In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, Sonnie moved deeper into the baron’s room. She ran her gaze over the lavish appointments, halting at the tall windows positioned on either side of the fireplace. A visible shiver took her.

  “He won’t find us here, will he, Lance?” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  His heart constricted. He locked the door behind him and strode closer. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “No, Sonnie. He won’t. We’re safe.”

  Doubt clouded the obsidian depths of her eyes, and her glance skittered back toward the heavy-draped windows.

  “How do you know he didn’t follow us from the hotel? How can you be sure he’s--he’s not watching us this very minute?

  “Sonnie.” Over the fabric of her cape, he ran his palms along her upper arms and tried to find the right words to soothe her fears. “Sweetheart, I won’t let him get to you again. He’ll have to go through me first. You’re safe. Trust me. He won’t hurt you anymore.”

  Her chin quivered, and Lance knew the gallant effort she took to quash the flow of tears. Her lashes lowered. She fiddled with the lapel on his jacket.

  “You’ll stay with me, then? Tonight?”

  “Yes.” Only then did he understand the implication of that tiny word: that they were very much alone, that the room contained just one bed, and dawn was a long, long time away.

  And he would make love to her.

  He waited for the rush, the roar, the sensations inside him that always came whenever he yearned for Sonnie.

  They didn’t come. Not now. Not ever again.

  Maybe it was the scare of nearly losing her. Maybe desperation made him realize how vulnerable they were, that life was full of uncertainties, and he wanted her forever.

  Gently, he pushed the gray-blue hood down from her dark head. The light from several lamps placed about the room swathed her features and illuminated the swelling over her cheekbone. He sucked in a breath and swore softly.

  “Ditson hit you.” He brushed a fingertip over the abrasion and winced, feeling her pain as though it were his own. “I’ll get some ice from Francois.”

  “No.” Her fingers, cool and smooth, closed around his. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Really.”

  He debated going anyway, but her hand tightened, keeping him in place. With the other she unfastened the cape and let the folds fall into a heap at their feet.

  The brocade gown had a large tear above the sleeve, causing it to sag from her shoulder. Golden light shimmered over the olive tones of her skin and revealed the tantalizing curve of a single breast.

  Lance swallowed hard. Desire flickered, flared, raged through him. Lust. A wanting so powerful he could hardly control it.

  Ruffled lace and scarlet ribbon peeked above the gaping square-cut bodice. The corset hid the rest of her breast from him, hid the nipple he longed to suckle and the rounded globes he ached to cup in his palms.

  “Touch me, Lance,” she whispered, seeming to know the way of his thoughts.

  His breath quickened. His imagination ran rampant in anticipation of the liberties she allowed him, yet he hesitated.

  “Sonnie,” he said huskily.

  He wanted to give her time, to make sure she understood what was happening between them. He didn’t want to take advantage of her emotional state, of the defenses Clay Ditson had weakened with his attack.

  “Touch me,” she said again. “I want it.”

  She took his hand and slowly, steadily brought it to rest against her breast. Of their own accord, his fingers flexed over the brocade and lace and supple skin. His palm massaged, stroked, caressed the fullness.

  Her lids drifted closed, as if she were savoring the sensations he evoked. Lance covered the other breast, too, working both beneath his palms, until he heard her ragged sigh.

  “Tum around,” he said.

  She obeyed and lifted the profusion of dark tresses off the slender column of her neck. With fingers unaccustomed to such tiny buttons, he undid them all, only to encounter the tight laces of the corset. He made a slight sound of frustration.

  “Why do women do this?” He eyed the bindings with masculine distaste.

  “Do what?”

  “Truss themselves up like Christmas turkeys.” He grunted and set himself to the task of loosening the strings.

  She laughed softly. “To make us look good. Or to tease our men, maybe, by prolonging--.” She halted and peeped at him from over her shoulder. A blush colored her cheeks.

  His head lifted. He fought a smile. “By prolonging . . .?”

