by Anne Marsh
“Rory Olivera.” I reach a hand out to Rory, who takes it, twining his fingers through mine.
“His name can be Genghis Khan. The only thing I give a fuck about is what he is,” Angel growls.
Rory smirks again. “Roomie. Bestie. Business partner. Far more than you are.”
Jesus. If they were dogs, they’d both be running around in circles and urinating on the oak trees. Two other men approach slowly from the ranch house. J.J. and Axel, I realize, coming to play back up for their brother. I half expect the bullets to start flying. Neither bothers to act casual. They’re both checking out Rory, both wondering what the fuck he’s doing with me. I have no idea why a girl can’t be best friends with someone who has a penis instead of a vagina.
“Rory’s my best friend,” I tell no one and everyone. “Don’t fuck with him.”
Rory winks. “I’m fussier than that. These boys only wish I’d do them.”
J.J. snorts, and just like that the tension breaks. “I know a couple of cowboys who are gonna love you.”
“Introduce him,” Angel says, and his hand shoots back to my elbow. “I’m gonna show Rose around the house.”
“No tour for me? I’m crushed.” Rory blows me a kiss and saunters off toward the bunkhouse. I’m not entirely sure how he knows where it is, but he seems confident and he’s in good hands. I should go with him and make sure things are good and smoothed over, but Angel guides me in the other direction.
“I know how to walk, thank you,” I tell him, yanking at my elbow.
He answers with a slow, wicked smile. “I try to be a gentleman at least once a week. You should be applauding my efforts at self-improvement.”
“You’re trying to make me do what you want,” I counter because, hello, I’m not stupid.
His smile deepens. “Darling, I can do more than one thing at a time. I’d be happy to show you.”
I bet. “I’m not falling for male wiles.”
“I’m hurt.” He starts toward the house, taking me with him. I think about digging in my heels just to make my point, but I do want to see his house. Especially if it comes with indoor plumbing—the RV’s “shower” is completely unsatisfying.
“I’m here temporarily. As soon as Auntie Dee’s is fit to live in, I’m moving there.”
“Got it,” he says and pulls the front door open.
Wow. The ranch house both is and isn’t what I expected of Angel. For starters, it’s new and Angel lives for family history. He’s probably a closet historian or archivist who obsessively reads ancestry websites just in case he’s missed something or someone challenges the admittedly impressive Mendoza family tree. The six months I spent on Blackhawk Ranch were spent in the old house because Angel hadn’t started this one yet. The new house is an impressive, adobe-style ranch that screams costly Southwestern design. It’s four thousand square feet of high-end construction starting with the fireplace made with creek stones that dominates the main space that stretches the entire length of the house.
Angel doesn’t fuck around when it comes to building a legacy.
This house will last and it’s clearly belongs to a man with plenty of money, a man who doesn’t have to stand ankle-deep in dust, fixing a watering trough, even if he chooses to do so. That’s Angel for you. He’d never sit back and wait for what he wanted, not when he had the option to go out and get it. I know the current success of the ranch is due in no small part to his herculean efforts. It’s an open secret in Lonesome that his father ran the place into the ground, and yet everywhere I turn now, I see signs of Angel’s success.
Angel gives me the basic tour, starting with the downstairs room, the laundry, and the kitchen. Those are all good landmarks to be familiar with. I’m not going to let him run me over, but I’m not adverse to using his Tide or raiding his fridge, either. Part of me wonders how he feels about having me here in his place. I sneak a look at him, but he doesn’t seem awkward or uncomfortable. He does, however, keep looking over at me. Maybe he’s interested in my reaction after all.
When he heads towards the sweeping staircase leading upstairs, however, I balk. Bedroom is simply another word for danger zone. The chemistry between Angel and me doesn’t need the added challenge of a nearby mattress, no matter how curious I am about what his personal space looks like.
“I’m sleeping in the RV,” I remind him.
