High Country Baby

by Joanna Sims

  “This never happens. I swear.” He dragged his tensed fingers through his hair then looked over at her. “It doesn’t.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Taylor rested her arms on top of the sleeping bag. “I was worried about how prickly my legs are.”

  “I didn’t care about that!”

  “I do,” she retorted. Worrying about the hair on her legs and the forests in her armpits had made her stiffen up when she should have been enjoying the feel of his lips on her neck.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he repeated.

  But that wasn’t the truth. He knew exactly what had happened. His libido had been in charge before they got into the tent—when he was really close to making love to a woman without protection for the first time since he was teenager. He’d gotten a girl from high school pregnant, and his mind had started to spit out every possible worst-case scenario and he completely lost his hard-on. The girl he’d gotten pregnant decided to place the baby, a boy, for adoption. That experience had been enough to scare him straight about unprotected sex.

  Clint threw his part of the sleeping bag off his torso, noticing that Taylor clutched the material over her naked breasts. Those breasts, everything he’d imagined they’d be, had felt so damn good against his body. He stood up and yanked on his jeans. It was tempting to leave, but this wasn’t a hotel—this wasn’t a rodeo chick—where would he go? He’d have to face her one way or the other. He’d rather stay and not look like the biggest jerk in a one hundred mile radius.

  “We could always just talk,” Taylor suggested.

  “Talk?”

  “Yeah—talk,” she said, when he looked at her like she’d lost her last bit of sense. “It isn’t unheard of. Don’t you talk to women?”

  “One of my best friends is a woman.” But Dallas was a rodeo junky like he was. They only talked about horses and how they were getting to the next stop on the line.

  “Well—I think it would be good for us to talk. Close your eyes so I can get dressed and then you can ask me anything you want.”

  “Okay.” When she was done Taylor sat down opposite him. “You can look now.”

  Clint opened his eyes and they went straight to her breasts. She hadn’t put a bra on beneath the T-shirt. Her nipples, hardened from the friction of the material brushing up against them, made him want to rub his hands over them.

  “You’ve got great tits.”

  Taylor’s shoulders hunched and she glanced down at her chest. “That wasn’t a question.”

  “No,” Clint acknowledged. “Just the truth.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say in a situation like this... I’m glad you like them?”

  “Your face is redder than a baboon’s butt.” Clint smiled at her. His bottom teeth were a little crooked, but the smile was nice, nonetheless.

  “Do you have a question or not?” Taylor frowned at him.

  “Can’t think of one...”

  “I have a question for you.”

  Clint had slipped his shirt back on, but he hadn’t buttoned it up.

  “What’s with all of the tattoos?”

  The cowboy looked down, rubbed his hand over the black-and-gray tattoos on his chest. “I was too young to know better with most of ’em.”

  “Did you...did you get them in prison?”

  Clint laughed at the question. “No. They’re just scratcher tattoos is all.”

  “I don’t know what a scratcher is.”

  “A dude who don’t know how to tattoo worth a damn. I was too dumb to know not to let ’em touch me with a needle.”

  Taylor nodded her head. She’d thought about getting a little butterfly on her ankle once, but Christopher had said tattoos were for biker chicks and indie girls. Her hand went to her tattoo-free ankle—there wasn’t a reason in the world that she shouldn’t get that butterfly now.

  She had obviously taken a mental jaunt, because when Clint snapped his fingers it snapped her back to the present.

  “I just thought of a question.”

  She raised her eyebrows and waited.

  “Were those rings real? The ones you almost chucked in the lake.”

  “Yes.” Taylor smiled at the expression on his face. “They’re real.”

  “How much did they set your old man back?”

  “Well—they were in a platinum setting from Tiffany’s...”

  He was looking blank, so she elaborated. “It’s a really famous jewelry store—anything that has their name on it comes at a premium. So—platinum Tiffany setting, one carat of diamonds on the infinity wedding band, and a two carat, round, nearly colorless diamond engagement ring—today’s prices—40 or 50 thousand. Something like that.”

  Clint looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “Damn, woman! You’re lucky I was there to stop you from doin’ a fool thing like chuckin’ ’em in the lake!”

  Clint continued to shake his head at the thought of the price of her wedding rings.

  “Damn.” He repeated.

  “I tried to give them back to my ex—he didn’t want them.” Taylor frowned, the memories of the last day she saw Christopher at the attorney’s office still so vivid. “I don’t want them, either.”

  “With that kinda money, I could pay off my truck, my fifth wheel and have money for a year’s worth of tequila and cigarettes.” Clint told her. “Come to think of it, I could use a cigarette about now.”

  “Doesn’t a person usually smoke a cigarette after sex?”

  Surprised that she was teasing him, he pretended that he was stabbing himself in the heart with a knife.

  “That was cold,” he joked back. “And here I was going to offer to cook you an early dinner. Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  Usually Clint fished alone. But this time he asked Taylor to join him and she accepted. She followed him down to the creek and found a large, flat boulder she could sit on. She watched Clint cast his line with a new appreciation for the cowboy’s physique. In his own way, he was a handsome man. Clint let out a hoot when he caught a fish soon after he cast his line. He reeled it in and held it up for her to see. Taylor clapped her hands and smiled at how genuinely pleased he was with himself. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she was sick to death of fish, fish and more fish. Food was one of the perks of completing her journey. Hot showers, mattresses, indoor plumbing—she had sorely missed those luxuries, as well.

