Rancher Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  Camden slips a hand over my mouth. “C’mon, honey,” he encourages, pumping me, priming me with generous, even strokes. “Quietly.”

  My body implodes underneath him. What it is, defies description. I’m engulfed in wave after wave of ecstasy. I tremble, shuddering beneath this creature who feels built for no other purpose than to inflict his torturous pleasure on me.

  I’m left breathless, gasping, heaving for air while his hand remains clasp tight over my mouth.

  “Shush,” he reminds, kissing me, pumping gently, sucking the last remnants of reflexive orgasm from my body. “Fucking hell, this is great.”

  It is. Never in my entire life….

  Yeah. We may be on the down-low, but we’re in this. And this is too good to be missed.

  Chapter 10

  Camden

  Her heels—one of them wrapped in an Ace bandage—are dug into my ass cheeks so hard it’s damn near distracting. Not as distracting as the way her pussy shudders, gripping me, sucking me in as she comes over and again, beneath me. When Grace comes, her face is the prettiest face I’ve ever seen. It softens by degrees, going slack, like some angel has slipped inside her and taken away all her doubt, replacing it with contentment, or maybe even joy.

  I’d like to do this all night if she’d keep coming like that. I wish it was possible, but it’s been a long time, and she feels too good, she looks too good with my dick buried deep inside her for me to last much longer. It started quick and it’s going to wrap up quicker than I want it to. That’s okay, we’ll have time to get better at this. I want to take my time with her.

  She said something about a shot. I don’t know what that is. I already came inside her once, not meaning to. I just couldn’t stop or pull out fast enough.

  Feeling my balls tighten, knowing I’m close, I slow down, ease back, and make Grace look at me.

  “I’m gonna come,” I huff, between clenched teeth. “Should I pull out?”

  She grins wickedly, squeezing my dick tight with her hot walls. Her hands round my shoulders, pulling up with my strokes.

  “I’ll be mad if you do,” she teases, nipping my lip. “It’s okay.” She blinks, her eyes dark with absent pleasure. “I’m on birth control.”

  Outstanding.

  Does she have any idea how good she feels, her soft skin, naked to me? The way her breasts feel, hot and firm against my chest? Her pussy tight, wrapping me in a grip so snug that every movement makes my gut quiver and my balls twitch?

  My hands fall to her ample, dimpled ass. I pull it nearer, lifting her so I’m driving in at the perfect angle. I dig in, feeling every inch of her slip over me.

  “Come on,” Grace encourages, her tone low, soothing, heated. “Do it.”

  That’s it.

  “Oh… fuck…”

  The crushing pressure I’ve controlled for too long explodes with force, flooding me, dulling my mind, darkening all my senses. It’s just pleasure now. Pounding, penetrating pleasure, gushing from me in torrents, erasing any other concern in my world. The only awareness I know is Grace’s body receiving me, open to me, sucking my strength from me, milking me dry until I’m soft like a fish out of water, half dead, heavy and limp on top of her, whining like a cat.

  Moments pass before I can move or begin to catch my breath. I’m spinning, dizzy, delirious. Drained.

  Never in my entire life….

  When my senses finally begin to return, I push up and slowly roll off Grace, leaving her drenched in my sweat, slick with my scent.

  I’m slick with her scent too; herbs, springtime, lemon peel. I want to rub that scent all over me, so I can carry it around on me during the day.

  Never in my entire life….

  She stirs beside me, drawing the covers up close, shielding her nakedness—or maybe for warmth.

  I roll to face her, propped on an elbow, reaching up, tugging the blanket down to reveal the arching globe of her breasts, her nipples peeking just at the trim of the sheet.

  “Don’t hide from me,” I whisper, leaning in, kissing her. “I want to see you.”

  I let my fingers trace her bare skin, slowly running the turn of her shoulder, skipping down, dipping under the covers, my hand grazing the curve of her belly, the rise of her hip. Her body is my idea of perfection. Soft, generous curves. Full hips and breasts. Skin the color of ivory, with the feel of silk.

  Grace takes me in, watching me study her. Her expression is implacable, but I know there’s something going on behind those smart, secretive eyes.