He links his fingers through mine, his fingertips tickling my palm and teasing the sensitive hollow of skin between my thumb and my index finger. It feels amazing, and it’s probably why I let him lead me up the stairs.
“There’s always a room for you in this house,” he says. “You can choose to sleep outside in the RV if that’s what you need—or you can share the house with me.”
God, he’s stubborn.
“The house is amazing, but I’m sleeping in my own bed. In the RV,” I clarify, because he’s got that possessive look on his face. I’ve had guys come into my place of business and ask me to tattoo their name on their girlfriend, and I’ve been tempted to just go with the short version: mine. Angel’s got that same look, although I suspect he’s holding back.
“Your bedroom is here,” he says, ignoring me and pushing open a door at the end of the hall. I’m curious—sue me. I step inside, which is a mistake. Angel stands in the doorway, and now the only way out is past him. Naturally, the room is gorgeous.
“I’m still not sleeping in the house, Angel.”
“Why not?”
I give him a look. “You got all day?”
“For you? Yes.” He leans against the door confidently, and I realize I’m staring at his thighs. He’s lean and muscled from riding for hours on the range and I love the way he looks, as if he’s made of delicious muscle. He’s hard through and through, except when he gets this look in his eyes when he’s staring at me. I’d give almost anything to know what he’s thinking then, but we’re supposed to be working out this business with Auntie Dee’s property. Not flirting or whatever it is we’re doing.
“You want to be careful making promises,” I warn him. “Rory claims I’m high maintenance.”
Angel’s eyes darken. Right. He and Rory have the insta-hate thing going on. “You remember what I told you?”
“You tell me lots of things.” I shrug. “I ignore them.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Come over here and I’ll remind you.”
“Remind me from over there. Or better yet, from downstairs.”
“Scared?” He asks softly and I know I should be. Angel has decided he wants me, and he doesn’t do anything by halves. He’ll take everything I have to offer, and no matter how much he gives back, I’m not sure I can survive his sexy brand of passion.
So I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Liar,” he growls, prowling closer. “I told you that if you came back to Lonesome, I’d make you mine.”
“News flash. We’re not living in a feudal society.”
“Wanna bet?” He stops in front of me, his gaze meeting mine. I swear I’m burning up, that it’s a million degrees here.
“I don’t gamble.” Especially when I can’t afford to lose.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine. “I’m open to persuasion. Or I could just tie you up and keep you.”
His hands capture mine, gently tugging my hands up and over my head. I’m pretty certain I forget to breathe, my heart pounding against my ribs loud enough to be heard outside. Parts of me clench, wanting to seize my cowboy and hold him tight. Instead, I summon up all my will power. It’s like the first day of a new diet, I tell myself. The first day’s the worst. If I deny myself a taste of Angel today, it will be even easier tomorrow.
I can’t help but think Angel would be single-minded in his pursuit of pleasure. He doesn’t want feelings, but he does want to give me orgasms. Ordinarily, that might not be a bad thing, but I don’t think I just hand over the reins of my body like that. I’ve been tied up, held down, pounded into—and it hurts. Pai
n’s off my list. It’s not that I don’t like sex or don’t sometimes like it hard, but I’ll never, ever put myself in a position where I’m vulnerable.
“Sex isn’t going to make me change my mind,” I say. His mouth is so close to mine that my lips brush his when I speak. How badly could one kiss hurt?
“Rose,” he whispers, his fingers curling into mine.
He wants me to be his, but he’s not making me any promises or counter-offers. He’s not going to be mine, and I won’t do unequal partnerships anymore.
I look him in the eye. “Let me go.”
I don’t know how denying myself what we both want will be easier tomorrow, but I don’t see how it can get any harder. Angel curses roughly, but then he shoves away and strides toward the door. I’ve won our first battle, which is funny. Because it feels like I’ve lost something important.
