by Lori Wilde
The same old crossroads that had always defined her life.
Abruptly Durango jerked away. “No. This isn’t right,” he said. He rose to his feet but did not meet her questioning gaze. “No matter how much I might want to make love to you right now, I can’t.”
“Wh…what?” She blinked.
He was rejecting her? Her passion-addled mind wasn’t functioning properly. She didn’t understand what he was saying, why he was pulling the plug on their sex play.
“Why not? I want you to.”
“I’m doing it for all the wrong reasons.”
“What reasons?”
Before he could answer, the two-way radio at his belt crackled.
“Come in, Durango,” the smoky voice of an older woman broadcast loudly in the confines of the ruins. “Buster and I found the glider, cowboy, but where are you?”
GRATEFUL FOR Connie’s timely interruption, Durango mentally chastised himself all the way back to Sedona. He was disturbed over the red-hot desire that burned so intensely whenever he was around Abby.
In the beginning, he had to confess he had wanted revenge for the way she’d once treated him. But his dishonorable bid for retribution was backfiring.
Big time.
He had lost control. He was getting ensnared in a trap of his own orchestration. How had he let a little emergency first-aid turn into a full-blown sexcapade?
Durango sat in the back seat of the Jeep feeling broody and moody in a way he hadn’t felt since he’d lived in Silverton Heights. Abby was riding up front with Connie and they were chattering away like old friends. Connie’s pedigree German shepherd, Buster, sat wedged between them. Occasionally, Abby would lean over to scratch behind Buster’s ears.
Damn, but he wished she were stroking him.
That’s just terrific, Creed, you’re jealous of a friggin’ dog.
What was the matter with him? He was officially losing his grip.
He had never intended to give Abby oral pleasure at the Indian ruins and his uncontrollable impulses had him questioning his objectives. He had promised Abby he would help her explore her passion so that she could get her erotic fantasies out of her system and return to her regular life refreshed and restored and happy. But after what had happened in the ruins, he was afraid that simply unlocking her secret passion wasn’t going to be enough for him.
No, Durango wanted to fill her so full of zeal and enthusiasm and crazy delight that there would be no way she could go back to her hidebound life in her snooty community, where suppressing emotions and denying feelings reigned supreme. He wanted not only to rock her world, but to stand it on its head. He wanted her to see everything differently.
Especially him.
He was no longer satisfied being either her short-term stud or the bad-boy fantasy from her youth. It wasn’t enough for him to possess her body. He no longer wanted to simply piss off Judge Archer.
He wanted more.
So very much more.
And he intended on having her. Mind, body, soul and heart.
He studied her reflection in the side-view mirror. Even though she was smiling and talking animatedly to Connie, there was a tension about her mouth, a famished look in her eyes, a haunted air in the way she held her shoulders.
She was not sated. She had sipped from passion’s cup and she’d loved the taste.
Good thing he hadn’t brought her to orgasm yet. Her hunger gave him the upper hand. She’d let down her guard and he’d slipped right in under her radar, burrowing deep inside her.
He smiled a nefarious smile.
Durango’s head whirled wildly with a thousand illicit fantasies as his mind wandered down a treacherous path. He was going to bring her to her knees. Fix it so after two weeks with him she’d be unable to settle in Silverton Heights again.
He felt as if he was hovering on the verge of something epic. His portentous thoughts left him jittery and restless and eager to plot her downfall. Things were about to change.
For her. For him. Forever.
7
ABBY’S FANNY STILL STUNG from the cactus needles, but what distracted her more was the throbbing ache between her thighs. She was wild with wanting and she couldn’t wait to have more adventures with Durango.
He had told her to meet him at the Conga Club at eight o’clock and to play along with whatever adventures he had in store.
As she was getting ready for the date, a knock sounded on the door. She opened it to find a delivery boy with a large white box clutched in his hands. She tipped the guy and then carried the box to the bed. With trembling fingers she pried open the lid.
Excitement jackhammered her heart. She pushed back the tissue paper and stared down at the black miniskirt, matching black zippered vest and thigh-high leather stiletto boots.
Omigod.
She clamped a hand over her mouth. It was the sexiest gift anyone had ever given her.
Inside was a card that read: Wear me, but leave off your bra.
She giggled but then her stomach tightened and she got scared. Could she actually wear this wild ensemble out in public? What if someone saw her? What if someone recognized her and told her father she was dancing around Sedona dressed like a dominatrix?
Abby sneezed.
No. None of that. She’d already discovered the way to get past the sneezing was simply to give in to temptation and express herself.
Here goes nothing.
She stripped off her bathrobe and put on the outfit.
The soft supple leather clung to every curve she possessed. The low-cut vest exposed far more cleavage than she was used to showing and there would be no bending over in the miniskirt, unless she wanted to moon everyone within eyeshot.
Holy cow, she looked like one sexy motorcycle chic. She wondered then if Durango still had his Ducati and if they would be riding on it.
Her nerves zigzagged every which way.
Don’t back down now. This is what you wanted, remember? Fun, adventure, the freedom to be someone totally different, if only for a couple of weeks.
