tossed it over his shoulder onto the floor.
“Mm.” He cupped her breasts and lazily brushed his thumbs over her nipples. “I hope we get to do this again sometime, because I have plans for these.”
Tired as she was, she still responded to his touch with a tightening deep in her belly. His hands were calloused by hours of hard labor, which made his touch unlike any she’d known, and more exciting because of that. “We can probably do it again . . . when you’re up to it.”
“Better not say that.” He looked into her eyes and smiled. “I might be up to it sooner than you think. And you need rest.”
“You do, too.” She should probably be considering the long-term ramifications of having sex with him instead of agreeing to more of it, but she didn’t want to think about the future now. Living in the moment had far more appeal.
Clichéd though her response might be, his heroism and his take-charge attitude made her feel feminine and cherished, and she wasn’t willing to give that up yet. Denying both of them this incredible pleasure would be straying into martyr territory, and she’d never been a fan of martyrdom. Plus the guy had an amazing package. There was that.
She ran her finger down the side of his jaw. “You’ve been awake as long as I have. And you had to drag me through the water while I just hung there doing nothing.”
“You were breathing. That was all I cared about.”
She cupped his face. “But you must be exhausted.”
“I should be, but when I look at you, I get a second wind.”
“You’re high on adrenaline.” She brushed her thumb over his cheek. His prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes hinted at Native American ancestry. Just looking at him was a pleasure. But she noticed weary lines around those eyes. “We should sleep.”
“Probably. Anyway, I’m not making love to you again until I’ve shaved off the stubble.” He continued to caress her. “Your skin is like silk. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Maybe I like the manly scrape of your beard on my breasts.” She was certainly enjoying having his hands there.
“But it wouldn’t be just your breasts.” He held her gaze. “Eventually I’d move on, and you’d feel the manly scrape of my beard between your thighs.”
Tension coiled within her. “I see.”
“And once I get into that program, I like to make it last. So I’ll shave first, so I can settle in and do the job right.”
That reminded her of his agile tongue, and lust grabbed her in predictable places. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing by talking to me this way.”
He smiled. “What am I doing?”
“Making me hot.”
“Is that so?” He slid one hand over her belly, tunneled his fingers through her curls, and began to explore while still massaging her breast. “You are pretty hot, at that.”
She drew in a breath. “I thought we were going to rest.”
“We will.” He slipped his fingers in deeper with devastating effect. “In a minute.”
She began to tremble. “This is crazy. I just—”
“That’s what’s so fun about ladies. They can come a lot. Guys, not so much.”
She was in no position to argue about whether she could come again so soon, because she was about to. He understood exactly how to stroke her, how to make her whimper and shiver as her climax approached.
“Let go, sweet Astrid.” He began pinching her nipple in the same rhythm. “Come for me.”
She obeyed his command, arching her back with a wild cry of release. Afterward she lay with her eyes closed and a smile of pure joy curved her mouth. “Awesome,” she whispered.
“Yes, you are.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “It’s you, Fletch. You’re the awesomeness.”
“It’s us.” He combed her hair back from her face and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “It’s us.”
Five
The last thing Astrid remembered was hearing the rain as Fletch traced the curve of her cheek with the tip of his finger and urged her to sleep. She must have done that instantly. When she woke up, she was on her side in the same position, so she hadn’t moved at all. She’d been just that tired and just that relaxed.
But there were two changes to her situation. Fletch wasn’t in bed with her anymore, and he’d obviously covered her with a blanket at some point. The light had shifted, and if she were to guess, she’d say it was afternoon, although it was hard to tell because the rain continued to fall.
Fletch had made coffee. She could smell it. Climbing out of bed, she noticed that none of her clothes remained in the room, either. She glanced around, taking in the room’s décor for the first time. She’d seen the rest of the house briefly during visits to tend his horses, but never his bedroom, obviously.
The bedroom mirrored the other rooms, in that it looked like a decidedly heterosexual man had chosen everything without advice from a woman. The dark wood furniture—the bed, a dresser, and a rocking chair—were straightforward pieces without embellishments. The colors of the fabrics in the bed linens and the curtains were earth tones of green and brown.
The walls provided the most interesting element of the room—colorful vintage posters, all professionally framed. She wasn’t an expert, but she recognized Elvis, which suggested the rest were of that era, too. Fletch had mentioned that his mother had loved classic rock, and Astrid wondered if the posters had belonged to her.