ANGEL
After three days of close quarters, I’m rethinking my master plan. Rory the Tattooed Asshole has parked his RV out in my yard and is staying there. He seems to be making in-roads—or trying—on my cowboys, but whatever. Rose, on the other hand, is right here—and yet she’s so fucking far away she might as well be living on Mars. I’ve figured out her schedule, though. She’s not much for morning, so I get up even earlier than usual so I can take care of ranch business and be back at the house by ten or eleven, which is when she rolls out of the goddamned RV she refuses to abandon. She’s usually wearing a teeny pair of cotton boy shorts that hug her ass and a camisole that stops a good two inches north of her belly button. She then heads over to the house to eat or just torture me with the sight of her ass in those not-quite-there shorts. I’d like to order up the contents of the Victoria’s Secret catalog for her.
When I make it back to the house at eleven today, though, she’s got all her clothes on. That’s disappointing, but even completely dressed she still looks tousled and sexy. All I can think about is figuring out a way to get her upstairs and into my bed.
We’ve had fully body contact twice since she came home, but I haven’t kissed her once. That’s a mistake I’m fixing now. She needs to know what I intend for her.
“You got a hello for me?”
She shoots me a tentative smile. The polite kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and that she’d give the goddamned checker at the grocery store. Not good enough.
“Hi,” she parrots obediently.
Okay. I like the way she listens to me. My dick stiffens immediately, demanding more, so I move across the kitchen. She’s barefoot, and there’s not all that much of her to begin with. I get her pressed up against the kitchen counter without too much effort.
“Angel?” I like the way she says my name too, although I’m betting she could read me the phone book and I’d come on the spot. Maybe it’s her voice, or maybe it’s just Rose. Fuck if I know, but I plant my arms on either side of her, my dick tucked against her sweet little front.
“Tell me what you like,” I say and her eyes widen. Kinda cute, really. She knows she’s suddenly got the big bad wolf on her hands, but she’s not sure what to do next. I’m happy to play show and tell with her.
“Why?”
“Because I’m gonna give it to you.”
Hopefully right here in my fucking kitchen, if I’m honest. I’m already leaning in, my mouth covering hers. She’s got the prettiest brown eyes. Looking into them, watching the surprise and the heat blossom is almost enough for me.
Except… I want more. I want all of Rose, and she’s not saying no.
Apparently, though, I must have fucked Karma’s sister at some point and dumped her ass, because Fate is feeling downright bitchy toward me. The front door opens. Slams shut. Boots pound down the hallway and Rose shoves at me, trying to put some space between us. Part of me—the part that isn’t pressed up against her cotton-covered pussy—agrees that I should let her go.
“No one’s coming in.” I breathe the words against her mouth.
“Are you kidding me?” Rose hisses the words at me, slapping her palms harder against my pecs. It’s gonna take a lot more than that to hurt me, though.
“Listen.” I rest my forehead against hers, drinking her in. It’s stupid, the way I get lost in her. I don’t give a shit if my brothers fly into the kitchen on a magic carpet. The whole herd could come pounding through here right now, and I’d just swing Rose up onto the counter and keep right on touching her. She’s under my skin, and I’m in so deep I’m never getting out.
So I kiss her.
I plant my mouth on hers, no warm up, no cute preliminary, and I kiss her deep and hard. She makes a startled sound that I swallow, and then I give her my tongue. The denim shorts she’s almost wearing make it so goddamned easy to touch her. I swing her up onto the counter without breaking my hold on her mouth, and she whimpers as her butt hits the granite with a soft slap of sound. I’m not that rough, but she’s needy, grabbing at my shirt now to pull me closer instead of push me away.
I wrap my hand around her knee and push. She opens up for me, her legs hugging my hips as I step in. I’m just rimming the edge of her panties beneath the denim, teasing her hot, swollen skin with the pad of my fingertip when I hear the fucking boots pound down the stairs and head for the kitchen. It’s lunchtime. Axel has the appetite of a horse. He’s probably looking for a sandwich or whatever leftovers our housekeeper put in the fridge for him. Instead, he’s gonna get an eyeful.
