But he hadn’t.
Because?
Shaking his head, he trooped in after her, switching on the light as he did. She was standing next to what passed for a table with the world’s smallest stove and built-in refrigerator on the other side. Behind her was a double bed, elevated so it fit in the part of the camper that sat on top of his truck’s cab.
Unwanted nerves clamped hold of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d questioned his ability to satisfy a woman, maybe not since his teens. His confidence between the sheets had almost nothing to do with the size of his cock, which he figured was in the average range. He had confidence in his body, specifically its ability to perform whatever his lifestyle required of it. He was in good physical shape, lean where he understood women wanted men to be lean, muscled in the appropriate places, flexible. His endurance held him in good stead through days that sometimes lasted twenty hours.
Looking at Dawn Glass, however, he knew those things weren’t enough. If tonight was going to be what they both needed and deserved, he’d have to bring more to the table. As for what that more was—
“I’m shaking.” Her voice had gone up a little. “I feel like a freshman girl on prom night.”
“I’ve never been to a prom.”
“No kidding.” Her smile started tentative but then grew. “Why not? I’d think the girls would be asking you.”
“I had to choose between spending money on everything that went with a prom and feeding our horses.”
“Ours? Your mother’s and yours you mean?”
Even with memories of the relationship between mother and son getting in the way, he remembered to nod. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be talking about this, but for one of the few times in his life, words were easier than silence. After all, a few minutes ago when he hadn’t known what to say around her, he’d wound up with his hand between her legs.
Like he had the right.
“I’m trying to understand the ah, relationship the two of you had,” she told him, her hands interlaced over her lower belly and his attention speeding to that part of her anatomy.
“We were in life together. For the most part, it was just the two of us, doing what gave us a sense of pride and completion, even if we weren’t getting rich.”
“Working with horses, you mean?”
Again he had to remind himself to nod. Strange, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d told anyone about life with a parent who’d given birth to him when she was sixteen and needed him as much as he needed her. Maybe never.
“I wish you could have met her.” He meant it.
“I wish I could have too. From what I’ve seen of your skill with horses, she taught you well.”
“There was little teaching. Just following her lead and loving it as much as she did.”
She was the one doing the nodding now, the movement slow but steady. Her gaze remained fastened on him. Seeing beneath the surface? “Thank you for telling me that.”
Say something, like, you’re welcome. Like I needed to. Instead, he wrapped himself in familiar silence. He’d said only the half of it when he’d let her know his camper was small. His need to bury himself deep and dangerous in her grew.
“I’m not much good at small talk,” he admitted.
“The strong, silent cowboy.” Reaching out, she stroked the side of his neck. “That’s all right. We aren’t here for small talk.”
What are we here for, beyond the obvious? he wanted to ask. Do you understand? Can you explain so I will? “I’m sorry.” He indicated the surroundings, but his mind and more were on the lingering sensation her touch had spawned. His hard-on had bloomed the moment he’d recognized her. Now her fingers had stroked his skin and his entire body had burst into flames.
“What are you sorry about?” she asked.
“That it’s so cramped.”
Her mouth twitched. “It’s better than a bale of hay.”
Grateful for her attempt at levity, he nodded agreement. “Did—I hope that didn’t cause you any embarrassment.”
“My supervisor didn’t say anything, but I think he had suspicions.”
Had holding up his end of a conversation ever been this hard? If he’d always been this tongue-tied around the opposite sex, no wonder he’d never asked a girl to the prom. Even as he pondered the possibility, memories of the feminine bodies he’d wrapped his own around and entered reminded him it hadn’t been like that.
Just now. With her.
She wasn’t touching him, but it wouldn’t take much, another lifting of her arm, soft and warm fingers pressing against veins and tendons. And him shooting off like sparks from a campfire.
Sparks. Fire.
An unexpected film hazed his view of her. If he hadn’t noted earlier that she hadn’t cut her hair since he’d last seen her and it was no longer contained at the back of her neck, he would have no comprehension of what it looked like. Needing more, he reached out and stroked the rich brown mass. It reminded him of a newborn foal’s satiny coat.
Foals fresh from their dams had no fear. They trusted whoever touched them, bonded with who or whatever their eyes first lighted on. Dawn was much more complex, and yet he could dream. She’d look at him and her flesh would respond and she’d want him. Always want him.
Fisting her hair, he drew her close. She smelled of something feminine, perfume probably. Had she chosen the scent for him?
Wondering if he’d ask, he kept up the pressure until her breasts stroked his lower chest. He shivered, then released her hair so he could rest first one hand and then both on her frail-seeming shoulders. After spending so much time with livestock, had he really forgotten what a woman felt like? Maybe only she could make him feel like this, strong and protective and vulnerable all at once.
“You asked about my supervisor,” she said, her tone husky. “Whether he suspected something was going on between us. What about here, you? Does anyone care that I came in here with you?”
Fighting his raging body, he told her that although his path had crossed with several of the competing wranglers over the years, he didn’t see how any of them would care what he did with his personal time or who he did it with.