The aroma of coffee was joined by the tang of onions sautéing in butter. Her mouth watering, she wrapped herself in the light cream-colored blanket and walked out of the bedroom. It didn’t matter what Fletch was cooking. She was starving and would eat anything.
The one-story house had a basic design. The master bedroom and attached bath were at one end, with the great room and kitchen in the middle. A second bedroom and attached bath, which now functioned as Fletch�
�s office, was at the far end of the house.
She’d always liked the simplicity of the house. Although it wasn’t particularly large or luxurious, it had some nice touches like granite countertops, hardwood floors, and good-sized windows. Most charming of all, Fletch had paid extra for a wood-burning fireplace made of native stone. Her first visit here had been during winter, and he’d had a fire going.
She hadn’t stayed to enjoy it with him, because that wouldn’t have been the professional thing to do. But she’d wanted to. She even thought that he’d wanted her to.
The image of sharing a cozy fire with him was lovely, but winter was several months away, and projecting that far into the future wasn’t a good idea. She was here now, and Fletch stood in the kitchen dressed in a clean white T-shirt and jeans. His back was to her as he stirred onions in the frying pan. The browning onions crackled enough that he obviously hadn’t heard her bare feet on the wooden floor.
She took a moment to watch him cook before announcing her presence. In her world of privilege, guys didn’t cook. They ate in restaurants or hired someone to cook for them. Normally, Edna would be here to cook for Fletch, but he’d obviously learned the skill at some point. She wondered if there was anything the guy couldn’t do.
His dark hair was damp from a recent shower. If he’d showered and shaved in the master bath, she really must have been zonked. She suspected he’d gone to the other end of the house to clean up so he wouldn’t disturb her. That would be a Fletch move.
A center island with stools on the living room side separated the kitchen from the rest of the large space. She slid onto one of the stools and cleared her throat. “You’re being observed, Mr. Chef.”
He turned, spatula in hand, and grinned at her. “I’d tell you what you look like wrapped in that blanket, but it would be politically incorrect.”
“It was all I had. Someone stole my clothes.”
He laughed and went back to stirring his onions. “Yeah, well, someone kept yammering about turning on the washer earlier this morning, so I decided to take care of that so I wouldn’t hear about it when she woke up.”
“What time is it?”
“A little past two. Not very late.”
“You would have eventually come in to get me, right? You wouldn’t have let me sleep for twelve hours or anything, would you?”
“No.” He reached for a bowl with a whisk leaning in it, whipped the contents a few times, and dumped what looked like scrambled eggs in the pan. “I would selfishly have made you wake up so we could have sex again.”
That made her giggle. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to forget, I hope.”
“That, too.” She leaned her chin on her hand. She could sit here watching him for a very long time and not get bored. His broad shoulders, slim hips, and excellent buns were worth the price of admission.
“Want coffee?”
“Love some.”
“Want sex?”
“Eventually, but I want food first.”
He abandoned his eggs and poured her a mug of coffee. “I anticipated that,” he said as he brought her the coffee and set it on the island. “That’s why I’m slaving over a hot stove, so I can provide you with enough fuel to become a tigress in the bedroom.”
She looked into his brown eyes. “You are so full of it, Grayson.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He winked at her. “And I want to give it all to you. Now drink your coffee, and in a jiffy I’ll have some scrambled eggs for you. And toast.”
“What kind of toast? I’m particular about my toast.” She couldn’t believe how much fun she was having. She’d never kidded around with her boyfriends like this.
“It’s cinnamon-raisin or nothing, sweetheart.”
“Lucky you. That’s my favorite.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Somehow I knew that. Don’t ask me why.”
“Why?”
He groaned. “You really are a pain in the ass. But I’ll reveal my secret, because if I don’t, you’ll badger me until I do.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“A couple of months ago, you told me about a bakery in Dallas that makes amazing cinnamon-raisin bread. I think the mother of one of your friends works there.”
“That’s right. Melanie’s mother.”
“So the next time I was in town, I checked it out. Now I’m hooked. I buy in bulk and freeze it.”
She took a minute to absorb the news that a chance comment from her had prompted him to change his shopping and eating habits. But she was no different. Ever since learning that he was into classic rock, she’d tuned in to a station that played that, which was how she knew who Buddy Holly was when he’d announced the foal’s new name.
