Big Sky Seduction

by Daire St. Denis

  Considering the treacherous conditions created by the storm, they’d only lost one cow. It had been caught in the mud and Dillon had done his best to rope it and get it out, but the rope kept slipping and the mud sucked the animal down while water rushed right up and over it. She’d heard cows low before but this poor thing had made a sound like she’d never heard from a cow. A scream that sounded almost human.

  When Dillon’s horse stopped, she was so lost in her thoughts she almost rode right on by.

  “Gloria, hold up.”

  She stopped her horse. Dillon was sweeping the beam of his flashlight over the inky black landscape ahead. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “See that?” He moved the beam up the slope and down. In the darkness it looked like tar, black and slick. “Mud slide. Might be unstable. Definitely not good footing.”

  “What do we do?”

  He stood in his saddle and shone the beam up and behind them. “Well, there’s always the Doghouse.”

  Gloria was game for many things, but there was no way in hell she was sleeping in some doghouse.

  “Follow me. Move slow. Who knows how stable this section of ground is.”

  Moving her horse right up behind Dillon’s, Gloria barely had to control it. The animal that had been so full of energy earlier in the evening was tired and willingly followed in the footsteps of the stallion Dillon rode. They carefully picked their way up the slick slope, until they came to a small plateau. Dillon shone the flashlight ahead and it lit on a dark, rectangular shape.

  “This is it.”

  The Doghouse looked like a building out of one of those Old West towns: squared logs with white chinking, the wood worn and gray, and a small porch. Dillon rode around back where there was an open-ended outbuilding—a shedlike structure—that sheltered firewood and was large enough for a couple of animals. After dismounting, Dillon turned to help Gloria, but she’d already kicked her leg over and was stepping down, groaning because her muscles cried out from the cold and from sitting astride a horse for hours.

  She was going to be sore tomorrow, no doubt about it.

  They unsaddled the horses and removed the bridles of the tired animals, stacking the saddles and saddle blankets on some logs to air out. Without any grooming implements, they couldn’t do more than pat the animals down. Dillon spoke softly to both horses, as if thanking them, and after a final pat, he gestured with his head for her to follow him. She kept her eyes down, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden moisture pooling there.

  It must have been the exhaustion.

  The steps leading up to the house were sturdier than they looked and once inside, Dillon used his flashlight to locate some dry matches to light the gas lanterns: one on the table in the center of the room, the other on the mantel above the fireplace. With the lanterns lit, Gloria could see the place and it was tidier than she’d expected. Obviously it had been in use more recently than the outside facade suggested.

  “What is this place?”

  “The original homestead.”

  “It’s in good shape.”

  “Yep. Been used by all the Wells men ever since Kenny’s great-grandfather first settled in this area.”

  Throwing her head back, Gloria laughed, more a product of exhaustion than of humor. “The Doghouse. I get it.”

  “Also doubles as the local gambling hall. When there were a lot of hands working this ranch and the next one over, the men would all meet up here once a month to play poker.” Dillon bent down—slowly—in front of the fire. Opening a wooden box that contained kindling, he arranged the material in the hearth before lighting a fire.

  “Huh.” Gloria said, taking in the place: the wide, wooden slat floor, a rock fireplace charred black by smoke on one wall, and an old-style wood-burning cookstove took up another wall. A ladder led up to a loft, where she imagined there was a small sleeping area.

  With a large metal bucket in his hand, Dillon said, “There should be plenty of water in the rain barrel. I’m going to water the horses, then I’ll heat some up so we can wash.”

  “Sounds good.” Warm water was exactly what she needed, she was soaked through. Gloria shrugged out of the too-big oilskin jacket and hung it up on a peg by the door. She moved closer to the fire, which was already crackling in the hearth, and held her cold hands up to the warmth. Dillon was back seconds later and he, too, removed his big jacket and hat and hung them up by the door. Then he came toward her, bucket in hand, eyes reflecting the jumping flames.

  “Have I told you how much I appreciate your help tonight?”

  “Not yet.”

  He smiled but didn’t actually say thanks. Instead of joining her by the fire, he went to a shelf, found an old sooty kettle, opened the lid, blew into it as if blowing out dust, and then poured rainwater inside. There was a hook embedded in the stone of the fireplace and he hung the kettle there before finally turning to her. His lazy gaze swept down her body and back up, making her shiver even though the fire was throwing off plenty of heat.

  “Nice bra.”

  “Huh?”

  “Darlin’, that wet T-shirt of yours leaves nothing to the imagination.”

  Glancing down at herself in horror, she realized her white tank top was completely wet and completely see-through, making her baby-blue bra completely visible.

  “May as well take it off to dry.” He took one more step toward her and leaned down. A drop of water fell from his hair onto her cheek. “No need to be shy. It’s nothing I haven’t already seen.”

  A shiver snaked down from where the water droplet trickled as if it was liquid fire, warming her cheeks and neck as if she was sunburned.