“I envy you,” she muttered. “I think. Between my coworkers and the public, I feel as if I’m always under a microscope.”
“Then do something else.”
Although she laughed, her eyes didn’t carry the same message. Then her expression sobered. “It’s hardly that simple. Besides, who said I wanted to change?”
He’d been wondering if she’d become immune to his foreplay, but as she looked up at him, he knew better. Her somber expression darkened and grew smoky, and he believed in every pore of his being that she was deliberately exposing herself to him or at least trying to. What was it she wanted to reveal?
Releasing her shoulder, he placed his hand under her chin. She stood still as a moonless night for maybe three seconds, then turned aside and reached for her blouse.
“I want to get naked,” she said. “After that I’m not sure.”
Unwilling to release her, he ran his hand down her arm. Her long, slow shudder resonated throughout him, nearly spawning a like reaction. Still, driven by years of solitude and self-reliance, he waited for her to make the next move. Would she kiss him?
What Dawn wanted was for Miguel’s expression to change. It remained neutral and unemotional when she couldn’t believe he felt that way. Every time she reassured herself that they were finally together and on the brink of having sex, she had to battle down her need to rip off his clothes. Although they hadn’t used them, a couple of the wranglers had worn spurs. What she’d always associated with the cowboy life now struck her as cruel, and she was deeply, deeply glad Miguel’s boots were unadorned.
She also wanted them gone. And not just his well-worn, faded, and comfortable looking boots. It was beyond time for him to shuck out of the jeans he wore as if he’d been born to them, to free himself from the long-sleeve shirt with the p
earl buttons. A man who no longer wore his Stetson didn’t need clothes.
Instead of doing those things for him, however, she set herself to unbuttoning her blouse with fingers that felt swollen and bruised. He watched her every move, not twitching a muscle himself. The cab-over was small and claustrophobic, and yet it was all she wanted. They were together in this confined space, their bodies speaking and sex waiting like spring sunlight.
She came to the last of her buttons with no memory of how she’d accomplished her task. With her throat seared and hunger clawing at her sex, she should be ripping the unwanted garment off her shoulders and kicking away her shoes. Why then was she staring at his chest and remembering how dark and deep his eyes were?
“Do you want me to—” he started.
“No.” Ducking, she would have evaded his outstretched arm if not for the metal walls. As a result, his fingers scraped and seared. “I want to do this.” To prepare myself for you.
Because she’d said what she had, she now had no choice but to slip out of the blouse. She’d planned, she thought, to throw it on the bed, but the table was closer. Maybe when this was over, she’d ask about the papers stacked on the table. His responses might bring her into his world and allow her to share it with him.
And then she’d sit across from him or maybe next to him or even on his lap and tell him what was being planned for other wild stallions like Blanco. Instead of calling it messing with nature, he’d listen, ask intelligent questions, agree.
Later. Maybe.
9
Even as she kicked out of her shoes, Dawn again wondered why Miguel hadn’t gotten in touch with her. Why her world hadn’t meant enough to him.
Then she was standing barefoot on worn, dusty linoleum and the answers didn’t matter.
Throwing back her shoulders so her breasts jutted against the practical bra at him, she started to reach behind her for the fastening, but his fingers curled inward and his nostrils flared, and she tackled her shorts instead. The waistband was tight, prompting her to suck in her breath and concentrate on relieving the fastening of its burden. The sudden loss of pressure around her waist brought a sigh of relief. She rubbed the marks the fabric had left around her middle. That done, she pushed the shorts down over her rounded hips.
Hers weren’t a cowgirl’s hips. Instead of a lean, hard length stretched over firm muscles, hers were what her mother had called childbearing hips. Content as she was with what nature had designed her for, she couldn’t help wondering how she stacked up against the women he saw on a daily basis.
But hadn’t he told her that he spent most of his time alone?
Weary of her self-absorption, she let the shorts drop to the floor and stepped out of them. Mindful of the dust that had sifted in, she leaned over and picked them up. They landed on top of her blouse next to the papers of his life, and there she stood in her underwear, her panties’ crotch soaked and her nipples stabbing at her bra. She felt fifteen and virginal.
“Your turn,” she managed.
“Not yet. I want to see you naked.”
For the first time, she silently finished. Their previous coupling had been fast and furtive, cheap if she was being honest with herself. As desperate as she was for him to fill her aching hole, she needed tonight to last longer. Willing strength into her hands, she again reached behind her and unfastened the bra. She gave momentary thought to turning things into a striptease, but she shook too much to be able to carry it off. Still, she managed what she hoped was a bit of a flourish when she tossed the garment on top of the small pile she’d created. Happily free, her breasts jiggled in time with the movement. Gravity hadn’t yet had much impact on them, and she often went about braless when she was alone. Her earlier uncertainty about his reaction to her less-than-perfect body evaporated.
She was woman, sex on two legs.
Burying herself in the belief, she slowly, outwardly calmly drew her panties down over her womanly hips. When the satin reached her thighs, she sucked in her stomach and shimmied, encouraging the bit of nothing to slide the rest of the way down. At the last moment, she leaned over and grabbed so the final piece of her clothing wouldn’t land on the floor. Free. Her fingers on her damp, warm crotch.
