Outback Cowboy

by Lexxie Couper

  “So good,” she moaned. Her legs trembled, her belly hitched. She pushed her ass back toward Dylan’s face, the firm strokes of his tongue, the wriggling penetration of his finger driving her wild. “So…so fucking…oh, oh, oh yes!”

  Her orgasm exploded, a detonation of unexpected, delicious heat and pulsing tension. She writhed on her knees, her hips bucking uncontrollably, Dylan continuing to fuck her ass with his tongue as his fingers plundered her gushing sex.

  Throb after constricting throb claimed her pussy. She clawed at the duvet and whimpered into its silken softness as Dylan took her to a place of sexual release and awareness she’d never known before.

  Monet’s climax pulsed through her, tight and absolute. She cried out, her legs trembling harder as Dylan withdrew his finger from her pussy and gently lowered her to the bed.

  She rolled her head to the side, the fading force of her orgasm still beating in her sex. “I…” She stopped, licked her lips and pushed her hair from her face. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  Dylan chuckled behind her, the mattress shifting as he pushed himself off the bed. “How ’bout ‘more please’?”

  Monet snorted. “I think you tongue-fucked me into paralysis. I can’t feel my limbs.”

  She waited for him to laugh. When he didn’t, she twisted on the bed, looking over her shoulder to find the bedroom empty. “Dylan?”

  Silence.

  Monet frowned. She righted herself on the bed, settling onto her knees as she chewed her bottom lip. Where did he go? Should she go after him? What was he—

  The question died in her mind as Dylan strode back into her bedroom. Naked. Completely naked.

  Save for his hat.

  She burst out laughing. The grin on his face, the jaunty angle of his hat, the massive erection jutting upward from the dark-blonde thatch of pubic hair…it was all so delicious. So naughty. So perfect.

  The dimple in his right cheek flashed at her as he moved closer to the bed. He held up his hand, a small black square between his fingers. “Ready for more?”

  Before she could reply, he placed one knee on the end of the bed, followed by the other, and then extended his hand toward her.

  Monet’s sex constricted. She didn’t think it was possible. Not after the orgasm he’d just given her, but it did. It constricted and throbbed and squeezed a cock not there. A cock currently pointing straight up, its hard length thick and demanding her attention. Waiting for her to sheathe it in the condom Dylan offered.

  Condom.

  Monet’s gaze slid to the small square of black foil, making out the word “Studded” in gold script. Her pulse quickened, her breath catching in her throat.

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Studded?”

  He nodded with a grin. “For your pleasure.”

  Monet’s gaze dropped back to the condom packet. She plucked it from his fingers, raised it to her lips and tore it open with her teeth.

  Dylan let out a long breath. His cock, already leaking beads of liquid need from its tip, twitched.

  Withdrawing the slick circle of latex from the foil packet, Monet shifted on the bed, repositioning herself until her knees were almost touching his. She reached for his erection, watching the way his balls rose as her fingers brushed his flesh.

  Dylan hissed in a breath. His stomach hitched, his abs coiling with the raw reaction to her touch. “Bloody hell, Monnie, if you don’t get that on soon I’m think I’m gonna—”

  She covered the head of his cock with the condom and rolled the latex sheath down his length.

  Dylan’s groan was low. Ragged. His cock throbbed in her hand, the tiny raised studs of the condom’s surface grazing her palm. Her pussy contracted, her mind telling her exactly how good they would feel sliding inside her pussy as Dylan pumped into her over and over and over again.

  When he thrust into her. Filled her.

  Fucked her.

  Made love to her.

  Monet’s head swam. Make love to me…

  She lifted her gaze to Dylan’s face, her pulse leaping fast in her neck at the smoldering desire burning in his eyes. “I want this to last forever, Monet,” he murmured. “I’ll do my best. But I want you so fucking much I think I may embarrass myself.”

  His confession made her pussy flood with heat. She cupped his balls in her palm and gave them a little squeeze. “How many condoms did you pack?”

  “A few.”

  She smiled, tugging on his heavy scrotum again. “Then who the fuck cares about the first one?”