“Don’t put too much importance on that.” He opened a cupboard and took down a couple of plates. “I’m always looking for local businesses to support.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” she said, lying through her teeth. “I do the same.” She would never admit how she’d obsessed over him for the past six months.
“Yep. That’s the value of talking to a variety of people.” He dished out the eggs, took a couple of forks from a drawer, and brought the plates and forks over. “Here you go. Fuel up.”
“Thanks, but you’re making this sound like a pit stop at the Indianapolis 500. What exactly are you expecting of me?”
Grabbing his own mug of coffee, he rounded the island and sat down on the stool next to hers. He glanced over at her. “Nervous?”
“A little, yeah.” Especially because she’d noticed that he’d shaved, and he’d made some explicit promises about what would happen once he’d rid himself of the bristle.
“Then let me ease your mind, pretty lady.” He met her gaze. “Your clothes are in the dryer. They should be dry in another twenty or thirty minutes. If at any time you want me to take you home, you have only to say the word and it will be done.”
“So I’m in charge?”
“As much as you want to be.”
“Now, that’s a loaded comment if I ever heard one.”
His expression shifted from teasing to earnest. “Astrid, I’ve dreamed of having you in my bed ever since I met you. Forgive me if I’m eager to keep you there as long as I can. I won’t be the one to call a halt. You’ll have to do it. If I had my way, you’d stay . . . indefinitely.”
It was quite an admission, one that made him vulnerable. Her heart ached, because she longed for that kind of simple attraction—a man and a woman who discovered how right they were for each other and allowed the relationship to progress naturally. But life wasn’t that easy, and there were things about her that he didn’t know, things that undoubtedly would change his perception of her.
But she kept the exchange lighthearted, for both their sakes. “With only one set of clothes, staying indefinitely would involve way too much time in your laundry room.”
He smiled. “Unless we forget about clothes completely.”
“There’s a thought.”
“A most excellent thought. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
He laughed, and the potential for an awkward moment passed.
She dug into the breakfast he’d prepared, which was delicious. “Great food,” she said between bites. “Where did you learn how to cook?”
“My mom taught me. She believed that a boy should be as handy in the kitchen as a girl. I had to do my own laundry, too, so you’ll be happy to know I separate whites and colors.”
“Excellent.” She thought about her clothes. “I didn’t have any whites.”
“That helped. And for the record, your black lace bra and black panties are sexy as hell.”
“So we’re back to sex, are we?” She pushed away her empty plate and sipped her coffee.
“Don’t I wi
sh. But there’s something I have to tell you. I wanted to wait until you’d finished.”
Her chest tightened as she glanced over at him. “It’s about the truck, isn’t it?”
“The sheriff’s department called. They found it.”
“Where?”
“A long way downstream, a good twenty miles, at least. That water was moving fast.”
“I know.” She needed to hear this, but she didn’t want to. Living in a bubble had been great. She’d pushed the accident to the back of her mind while she’d contemplated bedroom games with Fletch. No longer. An image of her truck being pulled from the stream, water spilling out of the cab, twisted her stomach into a knot.
“Damn. You look horrified. I didn’t want to tell you at all, but I felt you needed to know.”
“Yes, I do.” She took a fortifying breath. “Was . . . anything still in it?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. They think it was tossed against other debris. The tailgate is gone, and the driver’s- side door. The cab and truck bed are both empty.”
“So it’s pretty beat up, I guess.”
“Afraid so. They’ve towed it to a yard. I have the number if you want to call.”
She recoiled at the idea. Eventually she’d have to deal with her wrecked truck, but maybe not today. “Did you say I would?”
“No. I told them you were still recovering from your ordeal and would be in touch when you got your bearings.”
“Thank you.”
His voice gentled. “Astrid, do you have good insurance? Is that what you’re worried about?”
She glanced into his eyes, warm with concern, and thought how ironic it was that he was worried about the money. “I have good insurance. I’m just mad at myself for being careless. I shouldn’t have driven over that bridge. I put myself and you in great danger and ruined a perfectly good truck, not to mention losing all those medical supplies.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “We all have lapses. You’d been up all night. It’s hard to be sharp when you’re exhausted.”
The Perfect Man Page 13