  “What?” I ask. “You’re thinking. Tell me.”

  She shakes her head, smiling a little. “Not much,” she says. “Just thinking that was nice, and… you’re good at that.” She laughs a little as she says this, like she didn’t expect it.

  “Am I?” I ask. Nice? It was nice?

  She makes it easy. It isn’t always easy or nice.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  I reach my arm forward, circling her shoulders, drawing her into me so I can cradle her. She doesn’t object, but she seems surprised that I want her close.

  I want her as close to me as I can get her.

  I think we’re both surprised. Maybe stunned is a better word. Whichever it is, it’s something we feel, knowing that we’re here and that this has happened. As surprised as I am, I’m damned happy about it. She seems happy about it too. She’s lighter now, not so armored up. A wall has come down.

  Grace thinks of something, then lets a little laugh escape her. Her eyes meet mine.

  “You know, I thought you were going to fire me,” she says, and I could not be more astonished with the information. “I spent all afternoon psyching myself up for it, for telling Emma goodbye. For heading out to destinations unknown with a sprained ankle and a car load of books.”

  How did she ever come to that conclusion?

  “You have a pretty grim view of people,” I observe.

  After reading some of her web page posts, I suppose I understand where that grim view comes from, but I never meant to contribute to it.

  “That never crossed my mind,” I assure her. “It bothered me that you called me ‘Bossman.’ That term has some real negative implications. I sure don’t want you – or anybody – to see me that way.”

  Tyler says I’m hard to work for, but I don’t want anyone to see me as a tyrant. Or worse.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says. “I didn’t quite mean it the way you read it. You’re my boss, and you’re bossy.” She grins at me. “At least when you talk. Which you don’t, usually.”

  I don’t talk?

  “I’m talking now,” I say. I slip my hand up, pushing her bangs back, away from her brow. “I’ll talk about anything. You don’t talk either. You’ve got all kinds of secrets.”

  “What secrets?” she challenges me, a smirk brightening her pretty, hazel eyes. “I don’t have any.”

  I can think of a few. If I ask, I’ll reveal to her that I was eavesdropping earlier.

  “Who’s Mark?” I ask, risking her ire. “I heard you on the phone with your friend. I only lingered a minute. But long enough to hear the name.”

  Grace’s breath catches. She fixes her eyes on mine.

  “You were listening to my phone call?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’m a nosy bastard,” I say smiling at her, undeterred. “Who just made you come three times. Who is Mark?”

  She rolls her eyes. I love that. Next, she shakes her head, as if trying to make light of it.

  “An ex,” she says. “From college. We’ve known one another since middle school. Best friends. We were a couple through college. He went his way, I went mine. That’s it.”

  Jesus. Since middle school? Okay.

  “Did he break your heart?” I ask her. “Or was it a mutual thing? Or just what?”

  Again, she shakes her head.

  “No. No broken hearts. We just kind of… grew apart. He had ambitions. I have different ones. He moved to California. I came here. I knew a long
time ago it wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

  I wonder what kind of simpleton let’s a woman like Grace slip through his fingers. He’s got to be a special piece of light work to let that happen.

  “Well,” I say. “Whoever Mark is, he’s got his priorities all messed up for letting you get away. But I’m glad he did.” I hug her tighter. “His loss. My gain.”

  We continue talking until the early hours of the morning. She tells me about her dream to be a real journalist or writer, and I tell her about my ambitions for the ranch, and my hope that one day, Emma will take it over, keeping it going, raising another generation here on this land with the horses.

  Grace listens. She listens better than anyone I’ve ever known.

  Maybe that’s the journalist in her. She’s inclined to listen, to observe, more than tell her own story.

  “What about you?” I ask her, after revealing to her my hopes for the Kicking Horse Ranch and its future. “What is it you want to do in the long run?”

  She gives me a vacant smile. “Right now, all I want is to sleep,” she says, deflecting. “Emma’s got to be at pre-school by eight, and Bossman wants me in the ring by nine. I need to go to bed.”

  I want her to sleep with me, but she balks at the idea.