  He laughed, the sound wonderful and real and so totally Dylan. “Bloody hell, love, you know how to make a bloke feel—”

  He didn’t finish. Probably because Monet was pulling him down on top of her, nails digging into his bare butt cheeks, legs spreading beneath his weight.

  They hit the bed together, Dylan’s cock nudging at Monet’s folds, her clit, his mouth capturing her lips. He kissed her, his tongue swiping into her mouth. A distant part of Monet’s mind noticed he tasted of mint, as though he’d freshly rinsed with mouthwash. A warm wave of joy rolled through her, the knowledge he’d thought of that small detail before coming back making her love him even more.

  Love him.

  Not just desire him. Not just aroused by him, wanting him. But in love him.

  She loved him and now she was finally going to make love to him.

  Raking her nails up his back, she thrust her hips, hooking one leg around the back of his thigh. The move spread her folds a little and his cock dipped into her heat before nudging her clit again.

  She arched her back, driving her heel against his butt. Wanting him inside her.

  Wanting…

  Dylan tore his lips from her, running a hand down her side, along the length of the leg hugging his hip as he raised his head and gazed down into her face. His dimple creased his cheek. “Want me to take my hat off?”

  Monet shook her head. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Fair enough.” His fingers journeyed her leg until, with a quick shift of his arm, her knee was draped over the crook of his elbow. “Ready?”

  Monet smiled, even as her heart beat faster in her chest. “You better believe it, cowboy.”

  He tsked. “Stockman, love. Stockman.”

  And he thrust into her.

  One long, fierce, deep thrust that stretched Monet to her limit and filled her head with glorious swirls of color.

  “You’re so tight, Monnie.” His voice was strained. His eyes burned, his stare holding hers. “So tight.”

  Monet wanted to say something back but couldn’t. The pleasure of his cock slowly withdrawing from her gripping pussy wouldn’t let her. Instead, she clung to him, one leg pulled high to her shoulder, the other stretched beside Dylan’s as—just as slowly—he sank back into her sex. Deeper and deeper until the root of his shaft kissed her clit.

  “So fucking tight,” he murmured. “And so fucking perfect.”

  He withdrew again, until she could feel the distended head of his cock spread her folds before, with a thrust more powerful than its predecessors, he drove back into her heat once more.

  And again.

  And again.

  With every thrust, Dylan’s speed grew. With every penetration, Monet’s pleasure mounted. With every steady withdraw, with every punching stroke, her body grew hotter. Hotter. When his lips captured hers, when the brim of his hat bumped her forehead, it was all she could do to hold on and ride the pleasure swelling inside her. He kissed her, demanding and dominating, and she moaned into his mouth and gave him everything he wanted. Gave him her mouth, her tongue, her cunt.

  Kissed him, fucked him. Squeezed her sex around his cock, gripping it with her inner walls as he slammed into her, his speed increasing. Growing faster. Faster. Sending shards of liquid electricity into her soul with every dragging stroke against her clit.

  “Christ, Monet,” he moaned into her mouth, “not much longer. Not much…”

  He slammed into her again. Harder
. Harder.

  A fuzzy part of her mind told her he was palming her breast beneath her bra, his fingers pinching her nipple. Another part told her she was scoring the taut flesh on his shoulders with her nails.

  And it was the way it was meant to be. It was right. It was exquisite. Except…except…

  She broke the kiss, Dylan’s groan of protest feeding the building tension in her sex. “Dylan,” she rasped, fisting a handful of his hair. “I’m going to come. I’m going to come and I want—”

  He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “To see my face when you do,” he finished, the words a breathless growl. “Come for me, Monnie.” He slammed into her, jaw bunched. “Come for me now. Before I can’t—”

  She came. A paroxysm of pleasure so intense, so complete, she barely had time to register the fact Dylan’s hat was still on his head before she was lost to her release, his name bursting from her lips as her name roared past his, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as his rhythm failed him and he pumped into her sex. Filling her. Filling the condom.

