by Mia Hopkins
At once, all of her inner muscles began to convulse, squeezing him so hard he thought he’d pass out from the pleasure of it. When he looked into her eyes, he lost control. His own orgasm jetted out, hot and wild. With his free hand, he gripped the edge of the mattress and fucked her without holding back, riding out his climax to its last shuddering drop.
Spent, he collapsed on top of her, still inside her. The toy slid out of his grasp and rolled onto the sheets. When he finally caught his breath, she kicked him lightly with her heel.
“Come on, big boy,” she whispered. “Untie me before you fall asleep.”
He opened his eyes and blinked at her. “What? Huh? You’ll be all right. Just hang tight there.”
“Dean!” she barked, trying to wiggle away.
“So…tired…g’night, princess.” He feigned sleep and rested his full weight on her as she squealed with laughter.
* * * * *
After a quick shower together, they climbed back into bed for a few more minutes of peace before they had to get dressed and return to work. Monica pressed her back against Dean’s warm chest as he spooned her, his heavy arms wrapped tightly around her and his beard tickling the back of her neck as he spoke.
“Bo told me to thank you for arranging all those interviews,” he said, stroking her stomach with the back of his thumb. “He says it’s been nonstop reporters since you made those calls.”
“His bulls attract good press,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it all starts next week. I feel like we’ve been planning this rodeo forever.”
“You did a good job, princess. You did everything right. I’m impressed—the whole town is.”
She snorted softly. “You’ve done half of it. And there’s still a million things that could go wrong, so…withhold your awe.”
He kissed her shoulder and tightened his hold on her. “Withhold my awe for you? Nope. Never.”
“You and that cowboy sugar.” Monica closed her eyes as he slid his thigh between hers. As soon as they’d started sleeping together, a heavy knot of pain had lodged itself in her chest. The deep ache had only intensified as the days passed, speeding toward their inevitable goodbye and her upcoming move back to Silicon Valley. They hadn’t talked about it, but both she and Dean knew their particular lease on happiness was almost up.
The pain was bittersweet in light of the secret truth that Monica had forced herself to face.
She’d fallen in love with Dean MacKinnon.
It was hopeless. She loved every damn thing about him. Those eyes as blue as a high desert sky; the strength and grace of his body; his bottomless, shameless lust. But she loved his quietness too. His steady, watchful presence calmed her.
It made sense—his job was to protect others from danger like some kind of cowboy guardian angel. Dozens of bull riders whose lives he’d saved in the arena would attest to that.
But what Monica loved most about him was a quality she couldn’t quite define. There was a sweet kind of sadness about him, as though he believed his story was already over but he was perfectly content being a minor character in the stories of other people. Dean never wanted to be the center of attention. He had no idea that this humility made him even more mythic, more heroic to his fans—and even more attractive to her.
Who wouldn’t fall in love with a man like him?
Monica bit back the flash of pain she felt whenever she thought about all the women who must have walked on this road before her. She’d be gone, soon too. Just another short chapter in his life, over and done.
“What’s the matter?” he asked softly.
“Nothing,” she lied. “A little hungry is all.”
He reached over her and checked his cell phone. “We’ve got an hour before the meeting with the security company. You want to grab a bite with me?” He gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Sounds good,” she said.
* * * * *
Dean put his clothes on and sat in the corner of the hotel room to watch Monica as she got dressed. She wiggled into her underwear, then pulled on a light-blue blouse with tiny pearl buttons. She slid on her black skirt and stepped into her fancy snakeskin high heels.
“Do you have anything to wear to the rodeo?” he asked.
“I was planning on picking something up at the Western-wear store before we left Bakersfield. Maybe after the meeting.”
“You’d make one sexy cowgirl.”
She paused. “Should I make the inappropriate joke or should you?”
“What joke is that?”
“You’re the cowboy, I’m the Indian.”
He groaned and threw a pillow at her. After putting on her earrings, she brushed her hair, braided it and applied some lip gloss, puckering her lips goofily in the mirror. Dean stared, his heart sputtering like an old engine and his head trying desperately to shut it back down.
Don’t. Don’t fucking say a thing. She’s leaving next week.
It was getting harder and harder to hide the truth. He’d fallen for her. Not the way he’d fallen for his ex-wife, all adrenaline and goo-goo eyes, but a slow, all-consuming way, like an enormous bonfire burned down to its red-hot embers.
Monica was a grown woman—maybe that was most of it. She was smart and quick and funny and fearless. She didn’t need him to prop her up or show her off when she was feeling down. Independent and tough, she could take care of herself. It made her sexy as hell.
Sex had always been an important theme in his life. In Monica, he had found a partner who shared his deep hunger, his need to play hard. She wasn’t ashamed of his past. Sometimes, she even asked him about it—it turned her on. What was his first time like? What was his wildest night? Had he ever had a threesome? Had he ever been with a guy?
He always answered her honestly. At first, he was afraid to share his memories with her. But the more they talked about it, the more comfortable he became answering her questions. In a strange way, it was as if all his experiences had prepared him for this experience—for the experience of being with her.