  “How many times have you woken up in the morning to find Emma in bed with you?”

  She’s got a point.

  Grace gathers her clothes and after a lingering kiss she goes, leaving me alone and lonely. She wants to keep this thing quiet. I guess I can do that if it’s what she prefers, but it doesn’t feel natural.

  I want her in bed with me. I want to hold her. I want to dream beside her.

  I don’t always get what I want. Sometimes I have to settle for what I can get.

  I’m not a big talker; I keep to myself unless I have something useful to contribute to a conversation. But I don’t do well at keeping secrets. I guess I’ve spent so much time around my horses that I’ve become like them. They tell you who they are and what’s going on with them with looks and gestures. I do that too. It’s just how I am.

  On Christmas Eve, with a house full of people and kids running around everywhere, I see Grace leaning in a corner by herself, just watching the whirlwind like she’s studying a problem she doesn’t understand. To anyone else observing her, she probably appears perfectly contented, holding a cup of hot chocolate, smiling at the children. But I know that expression she gets when she’s feeling lost, when she’s outside the window, looking in.

  She gets that look sometimes after we’ve made love, looking at me like she can’t really believe we’re real. We’re real. We’re just keeping it a secret. She insists it’s for Emma’s sake, but I’m starting to dislike it. I like being with her, talking with her. I like making her laugh. I like coming up behind her when she’s working in the kitchen, slipping my arms around her and pulling her close to me, nuzzling her neck, breathing her scent into my lungs.

  I like watching her get frustrated in the ring when Mirabel won’t do what she wants. She huffs and swears like a sailor, rolls her eyes and glares at me. She makes me laugh at her without trying to be cute. Watching her, whether she’s struggling with riding lessons, or sitting with Emma cradled in her lap, or even curled up with a book of her own, lost in her thoughts, is my greatest singular pleasure in the world.

  Aside from being Emma’s father, of course.

  Before Beverly and I got together, I got around a lot. I had a string of girlfriends, one after the other. Not one of them did much more than distract me for a few minutes before they were talking about dresses, flowers, preachers, and vows. Beverly was different. She was hard to please. She took real effort on my part, like trying to break a feral. In the end, I think she broke me.

  I gave up on her. I knew she’d never be happy no matter what I did to try to please her. When Emma came, with all her problems, Bev’s bad disposition turned mean, and then it turned self-destructive. And I didn’t do a thing to stop it. I just took care of Emma, because that was all I could do.

  Grace isn’t like a feral. And she’s sure not looking for dresses and vows. She’s standing on the edge of this boisterous herd like she’s looking for wolves in the bushes. She’s vigilant and quiet, making plans, then remaking them as the terrain shifts. She’s always checking her flank and sniffing the air, looking for signs of predators.

  I would do just about anything in the world to be her shelter, but she doesn’t seem to want it. She doesn’t know what to do with closed spaces. Or maybe, she knows those closed spaces too well, and believes they always become traps.

  She doesn’t talk about her past, or her family, or the old boyfriend. The only things I know are what I’ve read on her blog; those things she’s willing to share with the world, anonymously. She shares more with strangers than she shares with me. One day, I will draw her out, but it’s going to take patience and earning her trust. It’ll only happen on her schedule.

  But maybe I can move things along just a little.

  I circle the room, coming up alongside Grace, offering to get her a real drink instead of that cocoa she’s grasping like a shield. It’s gone cold in its cup.

  Keeping up the façade, she doesn’t make eye contact.

  “Thanks, I’m good,” she says, returning her attention to the kids on the floor at the center of the room.

  I turn halfway toward her, so my back is to the room and only she can hear me or see what I’m saying.

  “You are good, when you’re not being bad,” I whisper, grinning slyly. “I can’t wait for this night to be over and all these people to go home. Santa Claus has something special planned for you.”

  Grace cuts her eyes at me. She can’t help but smile, suppressing a giggle. She shakes her head, choosing not to reply, instead just rolling her eyes in that adorable way that makes me cherish her.

  “You’re not going to get any sleep tonight,” I threaten. “Between Emma, and Santa, and me, and getting up early to see what Santa left, you’re gonna be dizzy.”

