He grinned. “Thinking something isn’t the same as doing it. And for the record? That might not have been the sort of advertising you’re going for, but ten years from now, folks around here would still be talking about it. Remember when Ashley Webb blew up her own fashion show? Yeah, that was a real trip.”
“Gack! I’m not ready to think about ten years from now.” Though she could see Feed Store Billy saying exactly that. “I’m just starting to get good at figuring out the next ten days or so.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He tipped his head to look at the three butterflies opposite them. The painted patterns were muted in the shadows, but the instructions came through loud and clear. Be Powerful. Take Control. Let Go. “Especially seeing what you accomplished over the past ten.” He slipped his arm around behind her, snugging her up against him. “This was a hell of a thing you pulled off here, Ashley. A hell of a thing. You should be proud of yourself.”
How strange that he and Wyatt could say two things that sounded so similar, yet were really so different at their cores. Leaning into him, she let out a soft sigh as her brain went blessedly quiet for a moment. “Thanks, Ty.” She didn’t need him to validate the night’s success, but it was sure nice to share it with him. “You want some champagne or something to nibble?” Now that she was starting to wind down, her stomach was reminding her that she had missed a meal or three.
“I should go. It’s late, and you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
Which was true, but she also knew full well that she wouldn’t be settling down to sleep anytime soon. Restless, edgy energy coursed through her, coming as much from the feel of his arm around her as it did from the night’s success.
She had dreamed of him, awakened wishing he was there with her, kissing her. Doing more. They knew each other, liked each other, were starting to respect each other. They weren’t rushing a darn thing, and sex wouldn’t be jumping off the edge so much as climbing a level higher on the cliff, and she already knew those dangers.
So, not letting herself turn it into a Big Thing when it was really the next natural step in their casual fun, she said, “You could go . . . but I’d rather you stayed the night.”
• • •
Ty knew he was playing with fire by sticking around, but he was ready for the burn. She was in his head, under his skin. Tonight, tomorrow, Sunday—it didn’t matter at this point. It was going to happen. They were going to happen, and tonight felt right.
Leaning in, he kissed her deep and slow, the way he’d been thinking about it all day. Then, against her lips, he said, “I’ll help you lock up.”
13
Anticipation hummed beneath Ashley’s skin as she went through her checking-the-locks routine with Ty beside her. Excitement. If she had thought it was sexy as hell that he had waited behind to surprise her after everyone left—which she definitely did—it turned out it was even sexier to have him reach past her and run the cage down over the front door, then crouch down to set the lock.
If Kenny had been there, he would’ve been sacked out in the break room, working his way through the leftovers and champagne.
Annnd that’s the last time we’re thinking about HIM tonight. First because there was no real comparison, and second because she didn’t want to think too much when there was so much to feel. Like the masculine roughness of Ty’s palm as he drew her close. The intoxicating scent of his arousal and her own. The heat that gathered where their bodies brushed.
“What next?” His voice was an ardent rumble.
“Next?” Her mind blanked.
“More locks?”
She blinked at him, their eyes level, thanks to her ankle-breakers. Such a strange sensation, to have everything inside her go suddenly silent. She parsed the words one at a time. What. Next. More. Locks. “No.” The word was barely a breath, but it kicked things back into gear, bringing a new burst of excitement. “We’re done down here.”
“So, what do you say? You want to show me your apartment?”
Sudden amusement bubbled up. “Actually, I should probably blindfold you. Between the fashion show and a few other things”—like tearing closets apart in an effort to find her alleged cat—“the place should probably be certified as a major disaster zone.”
“Do you have a bed?”
“I do.”
“Is it big enough for two, in the orientation of your choice?”
Heat coursed through her veins at the sensory images that brought to mind. “It’s plenty big for lots of different orientations.”
His teeth flashed. “Then I’d say we’re good.”
“I’d say we are. I’d also say that the last one upstairs is a rotten egg!” She tore away from him and sprinted for the back hallway, but made it only a couple of steps before he scooped her up against his chest, cradling her easily as she squeaked and kicked her feet.
“Let me,” he said. “I’d hate for you to twist one of those pretty ankles of yours, running on those shoes.”
Relaxing against him, she looped an arm around his neck and leaned in to nibble his earlobe, then whispered, “I can do lots of things in heels. Running is the least of them.”
“Annnd, we’re going upstairs!” He carried her up the creaky treads more easily than she would have guessed possible, making her feel positively delicate.
She dealt with the door, let them through, and waited while he turned back so she could lock up behind them. Then she put a hand over his eyes.
“Hey, now,” he protested, amused. “Don’t know if you want me to do this blind. Seems like there’s a bit of stuff laying around.”
Not just a bit. More like everything she owned, along with most of what she had inherited when she moved into the apartment. Calling it a disaster area was an insult to disaster areas. “Trust me. This will be fun. Turn a little to your left and take three steps. More left.”