Dean wanted to tell her the truth.
He loved her.
For days, the words had lived on his tongue like canaries trapped in the mouth of a cat.
Enjoy the last few days with her. Don’t complicate things. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.
He put on his hat, cleared his throat and stood up. “Ready, princess?”
With a naughty smile, she slipped her sex toy and the silk rope into her enormous tote bag. Hand in hand, they left the hotel room. In the parking lot by his brother’s truck, Dean wrapped his arms around her waist and yanked her close for one more wicked kiss. She wiggled her tongue against his. With a grunt, Dean grabbed her ass with both hands and squeezed hard as she giggled against his lips.
The screech of tires yanked Dean out of his trance. Without thinking, he grabbed Monica and swung her out of the path of the silver minivan coming right at them. The van stopped short, just inches from the truck.
Two tall men wearing beards and turbans got out of the car. The younger one had been driving. He pulled a Bo Duke and nearly slid across the hood, landing on his feet and putting a finger in Dean’s chest.
“Get your hands off my sister,” he said. He was a little paunchy and looked to be in his late twenties. He got right in Dean’s face, and his dark eyes flashed with rage.
“Take it easy,” said the older man. “Monica, get in the van.”
Dean looked at Monica. Her eyes were wide and she’d gone pale as a bedsheet. “Papa—”
Holy shit. For a moment, Dean wished that he were in the arena facing down a furious bucking bull. At least he’d know what to do.
The older man’s voice was deep and calm. “Beti, now.”
To Dean’s surprise, Monica’s shoulders fell. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him. Then she turned and got into t
he minivan, a mortified expression on her face.
Dean turned to Monica’s father. “Mr. Singh, your daughter and I, we’ve been seeing each other for a while.” He swallowed hard. Consensual seemed like too inappropriate a word to use in this situation. “I assure you she’s not here with me…against her will.” Dean almost groaned as the words left his mouth. Great. Like that’s any better than consensual, you idiot.
Though he wasn’t aggressive like Monica’s brother, Monica’s father spoke with the kind of authority that Dean imagined made other men sit down and listen. “Mr. MacKinnon, this is a family matter. I appreciate your concern for my daughter, but you cannot see her again. It is not possible.”
Dean was dumbstruck for a moment. Monica’s brother took one step closer, crowding him.
“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Singh,” Dean said slowly, “but your daughter is an adult. She’s the one who should make that decision.”
“My daughter understands what her obligations are. I’m sure this was a nice romance for her. But it ends now. She’ll make that decision because she knows it’s the right one.” Without another word, Monica’s father turned and got back into the van.
Monica’s brother put his finger in Dean’s chest once more. “Touch her again and see what happens, MacKinnon. My sister’s not one of your skanks.”
Dean turned his attention on Monica’s brother for the first time. He leveled his gaze and lowered his voice. “Watch it.”
“Ravinder! Let’s go!” shouted Monica’s father.
Monica’s brother sneered. He turned back to the van, started it up and drove away, leaving Dean standing in the parking lot alone.
* * * * *
Monica’s mother sat at the kitchen table, her eyes red and swollen. It was nearly midnight. Spread out before her were stacks of printouts, dating profiles organized according to geographical location, age and profession.
“You said your office was in Cupertino, so I searched Cupertino. I searched Sunnyvale, Mountain View, San Jose, Santa Clara. I asked around. I made phone calls. You said you didn’t want a doctor. What kind of woman doesn’t want to marry a doctor? I said, fine. So I found engineers. Attorneys. College professors. For you! All for you!” Fresh tears began to stream down her mother’s face. “Why? Why do you punish us this way? What haven’t we done for you? What haven’t we given you?”
After putting all their kids to bed, Ravinder and his wife Harpal had come to sit at the kitchen island with the sole purpose of looking accusingly at Monica. Her father leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms folded, his features stony and hard to read.
“You’ve already missed one chance at getting married. You’re thirty-two years old! Time is running out!” her mother screeched. “Why are you so intent on ruining your life?”
“Calm down,” said Monica’s father. “You’re going to wake up the little ones.”
Monica stared at all the profiles on the table, Sikh men in turbans and beards, some clean-shaven, some young, some old, some handsome, some homely. Her mother saw this as her future—her only path.
“What I want to know is, why Dean MacKinnon?” Ravinder said. “He’s disgusting. You probably caught VD.”
“Don’t disrespect your sister.” Monica’s father sat down at the table next to her and rubbed his beard. “It’s getting late. This is the situation as it stands. You will move to Cupertino next week, as you have been planning to do. Until then, as you complete the preparations for the rodeo, Ravinder or Harpal will drive you around town and accompany you on your business.”
Monica leaned forward. “A chaperone? Papa, this is not right—”
“What is not right is that I had to hear from our neighbor’s grandmother’s hairdresser that her sister saw you checking into a hotel in the middle of the day. The hotel where you have been carrying on, doing who knows what with that—that cowboy!” Monica’s mother howled and wiped her eyes with a moist ball of Kleenex. “Tenu sharam nahi aundi? Don’t you have any shame? You think that what you do doesn’t have repercussions. It does. A scandal like this? People talk. Let’s just hope you can outrun the scandal before it reaches the Bay Area.”