  And as her climax peaked, it dawned on her he hadn’t even come close to embarrassing himself.

  She wondered exactly how many more condoms he had in his luggage.

  Chapter 10

  “Why Black Friday?”

  Monet lifted her head from where it lay resting on her crossed arms, opening her eyes to look at Dylan. He was sitting on the bed beside her, his back against the headboard as he cast his attention over the open New York Times in his hands.

  He looked so perfect there on her bed—finally on her bed, not the sofa—his golden-brown chest calling to be touched, his long, lean legs stretched out before him on top of the sheets. His black boxers—which he’d slipped on to retrieve the morning paper from Monet’s door fifteen minutes ago—highlighted the deep tan the Australian sun had given him, a sight Monet found very appealing indeed. If she wasn’t so damn comfortable stretched out on her belly, his body heat seeping into her side, his distinctly masculine scent threading through every breath she pulled, she’d climb from the bed, find her closest sketchbook and capture his gorgeousness on paper.

  But she was comfortable. Damn comfortable. And her closest sketchbook was at least a good fifteen feet away out in her studio.

  “We have a Black Friday in Australia,” Dylan went on, “but it’s named after a bush fire that destroyed whole towns.” He cast her a quick sideways look around the edge of the Times. “I’m guessin’ your Black Friday has nothing to do with fire?”

  Monet shifted on the bed until she lay on her side, resting her head on her hand as she smiled at him. “No. It was originally called Black Friday because the number of people who went out shopping in Philadelphia after Thanksgiving made the streets and sidewalks hell. Somewhere around the eighties, people started referring to it that way because supposedly the retails stores turned a profit after that day.”

  He frowned at the paper in his hands. “And people really get out of bed to go shopping at four in the morning?”

  Monet grinned. “They do.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Bloody idiots.”

  “And what do you do at four in the morning, Mr. Oh-So-Mighty Sullivan?”

  He closed the paper, folded it carefully and then tossed it over his shoulder as he rolled onto his side to face her. “Sleep.” He pulled a face. “Or muster a herd if it’s summer or sale day. Or find a snake to put in Hunter’s boots if he’s been out on the town the night before.” His grin returned. “But my favorite thing is sleep. Definitely not going to the bloody shops, I can tell you that.”

  “What if the most perfect prize bull was only going to be on sale at four thirty and every other cowboy—I mean stockman,” she corrected when he cocked an eyebrow at her, “was going to be there to try to buy it. Would you get out of bed to go to the ‘bloody shops’ then?”

  Dylan laughed, placing his hand on the curve of her bare hip and smoothing his hand over the gentle dip of her waist. “Oh well, that’s different. If it’s something important like Angus.”

  Monet rolled her eyes. “You are such a cowboy,” she said, emphasizing the cow. She was doing her damndest to appear indifferent to the wicked sensations his hand was creating simply by brushing over her waist. It was hard. Especially when her heart tripped into a hiccuppy little pace and her pussy contracted the second his thumb traced the curve of her rib cage. And then higher. “You’d get up at four to buy a bull or give your brother trouble but not for anything else?”

  His fingers feathered over the pointed tip of her nipple. “I’d be up at four a.m. for you every day of the week.” He skimmed his hand down her arm, wrapped his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand under his boxers to his cock. His very erect, very thick cock. “Just like this.”

  Monet couldn’t stop her low moan. Nor could she stop her fingers circling his impressive girth and squeezing. She didn’t want to stop. His flesh was like velvet steel against her palm. It made her pussy throb with urgent want.

  “Have I told you how much I love the feel of your hand on my dick?”

  Dylan’s hoarse question rasped against her senses. She shivered, the raw hunger in his voice potent. She slid her fingers down his length until she cupped his scrotum, giving its heavy weight a gentle tug. “What about the feel of my hand on your balls? Do you love that as well?”

  His eyes closed, his breath growing ragged. “Oh yeah.”

  She kneaded them, watching his nostrils flare. Reveling in the way his jaw bunched and his Adam’s apple jumped up and down in his throat. “So, you’d get up for me every morning at four?”

