Cowgirl, Unexpectedly

by Vicki Tharp

  He drew his hand from behind my head and traced a slow line from my shoulder down the length of my collarbone near to the tiny hump end at the hollow of my neck. I felt every minuscule blip of imperfection, each location where the tissue was a cell or two thicker, or the nerves branches were particularly agitated and aroused.

  There were many agitated nerve branches.

  There must have been a recruit on the nerve branch assembly line when I was made because I was cross-wired. A manufacturing defect. I should get my money back because my legs wrapped around his waist when his finger sank into the dip. Then his finger continued its excruciating path to the other side, exploring, exciting, nerves firing.

  “We’ll worry about punish—” There was another short in my faulty system. My thoughts were clear, but my words jammed up at the base of my tongue.

  He slid the hand down the valley between my breasts the pad of his thumb navigating the happy curve along the underside of my breast. His skin was coarse, calloused, highlighting his tenderness. He worked his way down my body, dragging his hands down my sides, careful of my nearly healed rash of scabs.

  An artist with his tongue, he painted a sensual picture across my abdomen, all long swirls and circles like Van Gogh’s Starry Night that left a buzz in my belly and a Mona Lisa lilt on my lips. He dipped his tongue into the well of my belly button and swirled it around as if he was gathering paint on his brush. Then a long, languid downward stroke.

  Down, down, down.

  I fisted my hands in his short crop of hair. “Lower,” I squeaked, more Minnie Mouse than Marine.

  He chuckled, but it had that pay-backs-are-hell quality to it. I’d remember that and plot my revenge as soon as I corrected that wiring issue.

  He skipped to the inside of my right thigh, and started in with his teeth in short, choppy, strokes perfectly timed with the rushing of my blood as it jumped from chamber to chamber, unfocused and haphazard and wild.

  That would explain why the tips of my fingertips had lost all feeling.

  Marching his way north, his demeanor changed as desire built and demanded action. He threaded his arms beneath my legs, hooked his hands on the top of my thighs, and pulled himself in as if bellying up to the buffet.

  He nuzzled his nose into my curls and breathed in as if he was a wine connoisseur and I was a rare chardonnay. The cool air sizzled as it rushed past my hot, sensitized skin, tingling, tantalizing. Torture.

  “You’re intoxicating.”

  He traced my seam. First with the tip of his nose, then with the end of his warm, moist tongue. His strokes light. Slow but not tentative. Not a buffet to devour but a banquet to savor.

  Not a warrior to vanquish but a comrade to envelop into the fold.

  All my nerves were going haywire, stealing my sight, but augmenting my senses. All moans and groans and swallowed pleasure. All musky man and scorched earth. All flashes of deep heat and smoking synapses.

  Holy hell. I’m going to need a new motherboard.

  His lips found my nub, swollen, sensitive, starving. His lips sucked and his tongue laved, masterful. As if he gained more pleasure than I did, as if he wanted to be there and not as if he were mentally checking things off a pre-coital checklist he’d read in Men’s Health.

  I bucked beneath him, a move so quick, and so forceful it would have unseated a lesser man. I held him there with a hand to the back of his head, but he’d already snugged his hat down and was hanging on for the ride.

  The pressure built. Exquisitely painful, as I writhed. I wanted him. I wanted him over me. I wanted him inside me. I wanted him to go over the edge with me. “Now, Hank.”

  “Just getting’ started.”

  “That’s an order. Not a req—” He slid two fingers in to the hilt and zapped the words from my brain and singed the edges of my sanity. “Gah.”

  As much as I craved the release, I wanted to take him with me more, but I rode his fingers even as I fired a little control at my smoldering sanity.

  “Come with me,” I somehow managed. If the crickets outside sang any louder, he wouldn’t have heard me.

  He stilled and his smile slipped from his lips as he glanced up at me over the mat of soft curls, over the quiver of my stomach muscles, over the swell of my breasts and over the thump of my heart in my chest. There was a fire in his eyes, a fuse nearing detonation.

  “Come with me,” I repeated.