  After dinner, Taylor headed down to the stream near Clint’s fishing hole to take what would likely be her last cold-water bath. The sun was still out—it wasn’t strong, but it was enough to keep the boulders by the creek heated. She thought about shaving her legs—the hair was long enough to pet—and the gorilla patches under her arms, just in case, but it was too flipping cold. She did manage to wash her hair, which smelled strongly of campfire smoke and fried trout.

  Wrapped in a towel, she climbed onto the boulder, turned her face to the sun and let the rays warm her face and shoulders. Over the past four weeks she had stopped bathing in her underwear, bathing in the nude, instead. To be out in the wilderness, among the trees and the bugs and the birds and everything living in the water—naked—she imagined that this was how Eve felt in the Garden of Eden.

  When Taylor didn’t return to camp, Clint went looking for her. He followed her footsteps back to the stream. At the edge of the trees, before she would be able to see him, he spotted her. And it stopped him in his tracks. Perched on one of the boulders in the middle of the stream, Taylor’s beautifully rounded body, with all of its lovely curves, was scantily covered by her towel. Her head was back, hair slicked away from her face, which was upturned to take in the sun.

  Over their monthlong trek her body had tightened, was more toned, but she still had that voluptuous figure that he found so appealing. She
reminded him of the Renaissance paintings he had seen in one of the few books that his mother had kept in the house. He used to sneak the book off the shelf to look at the naked women when he was a kid. The way Taylor was posed on the boulder, that’s what she was—a Renaissance woman.

  Taylor opened her eyes and saw Clint walking toward her.

  “I was worried.” He explained why he had interrupted her alone time.

  She nodded her understanding. She had never stayed this long before, so he had a right to be concerned.

  “Mind if I borrow that soap?” Clint started to unbutton his shirt.

  “Be my guest.” Taylor clutched her towel to her chest and climbed off the boulder, being careful not to hurt her feet on the stones lining the creek bed. Her feet had toughened along the way; they were calloused and rough to the touch. It was hard to believe that she actually liked the way they felt. It meant that she was tough—tougher than she’d ever given herself credit for.

  “I’ll see you back at the camp,” she told Clint, who had taken off his hat and stripped off his shirt.

  Inside her tent she brushed the knots out of her hair—it was long enough now to make a decent ponytail. Maybe she would grow it out; maybe she would cut it super short. Whatever she did, she wasn’t going to wear it the way she had for the past several years. It was time to change. The sun was just starting to set when she heard Clint return to camp. After her bath, all she wanted to do was change into a clean T-shirt and underwear, and crawl inside of her sleeping bag.

  She was exhausted and thought that she would fall asleep quickly listening to the sound of Clint’s harmonica mingled with the familiar night sounds of the wilderness. At first, the howling of coyotes in the distance had kept her awake, but now she knew that one thing she would miss when she returned to civilization was that eerie howling. Yet it wasn’t the coyotes keeping her awake tonight—it was the wondering about Clint’s intentions. Would he try to join her in the tent? Or would he sleep outside beneath the stars as if nothing had happened between them.

  “Taylor?”

  The cowboy was outside of her tent. She had wanted him to come to her tonight.

  “I’m awake.” She had left the flap unzipped, in hopes that he would see it as a subtle invitation.

  “You want company?”

  “You can come in.” He was looking for a “yes” and she had given it to him.

  He opened the flap, and the moment she saw him, his features obscured by the night, she knew that he wanted to make love to her. The spot between her thighs, neglected for so long, sent little shocks of anticipation throughout the rest of her body. To get a divorce while entering her sexual peak had felt like a double whammy. She had thought that sex was permanently off the table, unable to imagine the next man that may come into her life, but here was sexy cowboy Clint seeking her out. Amazing.

  “We gotta do somethin’ about that bag of yours.” Clint knelt just inside of her tent.

  She turned on the flashlight hanging overhead. Clint had his bedroll with him. She knew what he had in mind, so she crawled out of her sleeping bag and unzipped it all the way so it could be spread out flat like a thin mattress for two.

  Still in her T-shirt and underwear, Taylor switched off the flashlight before she lay back to wait for Clint. Every sound she heard that brought Clint closer to touching her with his fingers, or his tongue or his lips created a reaction in her body. When he zipped them inside of the tent, her heart started to beat a little bit faster. When she heard him unzip his pants, she started to feel wet between her thighs. Her breathing was more shallow, her nipples so hard.

  Clint lay down beside her and covered them with his blanket. They turned toward each other—they both knew what they wanted. He started by only touching her with his hand and his lips. It was such a sweet, sensual tease. How long had it been since she had genuinely been kissed? Her ex didn’t like to kiss, but apparently Clint didn’t have a similar aversion.