“There,” she said unnecessarily when nothing stood between him and a study of everything she had to offer. Her skin fairly danced with need and yet she wasn’t in a hurry to end the sensation. Anticipation painted every inch of her being.
Waiting for him to join her in nudity.
He did so with an economy of movement she’d spend the rest of her life envying. Every move he made had purpose, and his hands were steady, his eyes on her even when he lifted one leg at a time and pulled off his boots. This wasn’t a striptease. Instead, he shed what he had no need for. But while he might envision disrobing as nothing more than a necessary task, those spare movements of his resonated throughout her. By the time he was naked, she’d forgotten what she’d told herself about savoring every moment.
She needed him now, hard, hot.
Looking around, she tried to come to some decision about how they’d address both their needs, but there was nothing seductive or sensual about the space. At least the window over the sink was open. Otherwise, they’d have already used up the air in here.
“The bed,” he said.
Of course. Why hadn’t she come to that conclusion? The answer came in the form of the rock-hard rod that defined the man she shared the air with. How could she possibly put one and one together when the only tool she could ever want waited for her? Belatedly catching up to his suggestion, she ordered her feet to traverse the maybe five feet to where he’d spent last night. But between anticipation and wondering if the sheets smelled of him, she couldn’t command a single muscle.
“What?” he asked. “Second thoughts?”
“If I had any thoughts, I wouldn’t be here.”
Frown lines carved the space between his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a stranger, and I don’t fuck men I don’t know.”
“You already did.”
No arguing that. And no denying how desperately she needed to repeat the act. As he’d done in the brief past they shared, he kept staring into her eyes. His dismissal of the rest of her prompted the question of what she’d have to do to change that, but even more important was discovering why he was studying her the way he was.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked. Of their own volition, her fingers laced over her lower belly. Now the heels of both hands brushed loosely curled pubic hair and spoke volumes to the flesh beneath.
“Nothing, now.”
Instead of pondering what he meant by “now,” she caught hold of the word “nothing.” So she was nothing except a body to him, was she? Available and eager. Hot to fuck the rugged horse wrangler she’d chased for hundreds of miles.
He was still tearing her apart with his stare when her feet pointed themselves at him and she took one step followed by another. A half stride brought her body to body with him. Her fingers trailed off her mons, reached for the most important thing he would bring to the elevated bed—if they got that far. All she could bring herself to do was lightly stroke the sides of his cock with electrically charged forefingers.
The rough fingers she hadn’t come anywhere near purging from her mind despite the three months she’d had to do it in settled over her shoulders. He couldn’t have reined her any more in if he’d used a lasso. She lost awareness of the slightly stale and overly warm air, the outside sounds of humans and horses. Her world, that’s what he’d become.
As his hands trailed over her collarbone and headed for her free and eager breasts, her own fingers began their exploration of him. How sleek and soft his flesh was, strength draped in silk. Blood-swollen veins cried out to be touched and soothed. He was uncircumcised, a decision his mother had undoubtedly made long before he’d been capable of having an opinion. Whatever the reason for her decision, she thanked the dead woman who’d char
ted her own course and brought her only child on it with her.
A shiver claimed her, stole her thoughts and brought her head up. His fingers were on the move, just grazing her own swollen flesh and tightening her nipples almost painfully.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, torn between needing relief from the mind-blowing touch and longing to press herself against him.
His fingers were so slow, the contact so light she couldn’t find the line between reality and imagination. Much as she wanted to do the same to him, her fingers wrapped around his cock and she simply held him, embraced, encompassed.
There was so much to him, strength and length and width, his cock sometimes resting like an exhausted captive in her gasp, sometimes jerking within her crude embrace. His short, sharp gasps fed her own arousal.
“Oh, God,” she repeated.
Then the rough finger pads that came close to being her undoing caught her nipples between them, and she made a sound she’d never heard.
“With me, Dawn?” he muttered. “You’re with me every step of the way.”
Although she wasn’t sure she understood what he was saying, she responded with a nod. Still studying his now-blurring features, she slid a hand under his cock. Her fingernails kissed his balls.
“Shit,” he gasped. The grip on her nipples tightened.
Spurred on by the delicious pain he’d inflicted on her, she opened her mouth to tell him she agreed. Instead she growled. There was nothing ladylike about the sound. He sucked in his belly and held it. If he was trying to put distance between them, he had a fight on his hands because right now his cock belonged to her. She supported the weight of his sex. She was responsible for keeping it at full attention. And only she could take the single drop she’d discovered on his tip and spread it over his head.
“Shit, shit,” he muttered.
She’d thought, actually thought she might have won this round when he dipped his head and fed her right breast to himself. His teeth raked her nipple. Growling again, she swayed dangerously. She must have slackened her hold on him because suddenly her fingers were empty. Although she immediately reached for him, he released her breast and spun her around so her back pressed against his chest. The cock she’d lost rammed into her backside.
Tempted by a Cowboy Page 7