Monica kept her eyes on the tabletop, silently hoping this so-called scandal would circle the globe twice before she had to meet any of the men her mother had chosen for her.
“Please understand where we’re coming from,” said Monica’s father. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “What you are doing is not right, beti. This is not the way to love, sneaking around like thieves. You need to end things now. It will be better for both of you in the long run.”
That night, as she lay sleepless in her bed, Monica put the covers over her head and turned on her phone. Four texts and a voicemail from Dean. She read the texts first.
Are you all right? What can I do?
Should I come over and talk to your dad?
Call me when you can.
I’ll be up late. Call or text anytime.
The voicemail was short, just her laconic cowboy speaking quietly, as though he were in a place where a lot of people could hear him. A TV was on in the background, and the voices of kids talking quietly to adults.
“Hi. It’s me. Just, ah, hoping everything’s all right. You looked pretty upset this afternoon. Call me. Okay. Bye.”
Just then her phone buzzed. Another text.
I miss you.
Her bedroom was right next to her nieces’ room. She couldn’t call Dean without waking them up. Her fingers flew as she composed a message for him.
I can’t talk, but don’t worry. I’m fine. My family’s pretty furious at me. Nothing new.
She paused, not sure how to proceed.
I’ll be around, but it’ll be hard for us to see each other alone.
An understatement. She’d be lucky if her brother or her sister-in-law would let her go to the bathroom by herself.
I’m so sorry about everything. This isn’t how I wanted things to turn out.
Gossiping neighbors had cheated her and Dean out of their last few days together, but they both knew their time was coming to an end. Was her father right? Should she say goodbye now? She ached so hard she could barely breathe.
But maybe it’d better if we
Tears formed in her eyes but she fought back the urge to sob. Dean would try to fix things. But how could he? This was an impossible situation. She had to protect him. She finished the sentence.
But maybe it’d better if we ended things now.
It’d be cleaner this way, she decided. No more sneaking around. No more pretending they could be a couple when they couldn’t. She pressed send before she lost her nerve but not before her heart crumbled to powder in her chest.
His reply came back almost instantaneously.
Is this what you want?
No. She wanted him. She wanted to walk down the street holding his hand for everyone to see. She wanted to sleep next to him at night and wake up in the morning looking into his eyes. She wanted to spend long afternoons bullshitting and laughing and making love with him. She wanted to talk about the future with him as though it were something they could share.
But his life was here, and his home was on the road. He didn’t belong in the city any more than she belonged out in the middle of a rodeo arena.
Six years she’d worked to get this job in Cupertino. Building relationships. Wheeling and dealing. Impressing every single person she’d ever come into contact with in the industry. And the company wanted her enough that they’d waited for her.
There was no point in pretending she and Dean could be together. They couldn’t.
This is what I want, she texted back.
One minute passed, then two. Her pillow was wet with tears. Her phone buzzed once more.
See you at the rodeo.
* * * * *
Trailers, trucks and pens filled the enormous lot next to the rodeo arena. A summer rainstorm had soaked the grounds and slick, caramel-colored mud covered absolutely everything, but no one seemed to mind. As long as the arena was in good condition, the show would go on.
Monica’s sister-in-law, Harpal, was about as exciting as sitting on a curb and staring at a stop sign. Like a dutiful little trooper, she followed closely as Monica crisscrossed the grounds to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible. Harpal, in her chinos and flats, was soaked and miserable. Monica, in a hat, jeans and new cowboy boots from Bakersfield, felt right at home in the mud.
As Monica made her rounds, some of the visiting competitors, all fit young cowboys, flirted openly with her. They invited her for drinks at the Silver Spur or at their trailers after the next round. Flattered, she turned them down under Harpal’s indignant gaze.
“They’re so dirty,” her sister-in-law said under her breath. “Disgusting.”
Monica wholeheartedly disagreed with her, but none of the handsome cowboys came close to the only one she was looking for in the crowd.
Because of Monica’s careful planning and orchestration, the opening parade and all the events went according to plan. Bo Walker’s bulls were crowd-pleasers, and the commentators and barrel man kept the huge crowd’s attention.
All around her, Monica heard the ka-ching of ringing registers—concessions, alcohol, merchandising, tickets, entry fees, sponsorships. She smiled as she thought about all that money flowing into Oleander. The Rambling Ranch Inn was fully booked. Looking into the stands, she was proud to see, scattered here and there among the cowboy hats, a few Sikhs in turbans, enjoying their day at the rodeo with their families.
She was on her way to the VIP box when she finally saw the person she was searching for.
Dean stood by the chutes. He was chatting with Bo Walker and the young bullfighters hired by Miller-Davis for the bull-riding events. A crowd of bronc riders and bull riders had gathered around him too. They hung on every word he said. Women and kids in the stands leaned over to ask Dean for autographs and photos. He had a friendly smile for every single person who approached him.