Stud for Hire

by Sabrina York

  He glanced at her and grinned, and then started the engine.

  The roar seemed tremendous in the stillness. She glanced at the house, certain everyone would hear and come running into the yard, but not so much as a light flickered. There had been a skinny dipping party at the swimmin’ hole tonight. No doubt there had been alcohol. Everyone was probably dead asleep at this hour.

  Logan deftly put the truck in gear and turned the wheel, heading away from the ranch house. The lights of the dash played over his features, limning them in stark contrast. He looked like a man possessed. Determined.

  That he was determined to kidnap her sent a thrill through her solar plexus.

  “Where are we going?” she asked again, because the silence made her uncomfortable.

  He grunted a laugh. “Are you going to ask that all night?”

  She nibbled her lip. “I’ll probably stop asking when we get there.”

  He shot her a grin. “Cody has a cabin just off the main road. We used to camp out there as kids.” At her look of horror, he added, “He’s kept it up. Besides, I stopped by this afternoon while you were hiding and made some . . . comfort adjustments.”

  “Comfort adjustments?” And then, “I wasn’t hiding.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window, watching the moon chase them across the range. “I was reading.”

  “All day?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “I looked for you. I wanted to see you again.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “All right. Kiss you, then. I wanted to find you and pull you back into the pantry, into the shed, the barn, anywhere, and have my evil way with you.” He glanced at her. “I missed you, Hanna.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I thought about you all day.”

  “Then why did you kiss Sidney?”

  He snorted. “Is that what that was about?”

  “What?”

  “Your hiding?” He slowed the truck to a stop and slid his arm over the back of the seat, pinning her with his gaze. “I only kissed Sidney because Tibby was prying. And I knew you didn’t want her to suspect anything. I thought you knew that. Sweetheart . . .”

  Her heart stuttered at the endearment. She had to remind herself it was just that.

  “There’s no one I would rather kiss . . . than you.”

  He leaned in and took her lips, softly, sweetly. When he lifted his head, his expression scorched her. “Your sister is cute, don’t get me wrong. But no one kisses quite like you.”

  “No one?”

  “No one.”

  She blew out a sigh and shrugged. “If you say so. After all, a gigolo would know.” Even in the dark cab, she could see the flush rising on his cheeks. And she was watching for it. She didn’t want to come right out and spear him with her accusations. It was much more fun to let him roast for a while on the spit.

  In her ruminations that afternoon, her anger over his duplicity had faded when she realized he’d never actually told her he was a man whore. She’d assumed it. He simply hadn’t disabused her of the notion. While he hadn’t lied, per se, he did deserve a poke or two for playing along. “How much do you make, by the way, Logan, for a wild weekend with a horny woman?”

  “Hanna . . .”

  “A thousand? Ten? Just curious.”

  “Hanna. I’m not a gigolo.”

  “Really?” It was all she could do to hold back her smile and gape at him in pretend shock. “Then why did you agree to my . . . proposition?”

  “Because,” he said, shifting the truck back into gear and gunning the engine. Gravel spattered in their wake. “I couldn’t say no.”

  ***

  God, she was beautiful, all tumbled and soft and warm from sleep. Dressed in a ridiculously old-fashioned nightgown with her hair in riots around her head.

  He’d watched her for a long time before she’d awakened, nearly paralyzed with need. He’d planned to sneak in, wake her, and spirit her away. Not stare in awe.

  But he couldn’t help himself.

  He’d never seen a more tantalizing sight.

  And as he’d watched her sleep, snuffling a little, pursing her lips and stretching against the pillow, something had hardened, solidified.

  And not simple lust.

  Oh, he wanted her.

  He wanted her beneath him and around him . . . but he wanted her beside him as well. He wanted her in his bed. Snoring delicately. Every night.

  Forever.

  What firmed within him was determination. Determination to use this time, however little he had, to show her how good they could be together, to convince her she didn’t have to marry Zack—she couldn’t marry Zack.

  He pressed harder on the accelerator, consumed with sudden desire to begin his wooing.

  Well, that was a lie. There was nothing sudden about this desire. It had simmered since high school.

  They pulled up to the cabin and he levered out of the cab, coming around to take her in his arms again. In his rush to kidnap her, they’d forgotten her shoes, or even slippers, and the ground was rough and filled with stones.

  “You don’t need to carry me,” she said on a laugh.

  “I do, ma’am. I believe it’s good form when one is kidnapping a wench.” Besides, he liked the weight of her in his arms. Liked the scent of her hair, the warmth of her arm as she wrapped it around his neck.

  “I’m hardly a wench.” He loved this playful side of her. He’d been sure, when she learned he’d been less than truthful about being a career stripper, she’d be annoyed that he’d deceived her. In fact, she’d taken it in stride.

  Of course, it stood to reason a woman would be relieved to discover the man she’d engaged to debauch her wasn’t expecting to be paid. When she learned the rest of his secrets, her response might not be so amiable.

  She might, in fact, be furious.

  It might be a good idea to soften her up first, before he dropped the bomb and told her the whole sordid truth.