Both Tess and Cassandra had been absolutely correct. An outrageous, temporary fling with Durango Creed was indeed what she needed. This morning in the Indian ruins had been proof enough of that.
So, she wasn’t going to overthink things. She was going to fly on gut instinct and let nature take its course and when it was time to go home, she would don her old clothes and set back to her regular life fully divested of unbridled lust, with only her sassy haircut as a reminder.
That was what she wanted.
A second knock sounded at the door.
Durango?
Could it be him? Her pulse kicked. But she was supposed to be meeting him at the Conga Club.
Unless he’d decided to change the rules.
She wobbled to the door, unaccustomed to wearing four-inch spike heels. Too bad Tess was off with Jackson Dauber. Abby could use some stiletto walking lessons.
It was the same delivery guy. But this time he was staring at Abby as if she’d stepped from the pages of his favorite naughty magazine. His mouth was literally hanging open as he handed her a vase of flowers.
She tipped him again, shut the door and set the flowers on the bureau.
Roses. Blood-crimson. A dozen.
And in the middle, one lone anthurium, a red heart-shaped flower with a gold pistil that looked like a miniature fully erect penis jutting proudly from the center.
The card read: Does this remind you of anything?
Abby had to wriggle her nose to keep from sneezing.
The only way to fight off the sneezes is to give in to your desires, not deny them.
Determined to conquer her quirk once and for all, Abby reached out to stroke the tiny pistil and the urge to sneeze immediately disappeared.
By the time the third knock on the door sounded, she couldn’t wait to see what Durango had sent. He was spoiling her something sinful and she was loving every minute of it. She ripped open the door, took the
box from the delivery guy and sent him smiling on his way with a twenty-dollar bill.
Godiva Chocolates.
The card said: Eat me.
So she did, savoring the chocolate like it was her last meal. Who knew Durango could be such a romantic? He was pulling out all the stops, making this the ultimate sexual adventure. He was making her feel like a fairy-tale princess, pampered and spoiled, offering up gifts to her womanhood.
She was wetter than she’d ever been in her entire life. She couldn’t wait to get to him and properly thank him for his gifts.
Abby hurried downstairs, acutely aware of the stares from the other spa patrons as she passed through the lobby. The doorman had the hotel courtesy car brought around and a driver took her to the Conga Club.
By the time she arrived at the trendy nightspot, her blood was flowing lava, her heart was thumping and she was ready for action. The pounding bass of the salsa beat vibrated the sidewalk and revved her engine higher.
Abby sauntered into the club on a Godiva chocolate and romance adrenaline rush, reveling in the passion surging through her body, shoving her through the door and headlong into the throng.
Once inside, she hesitated. Many men were staring at her. Several even made suggestive comments. She felt her bravery ebbing.
And then she saw Durango.
He came through the crowd toward her.
Looking exactly as he did in her midnight fantasies. He wore a black leather vest that matched her own, except his wasn’t zipped up and, as he walked, she got tantalizing glimpses of his muscular bare chest. He was powerful, almost foreboding.
Biker boy gone bad.
His leather pants were skintight, hugging his narrow hips and broad thighs. His hair, unbound, flowed sexily to his shoulders. He looked like an Indian brave on the hunt. Coming to claim his mate.
Abby practically drooled.
Even in her wildest imagination she could not have dredged up anything this hot.
Their gazes slammed into each other, a full-impact, head-on collision.
He drilled her with his eyes. It felt as if he could see straight through her. See down, down, down into the very depths of her soul.
His chest rose and fell in jagged spikes. She wasn’t surprised to realize she’d picked up his pattern and they were breathing in a syncopated rhythm.
He reached her and then, without a word, extended his hand.
She took it.
His grasp was firm, inviting. She was sucked in.
Walking backward, Durango guided Abby out onto the dance floor. Miraculously, the dancing crowd parted around them.
He moved his hips with a mind-boggling swivel, leading her to the middle of the dance floor. She had no idea he was so light on his feet. They’d both been raised attending high-society functions. They both knew the ins and outs of ballroom dance, but these wild, gyrating steps were all new to her.
Durango locked eyes with her and jerked his pelvis seductively.
Come.
Helpless, Abby felt herself drawn in. She mimicked his movements, swishing her hips, bobbing her shoulders and shaking her feet.
He stared at her but never spoke. It would have been difficult to hear him anyway over the pounding primal beat. His black eyes were enigmatic, his mysterious silence erotic. He raked his gaze over the outfit he’d bought for her to wear. His eyes glazed with a lustful gleam and his jaw tightened.
Her fingers curled with a savage urge to explore that masculine chin. She yearned to press her tongue against it, to taste the saltiness of his skin.
Durango pinned her with his eyes. They danced without ever dropping their gazes. They moved in perfect union, their bodies jammed closely together, stepping in time to the spicy music.
The other dancers were watching them, moving over, making room for the couple dressed in identical black leather. They must create a compelling sight, Abby realized, and that knowledge only served to jettison her desire into the stratosphere.