  “Every day,” he answered, although the words were a barely audible groan. Probably because she’d shucked his boxers down over his hips and had returned her hand to his cock, pumping it with slow, firm pressure. “Especially if you’re going to do that.”

  Monet smiled. “What if I did this?” She shifted on the bed, pushed him flat onto his back and, without hesitation, straddled his face and took his cock in her mouth.

  “Fuck!”

  The curse burst from Dylan a second before he gripped her hips and plunged his tongue into her sex.

  Monet pushed back toward his penetrations, sucking on his growing cock as she did so. She rode his face, taking pleasure from his lashing tongue in her pussy, mimicking with her mouth the rhythm of her hips.

  He groaned and shoved his hips upward, his fingers digging into her ass cheeks, his knees bending. His tongue laved her clit, swiped into her folds and back to her clit again. She hummed her approval around his thrusting cock and he groaned again, his grip intensifying.

  Monet didn’t relent, fucking him as hard and fast as she could with her mouth. She’d never get tired of giving him head. His cock filled her mouth so perfectly, slid over her tongue, pressed at the back of her throat. She hummed again, wanting to feel Dylan’s reaction. He gave it to her, nails driving into her flesh, tongue plunging deeper into her sex.

  It was exquisite torment. She never wanted it to end. She wanted to live in this moment forever.

  He licked his tongue up over her perineum, into her anus, and she let out a cry, concentrated pleasure surging through her.

  Dylan assaulted her ass with his tongue, each stabbing thrust driving her closer, faster to release. She stilled above him, allowing herself the sheer indulgence of his worship for a moment, her whimpers slipping from her parted lips, her eyes closed. She hovered there on the brink of orgasm, his tongue in her ass, his hands on her flesh, roaming her butt, hips, inner thighs.

  Her pussy.

  He rubbed a finger—or it could have been his thumb, she didn’t know, didn’t care—over her clit, laving her ass as he did so. Propelling her closer to the edge. Closer.

  She returned her mouth to his cock, the taste of his pre-come like ambrosia. She wanted to come with him. Wanted to feast on his seed as she came on his face.

  Sliding her lips up and down his throbbing length, she sucked hard. Plunging deep and th
en withdrawing to the very tip, over and over and over again, her orgasm like twisting fire building in her core. Threading through her very existence. Scorching its way from her center, through her body, through her soul.

  Dylan’s fingers left her clit, sank into her wet sex and she came. Just like that. Her orgasm gushed from her, shuddering waves of pleasure that stole any ability to think. To act. All she could do was let it crash over her as her mouth continued to fuck Dylan’s cock. Take it deeper as his tongue fucked her ass and his fingers fucked her cunt.

  And then, as his tongue left, he let out a roar and he came, his hips slamming upward, his come flooding her mouth, the back of her throat.

  She took it all, every thick spurt, sucked greedily on his release.

  His moans turned to pants, his pants to gasping giggles. It was the most perfect sound. The laughter of absolute pleasure. She loved it. As much as she loved him.

  Which was more than she could find words for.

  Slowly sliding her mouth from his spent cock, she rolled to the bed, letting her thigh drape over his chest as she rested her cheek on his hip. “Now that’s better than shopping.”

  Dylan laughed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Bloody oath it is.”

  Monet smiled, the Australian expletive making her feel warm and fuzzy inside. Who would have thought she’d fall in love with an Australian cowboy?

  More importantly, what was she going to do about it?

  Tell him how she felt? Ask him to stay? Google Green Card applications?

  “Dylan?” She shifted on the bed, pushing herself up to face him and tucking her knees under her chin. Her heart beat fast, thumping its way into her throat. Her lips tingled. “Would you…”

  She paused. What was she doing? Was she really going to take the next step? Was she really?

  He gave her a cheeky grin. “Would I what? Make breakfast? Sing Waltzing Matilda? Make breakfast while singing Waltzing Matilda?”

  Oh God, should she ask him? Ask him to stay with her?

  “Would you…would you…like to have a picnic lunch in the park today?”