  “Need help?” Dillon asked as he started to unbutton his own shirt.

  “No.” Gloria shook her head, droplets flying from her wet hair.

  With a chuckle, Dillon shrugged out of his damp shirt and hung it on the back of a chair, leaving him wearing a white cotton undershirt.

  From an old trunk that sat beside a rocking chair, Dillon removed a wool blanket and brought it over to her.

  “Here.” He handed her the folded blanket.

  “Thanks,” Gloria mumbled. She turned her back and tugged the shirt up and over her head before wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. The fabric was a little scratchy and smelled of wood smoke.

  “Don’t think I’m trying to get you naked, but...”

  She glanced over her shoulder and his slow grin contradicted his words.

  “You might think about taking off those pants, too. They must be soaked.”

  Turning away again, she bent low, keeping the blanket around her shoulders, draping herself so that she could remove her yoga pants. Even though the oilskin was long, it hadn’t kept the rain off her legs and the stretchy material was sopping wet. When she turned around, Dillon was bending over himself, kicking off his boots and pushing his jeans down his thick, muscular legs.

  She gasped and then covered her mouth. If he’d heard her, he didn’t let on.

  Once straightened, he hung his jeans over another chair and held out his hand for her wet garments.

  “Your undershirt’s not wet?”

  “Now who’s trying to get who naked?”

  Her abdomen fluttered with unexpected tugs of memories and desire. She knew what was under that T-shirt. Solid, freakin’ muscle. A couple of scars. Two or three tattoos, a few that were peeking out from his short sleeves right now. She swallowed hard because her mouth was watering so much.

  “Now that you mention it, my shirt is wet.” Crossing his arms in front of himself, he gripped the edge of the T-shirt and brought it up and over his head. The simple movement was the sexiest thing Gloria had ever seen; rippling ab muscles greeted her first, followed by well-defined pecs with curls of dark hair in between. Then there were the man’s s
houlders: wide and powerful, so, so masculine. Holy hell. It would have taken something on the level of a natural disaster—of the flash flood variety—to get her to rip her gaze away.

  Dillon, on the other hand, seemed to find her fascination with his body amusing because he smiled in that slow, easy way of his and then turned around, presenting his firm backside outlined through the thin material of his boxer shorts as he rooted through a cupboard.

  God, she wanted him.

  There were no two ways about it, she wanted to remember what it was like to be with Dillon Cross. Seeing him in his underwear, practically naked? Well, she was on the verge of running over there, warming her cold hands on what she was sure was smokin’ hot skin, throwing off her blanket and tackling him.

  When Dillon turned, he had a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in his hands. But he stopped and met her gaze. “What are you thinking about, Red?”

  Gloria swallowed and tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Not trusting her voice, she did a combo head shake and shrug, to say, Nothing.

  “Okay.” He held the bottle up for her to see. “You like whiskey?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really drink it.”

  “Well, I’d offer you some other beverage but that’s all we’ve got. Oh, and a tin of tea that’s been there since 1905.”

  “Whiskey it is, then.”

  Dillon blew into the glasses, same as he’d done with the kettle, before filling them. “Here,” he said, holding out the glass. “This’ll warm you up from the inside.”

  “Thanks,” Gloria said, reaching for the glass with both hands. The second her fingers touched his, she took in a sharp breath and her blanket fell from her shoulders.

  Standing still, as if cut out of stone, nostrils flared as if he was taking in her scent, Dillon said, “Red, you are hard on a man’s self-control.”

  Setting the glass down on the big table, Gloria stooped to retrieve her blanket. She secured it around herself, picked up the whiskey and took a gulp. The liquid singed the back of her throat and left a trail of liquid fire down her esophagus and into her stomach. “Holy shit. That is strong,” she sputtered before taking another drink.

  He watched her for a second and she realized how nice it was to see his features so clearly without the shade of his hat, particularly in the flickering firelight. She loved the way shadows leaped across his gorgeous chest as it rose and fell, and how the fire made his eyes dance. The air was thick between them. Smoky maybe? Or something else.

  Definitely something else.

  Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Dillon lifted the glass to his lips and drank all of its contents. Then, just as slowly, he set the glass down and took a step toward her. Followed by another. And another until he stood directly in front of her. With him standing so close, she could smell his skin, the rain, the remnants of aftershave mixed with the salty scent of man. Gloria had to tilt her head way back to look up at him, and her gaze traveled from the hollow of his throat, up the tendons of his neck to his jaw and finally his eyes.

  There was sin in those eyes. Deliciously playful. Contagiously wicked.

  It made breathing difficult, thinking impossible. When not given direction from her brain, parts of her body started acting out: her hands reaching for the bare skin of his abdomen, her tongue running the length of her lower lip, her nipples tightening against the damp satin of her bra, her thighs clenching to keep the throbbing sensation under control.

  “Gloria.” He said her name so low it was almost inaudible.