  He brushed his fingers across her cheek to thread his strong fingers through her hair so he could cup the back of her head in his hand. Soft, butterfly caresses turned into deeper, more demanding kisses. Clint’s were unlike any she had ever known. He was commanding without being aggressive, he took charge without taking away her power. He wasn’t sloppy or fumbling—and when he slipped his tongue inside of her mouth, it felt so good and it felt so right that she rested her hand on his bare chest, over his heart, and relaxed into him with a pleasured sigh.

  Her brain registered all of the differences between Clint and Christopher—it wasn’t intentional, it was unavoidable. Christopher had been stocky, while Clint’s legs, arms and torso were long and lean—his body didn’t feel as dense or substantial next to hers, but she liked how he had her legs intertwined with his.

  How different would it feel to have Clint inside of her? With her ex, the sex had always been good. They had been together for so long that they knew how to get to orgasm quickly and without any deviation from their roles and positions. It had become very routine—very boring. Especially when ovulation had ruled their sex schedule. Yet, she worried that she wouldn’t be able to achieve orgasm so readily with a penis she didn’t know.

  “My feet are always cold,” she whispered apologetically.

  “I’ll warm ’em up for you.” Clint’s breath on her ear sparked a wonderful shiver all over her body.

  Clint slid his hand beneath her T-shirt; he filled his hand with her naked breast, the taut nipple pressed into the warm palm. He began to massage her breast, and it was sore, so the squeezing and pressure was a welcome relief. She pushed her breast harder into his hand with a moan.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said urgently. She didn’t want him to stop. “They’re so tender—I think I’m ovulating.”

  She knew that revealing that information might end the night, but he had a right to know.

  Thankfully, he didn’t stop. Instead, he tugged at her T-shirt, asking her to remove it. She sat up and pulled off her top. Now she was nearly naked with the cowboy, the cool night air on her skin and her bared breasts. Instead of having her lie down again, he moved behind her, wrapped his body around hers from behind and encouraged her to lean back against him. He nibbled on her neck while he reached around her body and took her heavy breasts in his large, warm hands. He tweaked her hard nipples with his thumbs; he massaged her breasts while she dropped her head back against his shoulder and uttered moans of pleasure as the soreness that had plagued her for days was released.

  “You like this.” Clint bit her earlobe gently.

  “Yes,” she said in a breathy voice.

  Her senses were overwhelmed by everything Clint; the softness of his beard on her skin, his breath, his lips—the hardness of his erection pressed into her lower back. Clint trapped her breasts beneath one arm, keeping the pressure steady and using his free hand to explore another area of her body that was desperate for attention. Clint’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her cotton panties; she let her thighs open so he could touch her, so he could ease that almost painful need that had been building inside of her for far too long.

  “Ah...” Clint was pleased with the wetness he found with his fingers. “Yes, Taylor. Yes.”

  He hugged her tightly to him, his teeth grazing her neck, his fingers inside of her. She lost herself and the moment—she couldn’t stop herself from moving her hips. She had to move.

  Why was he waiting? Why was he waiting? Clint found her swollen clit with his finger and worried it until she cried out, so loudly, her voice so gravelly with need, that she didn’t recognize it. With Clint, she wasn’t worried about her bulgy belly or whether her thighs were too big—he made her feel so womanly. So deliciously sexy and desirable.

  She was on her back now. Clint took his time to draw her underwear down over her hips, over her thighs and pa
st her ankles. Then he lay between her thighs, the head of his shaft teasing her slick opening. He kept himself propped up with his straight arms, but he bent his head down to kiss her and tease her with his tongue at the same time he teased her down below. Impatient, she reached down between them. She wanted to feel, to begin to learn, the part of his body that was going to be inside of her. His shaft, like the rest of his body, was long and lean and hard—the tip was pointed like a spear.

  “Put me inside of you,” Clint commanded.

  She guided him inside of her body with her hand. Slowly, purposefully, as if he wanted to savor every second of pleasure with her, he slid inside of her. So deep, so deep—until their bodies were mated completely.

  Clint was a quiet lover; she listened to his breathing quicken as he seated himself more deeply inside of her body. The cowboy stopped moving, his head buried in her neck. He rested his chest against hers, his fingers intertwined with hers above their heads. She had to move, she needed to move. She pushed at his hips so he would slide his shaft in and out of her slick opening harder, faster—she needed to take more and more and more of him. Clint found her nipple with his hot mouth and sucked on it—hard.

  “Ahhh!” Taylor arched her back and dug her fingernails into Clint’s shoulders. “Ahhh!”

  In the darkness of the tent, in the arms of the cowboy, Taylor screamed with ecstasy. She screamed louder and longer than she had ever screamed in her life. She screamed with relief, she screamed with release. Clint tugged harder at her nipple with his mouth, suckling until the last waves of her orgasm subsided.

  Clint couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “Do you want it?” he asked gruffly, beads of sweat covering his forehead.

  “Yes!” She felt his shaft at the opening of her womb and it drove her wild. “Yes!”

  Clint pressed his shaft as deep inside of her as he could and exploded. Knowing that he had just given her his seed, Taylor writhed beneath, pressing back against him as hard as he was pressing into her.