  Holding her as he was certainly did little to deter him from that tack. Hell, with this bundle of heaven in his arms, he could think about little else, other than laying her down on the soft feather bed in the corner of the cabin and making her scream his name.

  They’d been together on a cot. And once up against the wall of the stable. But never on a bed.

  And by all that was holy, he was damn tired of trying to be quiet. He was ready to make as much noise as he pleased.

  He pushed open the door and she wiggled, so he set her on the floor and switched on the light. He thought he’d done a credible job of turning an old cabin into a romantic hideaway. Mrs. Billings, Cody’s housekeeper, had squawked when Logan had cornered her and made his requests, but when he’d winked at her and told her it was for something very special, she’d blushed and helped him collect everything he needed.

  A feather tick and a fresh duvet draped over the old slat bed built into the wall; a gingham check tablecloth disguised the rough and rickety table; and a picnic basket on the sideboard awaited their attention. He’d even stocked the tiny bathroom under the eaves in the back of the house with soft, scented toilet paper.

  Hanna sucked in a breath. “Oh my.”

  “Do you like it?”

  Wrapping the blanket around her, she surveyed his creation. “It’s . . . charming.”

  “There’s food. I assumed you’d be hungry, since I didn’t see you at the dining hall for dinner.”

  She set a hand to her tummy and padded, barefoot, to the basket, rummaging through.

  He couldn’t help but follow. “There’s cheese and crackers and some sliced chicken and cranberries. And a couple of Mrs. Billings’ chocolate chip cookies.”

  She pulled out a bottle of Chianti. “Mmm.” She flicked a playf
ul glance at him. “Do you treat all your kidnap victims so well?”

  “I am sure I would, but, Hanna . . . I have a confession to make.”

  Her breath caught. Her eyes widened at his tone. “W-what is it, Logan?”

  “You’re my first.”

  She blanched, looked him up and down. Shook her head. “Your . . . first?”

  “Yes. The very first wench I’ve ever kidnapped.” He took the bottle from her and set it on the counter, and then swung her up into his arms. She laughed as he spun her around. He ended his twirl exactly where he planned.

  On the bed.

  He settled her gently and loomed over her. “You will tell me if I get anything wrong, won’t you?”

  Her lips quirked. Her tongue peeped out. A delightful glimmer danced in her eye. “Are you asking me . . . to be gentle?”

  “Yes. Yes, darling. Please be gentle.”

  And then something shifted between them. Their playful demeanor dissipated as a tighter energy wound around them.

  She was here, sunk into the soft bed with Logan braced over her. Close enough to see the amber flecks in her green eyes, smell the waft of her perfume, tangled as it was with an essence of Hanna. Close enough to feel her heat, knowing it soaked through nothing more than a thin cotton shield . . .

  His cock, never quiescent, reminded him of his quest.

  He needed to have her again, take her, possess her. He needed, with everything in him, to wipe all thoughts of Zack from her brain.

  He needed to seduce her, soften her, please her.

  And then, when she was sated, he would pull her into his arms and tell her the truth.

  Tell her the truth . . . and make his offer.

  She might tell him no.

  But he hoped she would not.

  He hoped to God he would be convincing enough.

  Chapter Eleven

  Time hung between them. A second. A century. All Hanna knew was Logan. Big and bold, hovering over her, staring at her face. When his head dipped, she readied for his kiss. She hissed in a breath as her tongue danced out to wet her lips, just a dab, but he caught it. His entire body stiffened.

  He came down on her, but to the side, so his weight didn’t pin her in place. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, because he was big and the mattress was . . . fluffy. With his weight on her, surely it would swallow her up. She nearly laughed at the thought, but didn’t. Couldn’t. Because, just then, his lips touched hers, and all thought flew.

  He tasted like heaven. Like hard, hot man. Like Logan.

  His mouth was warm, mobile over hers, working her, teasing her lips. His tongue slipped in to touch hers and a sizzle of arousal scudded through her. He cupped her cheek, holding her—though she had no intention of leaving—and he ate at her mouth, sucking and laving and nibbling.

  Heat rose within her and she shifted restlessly. He groaned as she rubbed against him and she realized her thigh was pressed against something hard and throbbing.

  Holy God. How thrilling.

  He wanted her. He wanted her bad.

  His fingers trailed over her jawline and down her neck, toying with her tender skin there, before easing lower. He found and cupped her breast and a shiver walked through her. When his thumb drew circles around her nipple, teasing it and prodding it, sending delicious waves of sensation through her, she couldn’t hold back the moan.

  “Logan . . .”

  He responded by deepening the kiss, distracting her, overwhelming her with too many sensations at once. He shifted, so he could stroke her with his other hand as well. Toying with both nipples in tandem.

  But he lost patience with this before too long—though she could have reveled in it all night—and he drifted lower. Cool air kissed her thighs as he tugged up her nightgown.

  For the flash of a second, when she’d awakened to find him in her room, she’d been discomfited that he’d found her in such a dowdy nightie, but he didn’t seem to mind that it wasn’t sexy in the slightest.