  “Behave,” she warns me in a low tone, her lip turning ever so slightly. “Or Santa will bring you a bag of coal.”

  She glances up, her eyes smiling. “Now go away, Bossman. Or you’ll have tongues wagging.”

  Let them wag.

  I swagger away, only glancing back long enough to confirm she’s checking out my ass as I go. She is. We both grin. I move on, leaving her alone.

  I think that’s all there is to it until twenty minutes later. Tyler comes up, handing me a cut crystal glass with my favorite, brown beverage swirling inside it. He’s wearing a smirk across his face and he seems like he wants to say something.

  “What?” I ask him.

  He smiles. “Nothing.” He sips his whiskey.

  “What is it?” I press.

  He shrugs, still grinning. “I dunno. You’ve just been in an awfully good mood the last few weeks. And I don’t think it’s ‘cause you’re in the Christmas spirit.”

  Tyler Burke and I have known one another since we were six. We’ve been best friends since eighth grade, when he beat me—by the skin of his teeth—in the Youth Class Cow-Cutting event at the State Fair. He probably knows me better than my own mother at this point. There have never been any secrets between us. Now doesn’t seem like a good time to change that fact.

  “It’s that obvious?” I ask him.

  He nods, grinning like a kid. “Oh yeah,” he says, his tone low. “The looks. The passing little jokes between you. You get in her space and start talking low, leaning in. And she just rolls her eyes like you’re full of shit. She’s got you wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch.”

  She sure does.

  “Anybody else picking up on it yet?” I ask him, turning away from the crowd, trying to keep my voice down.

  Tyler folds his arms across his chest, lifting his glass high so no one can read his lips.

  “Not that I can tell,” he says. “But it won’t be long. You know how this town loves to talk.
And you’ve always been a favorite topic.”

  Don’t I know it.

  “So why keep it secret?” Tyler asks me, being plain now. “She’s a sweet girl. Emma loves her. Your mom gets along with her. She can’t say enough nice things about Grace.”

  “Her decision, not mine,” I say. “It’s all pretty new. She’s just being cautious.”

  Tyler nods. “Smart girl.”

  He knows my track record.

  A few minutes later our conversation is abruptly halted by my uncle, Bryant Campbell, who comes up smiling broadly and talking loud, his full cheeks flushed pink with drink. He’s an old horseman from way back, with a ranch on the north end of the county and a string of award winning sires longer than my right arm. He specializes in quarter horses and Morgan’s, and he knows the business as well as anyone alive today. He’s also on the advisory board of the Rocky Mountain Breeders Association, which makes him an important man in our small world.

  “I sure hope you’re coming to Big Sky for the awards gala next month,” Bryant says. “You didn’t show last year or the year before and it was a sorry thing not to have a Davis representing for Missoula County.”

  I didn’t go the year before that either. Emma was in the hospital having a third surgery. We still weren’t sure she was going to survive. I haven’t felt much like parties since those dark days.

  “We’ll see,” I say. It’s an awfully long way to go for a dinner and a dance. Especially in January.

  Bryant steps a little closer. “I’ve been charged by the folks at the Breeders Association to make sure you’re there, even if I have to hog tie you and drag you down to Big Sky.”

  I feel my brow furrow with question. Tyler steps up.

  “Why’s that?” he asks, not waiting for me.

  Bryant grins, then sips his drink. “Your name’s come up a few times as they’ve been looking at certain statistics. Seems like the Kicking Horse is putting out some mighty fine horses for the last six or seven years. It’s starting to show up in the competitions.”

  I know our offspring have showed better every year, winning a ton in cash prizes and awards for everything from Western to Dressage Hunt, depending upon what they’re bred and trained for. I keep up with the numbers, but I don’t spend much time comparing my output to other breeders. I don’t have time. That’s one of the things the Breeders Association does for more than a thousand of us across Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah. The right kind of notice from the RMBA can have a huge impact on a breeding ranch’s bottom line, sometimes doubling or even tripling breeding fees, while building demand at the same time.