His chuckle vibrated against her, but he obliged. “You sure about this?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we? More left. Then take six steps. Now three more, nice and straight.” She coached him through the cluttered living room and down the hall to the bedroom, so they skirted a Tupperware tub full of art supplies and a bag of cosmetics that she could’ve sworn was in the bathroom, last she checked. Then, finally, into the bedroom. She nudged the door closed and took a look around. The warm yellow light coming from the bedside lamp bathed the tousled bed and piled pillows, and shone on the books piled haphazardly within reach. There was laundry and a bit of clutter, but it was nothing like out in the main room. “Okay,” she decided. “You can open your eyes.”
“Kiss me first.”
She obliged. How could she not when he held her against his heart and kissed her as if she was the only thing that existed right then? Locking her arms around his neck, she let herself slide down his body, until her feet came to rest on the floor, supporting her weight. Then, easing the kiss, she stepped away.
His eyes came open, gone dark with a passion that had her inner muscles clenching with rhythmical desire. He reached for her, toyed with the hem of her soft green shirt, then started to draw it up.
Stepping back, she held up a finger in warning. “One second. Blinds.” It might be late, but there was no need to put on a show. She put an extra wiggle in her walk, though, and heard his hiss of indrawn breath. And when she came back toward him, she loosened the floaty green silk and let it drift down her body, leaving her in the tight black clothing beneath, and the heels that were rapidly becoming her favorites.
She felt beautiful. Powerful. Ready to take the leap. All the things she had painted on her butterflies. Girl Power. Believe In Yourself. Go For Broke. She wasn’t going to break this time, though. She had everything under control.
This wasn’t intended to be forever, but it was going to happen right now. And thank God for that.
His hands came up to cup
her waist, his thumbs rubbing maddening circles just beneath her tank as he looked into her eyes. “Sometimes I want to pinch myself when I’m around you, just to prove that you’re real. You are, though. I think you’re one of the most real women I know.”
Men had told her she was beautiful before, but this was so much more. Because hadn’t she been thinking the same about him? That he was real, solid, important. Warning shivered at the back of her consciousness. Let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves. This is fun, not important. Important sucked her in, wrapped her up, tried to take over.
Fun, she reminded herself, and went to work on the snap studs of his shirt, popping them from top to bottom. “I wanted to do this down by the lake that first day. Now I want it even more, because I’ve gotten to know the guy holding the guitar. And I like him a whole lot.”
He skimmed the tank up over her head, taking the built-in bra with it. Eyes heating, he cupped her breasts and drew his thumbs over her peaked nipples, wringing a groan from her. As her head fell back and she surrendered to his touch, he murmured, “Glad to hear it, as I like you a whole lot, too. Why do you think I stuck around?”
Eyelids fluttering shut, she whispered almost soundlessly, “I thought you wanted to see if I needed help breaking down the stage?”
His lips cruised along her collarbone and down. “I lied.”
If she had been all Rah, rah, let’s get the store cleaned up, he undoubtedly would have pitched in without complaint. This, though, was a much better plan. Fighting the sensual haze brought by his oh so clever hands and mouth, she pushed the shirt off his shoulders and tugged the cuffs free, one at a time. It was an effort to lift her head, another to force her eyes to open and focus on him. In the end, though, it was so worth it.
He was magnificent.
The warm yellow light buffed his workingman’s tan to an all-over gold and caressed the ripple of muscles that flowed across his chest and down his abdomen, where a trail of sparse, wiry hair disappeared behind the plain silver plate of his belt buckle. With his bedroom eyes half-lidded and his jeans showing an impressive bulge, he could’ve been fodder for a sexy cowboy calendar photo. He wasn’t model pretty, though—his body bore the signs of his lifestyle, from the long, narrow white line that ran along the top of one pec, to a tougher, gnarled scar that rode just above one hip bone and bore a ladder of healed-over stitches.
She moved in and touched the scar beneath his collarbone. “What happened here?”
His eyes met hers. “An accident. Just stupid kid stuff.”
Was there a story there? She thought so, but this wasn’t the time or place to ask. Instead, she skimmed down to the second, larger scar. “And here?”
Lips kicking up, he said, “Stupid cow stuff. She didn’t mean it, though. I was just too slow.”
Fingers drifting down, past his belt to the ridge of hard flesh behind his fly, she traced the outlines and murmured, “Here?”
He sucked in a breath, pressed himself into her touch. “That’s not a scar, darlin’, but it’ll be an accident waiting to happen if you keep doing that.”
A laugh bubbled up. “Should I stop?”
“Hell, no. Especially since I’m going to do this.” He hooked a finger in her waistband, and a moment later her pants pooled at her feet. His hands settled on her bare hips and his thumbs slipped beneath the narrow swaths of elastic that held her panties in place.
She had worn electric-blue hip-huggers dotted with little gold butterflies, in honor of the evening. Now he chuckled and she flushed. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“That wasn’t a complaint.” He brushed his lips across hers. “They’re unique, just like you. Though they’ve got to go.” The panties slipped down to snag at her ankles, hobbling her deliciously.
“My shoes. I should—”
“Leave them on.” It was more an order than a suggestion, but the husky rasp in his voice put an answering heat in her belly. “They’re sexy as hell.”
The flames flared higher when he caught her by the waist and lifted her like she weighed nothing, leaving the clothing behind. Her feet had barely touched the floor again when he started walking her back toward the bed, crowding her with his big, warm body. Her bare legs brushed against his jeans, bringing a frisson of vulnerability at being so much more naked than he was.