  Her lashes fluttered. “By prolonging the moment when he will make mad, passionate love to her.”

  “Ah.” The corset fell open. “And how long would a woman want a man to make love to her after he went through all the trouble of unlacing her damned corset?”

  She faced him and hugged the layers of garments to her bosom. Her chin lifted in a challenging pose. “All night, of course.”

  He quirked a brow. “Of course?”

  “Until the crest of dawn.”

  He started to speak, but had to clear his throat and begin again. His loins warmed steadily by degrees. “Provided he was up to it. Of course.”

  “But the man I have in mind is very strong. He would definitely be up to it.” Her lips twitched. “Of course.”

  The heat in his groin raged full force. Sonnie reached up and trailed a finger along the bridge of his nose. “I love you, Lance.”

  Her quiet announcement knocked the air from his lungs. How long had he waited to hear her say that? How long had he hoped, despaired of her returning the same depth of feelings he felt for her?

  Forever. A lifetime.

  She loved him.

  He snared her wrist in a gentle grip and pressed his mouth to the opaque, delicately-veined skin there, feeling the wild beat of her pulse, then moved his way slowly upward. He ran his tongue along the sensitive crease in the crook of her arm.

  “I’ve loved you since you were a kid,” he said. “I was always just one of your father’s men, another cowboy he needed to work the ranch. But I loved you even though you never knew me.”

  The dark crescents of her brows furrowed. He’d surprised her with the admission.

  “And then I went away,” she said, her voice hushed with compassion. He nuzzled her neck; she tilted her head to the side and sighed.

  “Yeah. For a hell of a long time. But I knew you’d come back eventually. Or at least I hoped you would.”

  “Oh, Lance.” A faint glimmer of emotion shone in her eyes. “I’ll never leave again. Not ever.”

  Unbidden, his vow to send her back to Boston flared in his memory like an evil curse. He shoved away the thought to deal with later.

  Much later.

  He tugged at her bodice until the fabric bunched at her waist. With a wiggle of her hips, the gown left her body in a whisper of brocade, falling to the floor on top of her cape. Petticoats and silk stockings followed. Sonnie lifted her arms, and Lance pulled the corset up over her head, then dropped the feminine contrivance on the heap with everything else.

  She stood naked and ravaged his sanity. A low, animal sound tore from his throat.

  “Hey, Boss-man,” she purred, a virginal tigress ripe for the taking. She stepped closer, over the mound of clothing, and splayed her fingers over his shirt and under the lapels of his jacket. “This will never do.”

  She pushed it down his shoulders, and he shook it free, adding to the pile.

  “Nor will this.” His tie followed. “Or this.” Graceful flicks of her thumb undid each button and parted his shirt. She dragged the garment free of his waistband and took it off him.

  The breadth of his shoulders seemed to captivate her. Carefully, as if afraid he’d vanish with her touch, she stroked her palms against his chest in a slow, circular motion, exploring, discovering. They lowered to skim his belly and came around his ribs, clasping his back. Lance guessed she’d never before caressed a man s
o freely, and the thought pleased him.

  She leaned forward and rubbed the tip of her nose against his skin. She inhaled deeply. The sable lashes closed, and her tongue fluttered over his flesh, hot and wet and glorious.

  Shudders of sensation rippled through him. His hands spanned her waist and drew her roughly to him. She melted, flattening her warm, luscious breasts against his chest, and suckled the curve of his neck. Shivers buzzed along his spine. He struggled for control. Her breath came in short pants, her nipples pebbled, and Lance thought he’d die from wanting her.

  Bending, he scooped her up into his arms and strode to the bed. He managed to jerk back the covers and lay her down, then step away and make short work of the suit pants and boots. He came to her, one knee on the mattress, one foot on the floor, and halted.

  Flowing tresses as dark as midnight spilled about the crisply ironed pillowcase. Her gaze burned with his. Lips--moist, full, inviting--parted and waited for his kiss. She turned partially toward him with slender arms outstretched, and still he hesitated.