Their passion for each other escalated with each throbbing beat. They touched, skin against skin, leather against leather, skin against leather.
The band struck up the Lambada. The forbidden dance of love. The tune was faster, hotter, racier.
Durango pulled her flush against his sweaty chest. His muscles rippled against the brush of her breasts. Abby realized she was perspiring, too.
Around them other couples wriggled and writhed. Booties bounced, bottoms bumped, the smell of rampant lust was in the air. And she and Durango were at the center of it.
Their passion for each other escalated with each swagger of their hips, with every strutting dance move, dragging them deeper and deeper into a vortex of physical desire.
When the song ended, Durango leaned over, pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Go to the bathroom and take your panties off.”
She gasped in shock as her blood shot straight to her groin. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But my skirt is so short.”
“Take off your panties,” he repeated.
“I…I’m…”
“It’s all part of the game,” he assured her. “Just sex play. Let go of the rules.”
Then he kissed her. It was a hard, crushing kiss that left no question as to what he was feeling for her. Abruptly he released her.
“Okay.” She nodded, the taste of him ripe on her tongue.
She understood what he was saying. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do, but he hoped she would loosen up and give his game a try.
Yes. She wanted to do this. To see where it would lead. To see exactly what he had in mind.
Knees quivering, Abby hurried to the restroom. She slipped into a stall, took off her panties and stuffed them into her purse.
On her way out, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and literally did not recognize the woman she saw reflected there.
Large hazel eyes made even bigger by too much mascara, short tousled hair, cheeks blushing scarlet, body decked out in decadent leather, lips swollen and reddened from the heated pressure of Durango’s kiss.
A sex goddess.
A passionate überbabe.
One red-hot fox.
Salacious descriptions she would never have applied to herself before.
So this is what it feels like to be Cassandra.
That thought almost put the kibosh on her ardor and she even sneezed, but then Abby realized it was a glorious sensation. She felt emancipated, vibrant and alive.
The woman in the mirror was a bold vixen, a passion hound, a wicked femme fatale. She was the kind of woman men bought leather outfits and naughty flowers and sinful chocolates for.
This wild woman did not wear underwear.
Tonight she wasn’t straitlaced Abby Archer, worrying about what the neighbors would think. Tonight, she was a rowdy sex nymph ready, willing and eager to take a big juicy bite out of life.
Emboldened, Abby stepped into the hallway.
Durango captured her from behind. He snaked a hand around her waist, murmured huskily, “Don’t you dare make a sound” and then tugged her into a darkened alcove separated from the dance-floor area by a thick black velvet curtain. Her stiletto heels snagged on the carpet. It felt as if she were being kidnapped by a sexy bandito.
Anticipation skipped through her.
He unbuckled his black leather studded belt and yanked it fast from the loops. It made a slithering sound that raised the hairs on her forearms. He wrapped the belt around her waist and then used it to pull her hard against his chest for a long, slow, moist deep kiss.
Hadn’t she once read somewhere that there was a direct connection between how a man kissed and the way he performed in the bedroom?
Good kissers make good lovers, Cassandra had always claimed.
Abby’s heart fluttered. If that was true, she was in for one hell of a fine treat.
Inch by excruciating inch, Durango slid the thick leather strap down the curve of her back,
until finally he had slipped it all the way to her upper thighs.
He flipped the belt beneath her miniskirt and edged it up until the leather was lying flat against her naked buttocks. Then he cocked his knee and used it to spread her legs wide.
Abby thought she just might pass out, she was that hot, that turned-on.
He cinched the ends of the belt around the bend of his knee, the belt cupped against her bare bottom. Durango’s knee was stabbed ruthlessly to the wall between her thighs and she was straddling his leg like it was a pony.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“We are going to have our own private dance in here,” he said.
They swayed with the music. His leather-clad knee was snugged against her bare bush, Abby gently riding him.
“That’s it, Angel,” he murmured, and bumped against her with his knee. “I want the delicious scent of you all over me.”
Abby moaned and her nipples tightened to rock hard pebbles beneath her leather vest. The sensation was incredible. Now she knew why he’d told her not to wear a bra.
“That’s it. Do what feels good.”
He wove his fingers through her hair and held her in place while he ran his hot wet tongue up and down the length of her throat. That’s when it first occurred to her that he had donned leather gloves while she’d been in the bathroom.
Totally erotic and just the teeniest bit scary. If she didn’t know and trust him like she did, Abby would have been concerned.
She shivered and flexed her thigh muscles around his leg.
He stroked her collarbone with the butter-smooth leather glove. What a mind-blowing caress, this kiss of leather.
Just a single panel of curtain blocked their illicit activities from the rest of the club. At any moment, anyone could pull back the curtain and discover them.
Dragging his gloved fingers over her flesh, he increased the tension when he ran his thumb over her mouth and she detected the overwhelmingly sensual aroma of leather.
Abby moaned and arched her back as she wriggled against his leg, the pressure inside her swelling to a fever pitch.
The curtain rippled, blown by the air-conditioning. Were they about to be discovered?