I pull my hand away.
Rose whimpers.
I actually debate yelling for Axel to go away and then finishing her. She’s so close, and I’ve waited so long for this.
Axel barrels into the room, on a mission to empty the fridge. He’s halfway there before he even realizes we’re there.
“Whoa,” he says, coming to a halt.
Rose gives him a half smile that makes his eyes narrow. Yeah, he smells trouble. Since I’m pinning Rose to the counter, I also block his view and that’s fucking convenient. She’s mine, not his.
So shoot me. I’m a possessive bastard.
“New ink?” Axel asks, his gaze dropping to Rose’s bare leg. It’s about all he can see of her, and that’s just because she’s decided to drive her heel into my thigh. I’m lucky I didn’t park her above the knife drawer, because she’d probably go for my balls.
The tattoo in question is part of the vine-tree-thing that stretches over her spine. I can see two yellow flowers and one pink.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did it myself.”
“Didn’t it hurt?” He rummages in the fridge for sandwich fixings. Rose flushes, like she’s wondering if he knows what we were doing. If he’s silently judging us.
She shrugs. “Pain’s relative.”
What the fuck has she seen or done that makes her so blasé about tracing a needle over her own thigh? Axel sees something too, because he nods slowly. I scoop Rose off the counter and drop her on her feet. She elbows me hard in the stomach, and I’m pretty sure she was aiming for Mr. Happy.
“Grab your shoes.” I smack her on the butt too, and I can practically hear her brain explode. She’s torn between yelling at me and plotting a sneakier, more painful demise for me. This is where I have the advantage because I grew up with two brothers and an endless supply of cousins. This, followed by two tours of duty with the US Navy, has made me an expert on aggravation and practical jokes.
“Rose is riding out with me,” I tell Axel. “We’re gonna check on the water trough on the south side.”
Axel nods like this is perfectly normal and crams the remains of his first sandwich into his mouth. Usually, it’s his job to check the troughs, so he scores out of this one as I herd Rose toward the door. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I lean down so I can whisper in her ear. My dirty girl likes that.
“If I have to come get you, I’m finishing what we started in the kitchen wherever I find you.”
She turns red as a peony. “That was all you in there,” she hisses.
As if her pussy wasn’t
wet.
I glide my hand down her arm and over the pulse banging in her wrist. She’s excited and we both know it.
“Tell me no and I’ll go away,” I tell her.
She doesn’t.
ANGEL
I need to establish a few ground rules before we get to our destination. At least she’s a captive audience in my truck. It’s summer, there’s a drought, and we’re driving through acres of brown plain rimmed by mountains. It’s not like the close up landscape’s gonna hold her attention.
“When we get to the trough, you follow the rules.”
Rose has got me hotter than hell, but she’s more rush in than hold back. That’s great for sex—as long as it’s with me—but not so safe around cattle. Those beasts are gonna outweigh her. When she looks at me, all sweet innocence, I add, “I mean it, Rose. No games.”
I wait for her nod, because I need the buy in.
“Sure.” Her hand darts out and flicks the radio on. She’s not one for silence, either. She used to blast pop music out of her room the summer she lived with us, and I’d hear her dancing around, belting out the lyrics. Her voice is good, and I used to think she might make a career out of singing. Used to think lots of things.
I cover her fingers with mine. “Give me the words.”
“I can follow the rules.” When she spots the grin tugging my mouth, she slaps my fingers away with her free hand. “I can.”
I let her, nursing the small sting as I guide the truck down yet another dirt road. “You never met a rule you didn’t want to break, Rose.”
“I was a kid,” she protests.
“You were sixteen and old enough to know better. You took the truck out into the foothills and camped out in the truck bed for two days. You had a bonfire going when I showed up, although the only food you had were marshmallows and beer. Three days after that, you toilet papered my barn. Four days later, you did the same to my orchard. If I posted a no trespassing sign, you’d be sitting just beyond it in a lawn chair.”