  “Yes?” She became fascinated with how her hands appeared against his skin, marveling at the fact that she was really touching him after secretly imagining it for months.

  Based on the substantial bulge, barely hidden behind the cotton of his shorts, he was enjoying her touch. Except he took her hands away and squeezed before setting them aside.

  The unexpectedness of his actions punted her out of her fantasy. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He moved to the fireplace and, using an old rag to protect his hand, removed the kettle from where it hung and carried it over to a shelf where there was a wash basin and poured the steaming contents inside. “Have a bit of a wash, you’re covered in mud.”

  “Oh.”

  “And when you’re done, we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  9

  WAS IT WRONG to watch Gloria wash and find it incredibly sexy? The way she bent over the basin, her pale skin like fine china, the curve of her bare calves and ass, the way her bra barely seemed to hold her breasts?

  No. It was right.

  Being here with her, seeing her so comfortable in a way he’d never for the life of him expected? Dammit, nothing had ever felt so right.

  “Your turn.”

  She wrapped herself back up into the blanket and went to sit by the fire. Dillon took the basin that was now murky with dirt and tossed it out the open door before refilling it again and going through his own washing up procedure. She was watching, too.

  That made it even more right.

  So what the hell was making him hesitate?

  I freaked. I have these episodes. It can’t happen again.

  All valid reasons for him to keep his distance except that in this cabin, distance was pretty much impossible. After washing, he retrieved another old blanket from the chest, gave it a sniff—passable—and then pulled up a chair next to Gloria. “You comfortable?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She glanced at him, smiled shyly and then turned her gaze to the flames in the hearth.

  “Gloria?”

  “Yes?” Eagerness. That was what he identified in her voice and it gave him hope. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help tonight.”

  “Thanks for letting me help.”

  “You’re a fine rider.”

  By the way she lit up, it was as if he’d given her the best compliment in the world. She sucked on her lower lip—heaven help him—and said, “I want to thank you, too. You were a big help to me today.”

  “Well, I have a vested interest.”

  “Of course. You want the place to sell.”

  He didn’t nod or acknowledge her statement, instead he pulled her chair close—so close their knees were touching—leaned forward, slipped a hand behind her head and kissed her.

  She fell into him, thank God, her hands going to his shoulders gripping. Lord, her lips were soft. So nice and soft and her mouth tasted of whiskey. She groaned and tilted her head, which he took as an invitation to kiss her more deeply.

  So he did. Tangling his tongue with hers, sucking that suckable lip of hers into his mouth, greeting her inquisitive tongue by sucking on it, too.

  Heaven. That was what she was. A little slice of heaven after a hellish night.

  “Dillon?”

  He stroked the hair at her temples, loving the texture of it. “Yeah, baby?”

  “I want you.”

  With a groan he set his forehead against hers. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Standing, he pushed his chair out of the way, threw the blanket on the floor in front of the fire and then loosened her blanket from around her shoulders, baring her top half. The cabin had warmed up but, by the goose bumps on her forearms, she was still cold. Well, he knew exactly how to warm her up.

  Moving around behind her, he swept her damp hair out of the way, placing a kiss on the back of her neck, tasting her skin, softly first, running his lips along the cords made taut by the tilt of her head, licking her, sucking her. When her head relaxed against his arm, he gripped her shoulder harder, biting, gentle at first, harder when she started to moan.

  When he began to suck in earnest, she cried out, falling back against the chair. With his hand in her hair,
he moved her head to the other side, giving the newly exposed part of her equal attention, sucking on the tendons that stretched before him, licking the hollows created, up to the base of her jaw, breathing heavily in her ear before tasting that small shell as he sucked her lobe into his mouth.

  “Dillon...”

  She tried to turn toward him, but he didn’t let her. He kept his fingers threaded securely in her tangled hair, holding it off her neck so he could kiss the back, brushing first with his thumbs and then tasting, scraping with his teeth, rubbing his whiskered jaw against her skin. She had the most beautiful long neck, delicate and yet strong, too. He couldn’t get enough. Tugging on her hair, he pulled her head back, exposing the front so that he could lean right down over her and suck on the most tender part of her throat beneath her chin.

  “Oh.” Her voice was soft and breathy as she reached around behind for him. “I’ve never...no one’s ever...”

  “Shh.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her lips to silence her because the minute she asked him to do more, he would be too weak to stop the flood of desire he felt for her. He knew from experience that, while Gloria might say she wanted him, he did not want a repeat of Chicago, where she gave him the cold shoulder the next day. So this time, he was going to make damn sure she knew what she was doing.

  * * *

  SHE COULDN’T BREATHE. Not because of a panic attack but because Gloria had never been more turned on. She’d thought that thing that happened between her and Dillon in Chicago was an anomaly, the product of too much wine and wedding emotions. It had been the kind of sex she’d always dreamed of having but never thought was real. Sex like that was something that was created for movies and books. Real people didn’t really feel that way.