  He thought of Vince, of the envelope tucked away in his pocket.

  Just as swiftly, he thought of the long, lonely years he’d dreamed of this, of beautiful, grown-up Sonnie waiting for him, loving him, and of how he’d hungered for this moment.

  This wonderfully sweet moment.

  He caught her to him in the breadth of a heartbeat and rolled with her deeper into the mattress. Their mouths locked in a blending of souls and desire, of heat and fire, their tongues seeking and mating in a sensual dance of passion.

  Lance clutched her tighter. She mewled a primitive groan. From beneath him, her thighs opened, and he could wait no longer.

  But he feared hurting her, though he knew he must. He rose above her, holding himself taut, his heart pounding in anticipation. Her back arched; she rasped his name. Her hands slid along his back and grasped his buttocks.

  His arousal throbbed against the petals of her womanhood. He found his rightful place within her and moved gently, slowly. Her hips tilted in a silent plea for him to deepen the thrusts.

  “I want you, Lance,” she whispered. “I want this.”

  He sensed she sought to reassure him, that she knew what to expect, and that it would hurt. He pushed a little harder and broke through the virginal veil. She squeezed her lids shut with a soft gasp, but her hips moved again soon, very soon after, and his mouth caught hers in a lingering, comforting kiss.

  He drove into her, carefully at first. She was tight. Incredibly tight. She opened her legs wider, lifted and wrapped them about his waist. He was so deep inside her he thought he’d drown from the sensation. Their breath sounded harsh within the silence of the room as he moved faster, unable to help himself, forgetting this was her first time, that he should be more tender, slower, gentler.

  Her heat sheathed him, blanketed his skin with a fine mist of perspiration. His blood raced; his pulse pounded. Faster, he moved within her. Closer. God, but he couldn’t get close enough.

  She stayed with him, meeting his every thrust, matching the tempo he created. The massive bed absorbed the rocking of their bodies as he took her with him to the heights of release. He arched, shuddered against her, filled her with his life and love, and their cries meshed as one.

  Like a pair of autumn leaves, they drifted back down to reality, to the lateness of the hour and Lord Whitby’s well-lit room. Sonnie held Lance within the circle of her arms and ran her fingers through the silken thickness of his hair, glinting gold in the lamplight.

  She welcomed his weight upon her. His long, hair-dusted legs entwined with hers; his lean belly pressed warmly over her abdomen. She thought she could lie with him like this, intimately joined, yet spent and satisfied, to her last living day.

  He seemed to know what she was thinking. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her and looked as content as she felt inside.

  “You’re mine, Sonnie. Y’know that?” His low voice curled around her, seductive and intense.

  “Yes,” she said simply. She belonged with him. No other man would command the love she had for Lance.

  “Mine. Not Stick’s or Charlie’s--”

  She frowned. “Stick or Charlie?”

  “--Tom Horn’s or Francois’s or Lord Whitby’s--”

  “Lord Whitby!” Growing more exasperated by the minute, she pushed on his shoulders. “Lance Harmon, what are you talking about?”

  He grinned down at her, but the possessive look in his honey-gold eyes told her he was serious. “I won’t share you with anyone, Sonnie. I’ve waited too long for you to have someone else take you away. You have this effect on men where they fall simpering at your feet like lovesick schoolboys--”

  “I don’t!” she denied, her eyes wide.

  “--and I’m the worst--hell, I admit it--but just get used to the idea that I will be the absolute one and only man in your life from now on and forever!”

  And with that, he planted a wet smack of a kiss to her mouth.

  He rose up, eased away from her, then left the bed. Robbed of his warmth, she settled the blankets snugly about her and stewed over his masculine arrogance. Magnificent in his nakedness, he double-checked the locked door before turning out the lights and finding his way back to the bed.

  She made room for him, but he slipped his long arm about her and brought her back close to his side. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Turnabout’s fair play, you know, Boss-man,” she said, still thinking about his lofty proclamation.