  His touch skated over her knee, her thigh, then brushed her center, through her panties.

  Of a sudden, she wished she never wore them. She wasn’t the kind of girl who never wore them, but oh, how she wished she could be. At least tonight.

  He found her, through the cotton, and stroked her. Murmured deep in his throat as he touched her dampness. She was swollen, engorged. So much so that his slight caress sent pings dancing along every nerve.

  He trailed away from her mouth, nibbling at her cheek, her jawline, her earlobe, as he continued to toy with her.

  “Do you like that?” His voice was a low thrum, rough, as though he had to force out the words.

  “Yes.” She shifted her legs farther apart to make the point, to encourage him, perhaps. That she rubbed his cock in the process was an added bonus.

  “Shit.” An unintended imprecation, she was sure. He slipped beneath the elastic of her panties and she stiffened. His skin wasn’t soft or smooth, like a city boy’s. It was harsh and rough. The skin of a man who worked for a living. The scrape on her tender flesh was agonizing, and divine.

  He circled her, teasing the underside of her clit until she began to fidget and make undignified sounds, needy grunts.

  “Logan.” Something of a demand.

  “Yes, Hanna?” Somehow he’d unbuttoned her nightgown and bared one breast. He dipped his head to lick and then suck her nipple. Still he drew agonizing lines up and down her slit. He played with her in a leisurely fashion, as though he could dandle her all night long.

  She didn’t have all night.

  She wanted him now.

  She wanted, needed him in.

  “Please, Logan.”

  She was certain the sound he made was a chuckle. It sent a snarl of annoyance through her.

  He’d been much more cooperative when he’d been on the payroll.

  But surely, she could find a way to . . . motivate him to move more quickly.

  She fumbled for the snap of his jeans; deliberate incompetence was helpful. He winced as she scraped against his cock, then murmured something incomprehensible as she followed it up, tracing the line of his insistence. She met his gaze as she found, and released, the fastening.

  She reached in and took hold of him. His nostrils flared.

  “Mmm.” Though his jeans were tight, that only increased the pressure of her stroke. “What have we here?” she murmured.

  He grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her hand away, but she wouldn’t allow it. She set her chin with the obdurate determination she was known for, and caressed him again.

  He hissed in a breath.

  She drew a finger around the damp tip.

  His eyes narrowed and he did the same to her, dancing a finger over the tip of her clit.

  She stroked him again, harder, faster, squeezing him tight and turning in a short, corkscrew fashion.

  He froze and hissed in a breath. And then, with no warning, plunged three fingers deep inside her.

  She lost her hold on him altogether as absolute glory descended.

  God, the man knew how to move. He knew how to touch her. Where and when and just how hard. He stroked in and out, ground around, seeking and finding that spot—as evinced by her wail. He crooked his fingers and caressed her, deliberately, tenaciously, deviously.

  Her orgasm came, but it was not a surprise this time. It rose slowly from the well of her soul. Rose slowly and grew, blossoming and filling her, cresting in a mad crescendo of gasps and cries.

  He did not give her time to recover. Thank God.

  With no respite, he yanked down his jeans and levered over her and entered her.

  And heavens.

  As delicious as his forays had been a moment ago, this, this, this was divine. He was hot and hard and velvety smooth as he slid in. Her body accepted him with a ripple of
recognition.

  He shuddered.

  “Jesus, Hanna,” he bit out.

  She spread her legs to give him more room to work—because, heavens, she wanted him to feel free to work—and then cradled him with her knees. Though he still wore his shirt, she stroked his back, scraping her nails over the chambray as he moved in and out of her, digging in with needy claws as he plunged in and out, as he drove her higher and higher once more.

  When her hunger unraveled, when his long, hard thrusts threatened to consume her sanity, she skated lower and sank her nails into the globes of his ass and desperately, savagely, tried to control his tempo.

  He would not be controlled.

  But there was ecstasy in the chaos. Delight in the manic measure of his pace.

  Harder. Faster. Shorter. Wilder.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead. The sound of wet flesh meeting and melding filled the room, twined with their moans, grunts, and ecstatic groans.

  Incomprehensibly, his cock swelled. Filling her even more. With that expansion, delight pinged along every nerve with each and every hellish slide.

  The ripple began again, deep within. Became a quiver. A quake. A catastrophe.

  He braced himself over her and stared down, the light of some ancient warrior limning his eye. “You’re mine,” he growled, as he thrust once, twice, and one final time.

  Her orgasm took her then. Lifted her and spun her and bathed her in a wet, warm heat. She dissolved into shudders, each wave more delightful than the last.

  And all the while, he continued to stroke her and soothe her and murmur, over and over again, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

  And for that moment, that brief sliver of time, she was.

  And it was glorious.

  ***

  Logan didn’t intend to fall asleep. He had little enough time with Hanna before dawn broke on the last day of their time together, and he had many plans. But he did. After that incredible coupling, as they merged their bodies and, he imagined, their souls, he held her and stroked her and they drifted on a cloud of indescribable peace and oneness.

  But when he awoke, he knew he’d drifted to sleep as well.