There’s an easy fix for that. She popped his belt buckle, undid the top, and dragged the zipper down inch by inch, cushioning the move with her fingertips and shaping his impressive length through the soft fabric of his boxer briefs. Groaning, he thrust himself into her touch. Then, suddenly urgent, he yanked off his boots and shucked out of the last barriers of clothing separating them, leaving him standing beside her bed, gloriously naked.
Wow. She didn’t think she said it aloud—kind of hoped she hadn’t. But, seriously. Wow. He was bigger all over than Kenny, with muscles that came from slinging hay bales and fixing fences rather than half-assedly lifting weights, and his hard manflesh jutted aggressively from a wiry nest of hair. Yeah, bigger all over.
Not that she was comparing. More like doing inner cartwheels.
Holding out a hand, he said, “Nervous?”
“Not even a bit.” This was what she wanted, needed.
Still. Wow.
“Then what are you doing all the way over there?”
“Taking in the scenery.” But she crossed to him, feeling deliciously naughty to be naked save for her heels. She had known that the right shoes could make all the difference, but she’d never extended that to the bedroom before. When she stopped in front of him, they were eye-to-eye. “Is this better?”
“Getting there.” He caught her by the waist, spun, and launched her onto the bed.
She squealed as she landed, and then bounced, laughing. “What am I, a bale of hay?”
He followed her down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he covered her, trapping her beneath the delicious warmth of his big body, the friction of his sparse masculine hair, and the sensation of his hard length pressing between their bodies. Cruising his lips along her jaw, he said, “Prettiest hay bale I’ve ever seen.”
“Gee, thanks.” She thought there was a joke in there somewhere—something about fluffing her or checking for mold—but then he dragged his hand down her body and urged her leg up in a bend that reminded her of the heels, and her mind fogged.
He shifted down her body, kissing a path lower and fanning the sudden blaze that erupted inside. “You were saying?” he asked, his breath hot on her skin.
Nothing. She arched into his touch. Everything. She had nothing left to say, but everything to feel. His hands on her hips, her legs, her center. His mouth, hot and avid. The sweet longing inside, the need to have him fill her, consume her. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she whispered, “You’re doing just fine.”
He chuckled against her skin. “Well, then.” And he kissed her, soft and enticingly, and Ashley lost herself to the pleasure.
Perhaps he said something more; maybe not. Her whole world coalesced to the way his hands bent her to his will and his clever tongue moved across her skin. Guilt stung, bringing the faint sense that she should be doing something, doing everything. But that was back to comparing, wasn’t it? And, oh, how lovely to be with a man who took charge like this, who made her feel adored. Worshipped, even.
So this is what lovemaking feels like. The thought was a passion-wisp in her mind, quick and fleeting. Not that she and Ty were in love, but that he was making love to her, wholly focused on her body, her reactions. How wonderful.
With her head thrown back and her mouth stretched wide on a long, low moan, she wasn’t thinking about how she looked or if she was doing things right. She didn’t need to—not when he whispered heated praise against her skin and then moved up her body, his skin sweat-slicked against hers and his eyes ablaze with passion as he kissed her belly, her breasts
, her lips.
His body was heavy on hers, his jutting flesh hard and urgent, enticing her to spread her legs and invite him inside, even though a warning chime said they had skipped a step.
Breaking the kiss, he said, “Hold that thought.” He found his pants, dug out his wallet, and pulled out a zigzag of three condoms accordioned together. Snagging one, he tossed the others on the nightstand.
“Props for preparedness,” she said, aiming for casual but afraid that the passion-rasp in her voice said otherwise. “Note to self: Buy condoms.” On Main Street. Where everyone would know.
Instead of making her want to squirm, the thought brought a grin. She wanted this, wanted him. And wanted everyone to know she had him, at least temporarily.
“I wasn’t ever a Boy Scout, but I know what happens to spare kids.” He rolled the barrier into place, then returned to her, rising over her and letting his weight settle against her, into her. Looking into her eyes, he rumbled, “This way is better.”
His words and the practiced ease of his moves put a quiver-bump in her belly, reminding her how little she knew about his past. But she liked the man he was today, and it would be dumb to blame him for having a life—and a whole lot of experiences—leading up to this moment. Nope, she wasn’t going there. She was staying right where she was, deliciously trapped beneath him with her eyes caught in his as he poised himself at her entrance and then nudged inside.
Slowly. Torturously. Wonderfully.
Her thoughts puffed to mental confetti as he filled her, stretched her, setting off new bursts of sensation with each advance. Little inner fireworks sapped her ability to do anything but dig her fingers into the bunched muscles of his upper arms as he seated himself fully, his chest rumbling with a raw groan of satisfaction.
“Ashley,” he said against her temple. “Damn.”
It wasn’t poetry or a serenade. It was better, because damn was right. Damn, he felt good inside her, against her. And, damn, it felt good knowing that she had brought him to the point of being buried inside her, with fine tremors racing through his body as he waited for her to adjust to his size, his very presence.
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 14