  He grunted. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there shall be no other women in your life, either. From now on and forever.” She added his own words for emphasis.

  “Other women aren’t a problem for me.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  His head turned on the pillow. “What’re you saying?”

  She heard the puzzlement in his tone. Didn’t he know who she was talking about? Their gazes met in the darkness.

  “Gracie!” she exclaimed.

  His jaw dropped, and he stared down at her. Within seconds he filled the air with a hearty chuckle.

  “Come here, my darling little idiot.” The muscles in his arms bunched as he lifted her from his side and brought her to lie on top of him. Their sensuous, skin-to-skin position nearly swayed Sonnie from the conversation at hand.

  “Let’s get one thing straight right now. Gracie is my friend and nothing more. I don’t love her. I never have, and I never will.”

  “But she cares for you,” Sonnie protested. “I saw her, all snuggly and cozy and clinging, like she couldn’t get enough of you.”

  “She was the same way with Horn once she got to know him.” He shrugged a bare shoulder. “She likes men. It’s as simple as that.”

  Not entirely convinced, Sonnie wriggled against him. He clamped his hands low on her hips and held her still. “Careful, woman, or you’ll get me hot and wanting all over again.”

  “Did you sleep with her, Lance?” She held her breath, fearing his answer, yet needing to purge her soul of the uppermost worry within her heart.

  “Yes.”

  A squeak of dismay escaped her, and she tried to slide away from him, but he held her fast on top of him.

  “Yes, I slept with her,” he repeated slowly, succinctly, as if he, too, needed to destroy this obstacle between them. “More than once. But she was the only one. I swear it.”

  “That makes her special, then.”

  “No.” The terse denial clipped the air. “It meant nothing to either of us. For me, sleeping with her was just an occasional physical release, however cold that must sound to you. For Gracie, it was fun and games. And I always paid her well for her time.”

  Absorbed with that new perspective, Sonnie shifted position again.

  “Sonnie, doggone it, hold still.”

  His thickening manhood pressed against the inside of her thigh. Sonnie realized the power she held over him, a power not totally carnal.

  The knowledge pleas
ed her.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked.

  “Yes.” In retrospect, she sounded churlish and jealous when she had no need to. It became imperative to make amends. “I believe you, Lance. If she’s your friend, then I want her to be mine, as well. It’s just that. . .”

  “What, Sonnie?”

  “Gracie is an attractive woman whose bosom is much larger than most women’s. Certainly mine, I might add, and since men seem to like that in a woman, I wasn’t sure . . . I thought they might be what attracted you--.”

  His laughter stopped her rambling explanation abruptly. She blinked down at him.

  “Sonnie,” he said. “Her breasts could damn well smother a man if he wasn’t careful. Yours are perfect.”

  “You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

  His mirth faded. “Never let it be said that Lance Harmon isn’t completely taken with Sonnie Mancuso’s breasts,” he said silkily, his tone sensual and intent. He released his clasp about her hips. “See how they fill my hands? Not too large, not too small. Perfect. And they’re soft and warm to hold. Just the way they should be.”

  His callused palms offered a stimulating contrast to the sensitive globes, which had never before been fondled so freely.

  Her blood pumped faster in her veins.

  “The nipples will bring you pleasure, my sweet, if touched the way they’re meant to be touched.”

  His thumbs stroked the hardening nubs until her breath quickened. She clutched his shoulders and arched her back, wanting more of this new sensation.

  “But the pleasure will be even better if they’re tasted . . ..”

  His words died in the midst of his groan as he took one nipple into his mouth, lightly skimming his teeth, his tongue, over the peak.

  Sonnie moaned from sheer ecstasy. Her head fell forward, dropping her hair into a sable curtain about them. He laved the other, and desire surged strong within her. She recognized the excitement swirling deep inside her, a tidal wave that grew higher and higher with every stroke of his tongue.

  Of their own accord, her hips rocked, seeking his thick hardness inside her.

  “Lance,” she said softly, wanting him. Begging him.