  I witnessed that moment, that flash in his eyes where the fuse ended and the powder keg ignited, propelling him to his feet with a determined grunt. I knew he was searching for a condom. We’d covered this ground before that night at the pond, but I couldn’t fault him for his caution. I don’t care where he got one from, an oldie from his wallet, a new box from a bag. He could get one from Quinn for all I cared as long as he double-timed it.

  He returned to me already sheathed. He tossed the covers over the bed and then laid me down on it with a measured precision, a cautiousness to his manner as if afraid a sudden movement would make me bolt. “You good?”

  “That’s the general consensus. Haven’t had a man tell me otherwise.”

  “Smart-ass.” He shook his head and nipped the edge of my jaw. “I meant are you okay, with this…with us…”

  “I know what you meant. I appreciate the sentiment. The fact that you’re still thinking at all makes me wonder if those men had lied.”

  He settled between my legs, his weight on his forearms, his pelvis aligned with mine, his dilated eyes on me. His arousal knocking on my front door. “Trust me, Army, there isn’t a scenario in my head that doesn’t involve you naked.”

  I ran my hands down the dip of his lower back, up the tight curve of his ass and arched beneath him driving him into me, long, hard, deep.

  His jaw clenched and every muscle in his body went rigid. He sucked in an asthmatic breath before his lungs seized and he dropped his forehead to mine. “Don’t move. Have mercy on my soul and don’t move.”

  I didn’t move.

  Not because I had mercy, but because I didn’t want this moment to end. This connection, this heat, this stretch, this promise, this offering, this coming together, to end. I shuddered beneath him, full of desire, full of him.

  He covered my mouth with his and I welcomed the need in the thrust of his tongue, the flavor of sex on his taste buds. He nibbled and sucked on my upper lip as his hand ran down the length of my torso and tugged my legs up high over his hips and said, “Think you can make the buzzer?”

  Eight seconds.

  Eight seconds for a full ride.

  My body clenched around him and he swallowed his groan. My insides sizzled, goose bumps marched up my back and pricked my scalp, and my heart had long forgotten what a normal rhythm was. Every nerve, every synapse, every cell screamed for release. Would I make eight seconds?

  “One way to find out, Cowboy.”

  “Atta girl,” he said like I’d accepted a challenge he was going to do his damnedest to win.

  Then he started to move as if he were going to take his sweet time, but then something a whole lot like his self-control snapped with a loud twang and he slammed back into me. Demanding. Dangerous. Delicious. I met him stroke for stroke. He buried his face in the crux of my shoulder biting the tender flesh, shooting salvos of shocks through my sensitized system.

  I wrapped my arms around his back and pulled him in tight, grabbed his ass, his shoulders, anything for more power, more purchase.

  Deeper.

  Harder.

  Faster.

  Then his body tensed and strained, his breath hot on my skin, the groan of intense pleasure, the renting of my soul. One final thrust and he arched above me. I clamped around him, milking his climax and tumbling into my own. Falling, swirling, stars flashing, darkness imploding and then far off in the distance and then growing stronger, that now unmistakable schnick, sc
hnick, schnick, schnick as Hank’s healing hurricane hoovered up most of the remaining pieces of my soul.

  Did we make eight seconds? I have no idea. All I know is when he bucked me over that edge, I shattered, and then Hank gathered me back together and made me better than I was before.

  Maybe better than I’d ever been before.

  Chapter 14

  Dawn still hid in the shadows, waiting for the perfect time to creep in and spoil this perfect morning. I was already awake and hunkered beneath the covers, my ass tight against the cold cabin wall, my head resting on Hank’s shoulder, my leg thrown over his. Everything about him said he was asleep: the complete relaxation of his features, the deep, steady breathing, the way his left arm sagged over the edge of the bed, his hand resting on the floor.

  Asleep, except for the quarter sized circles a finger on his right hand traced at the bend of my hip. It shouldn’t have been an erogenous zone.

  Then again, this man could touch the tip of my big toe and I’d sizzle.

  I nuzzled into his chest and then because it was there and accessible and begging for it, I drew a slow circle around the flat of his nipple with my tongue, flicked the nub when it puckered. Suddenly, there wasn’t anything about this man that was relaxed. Or soft.

  He lifted me on top of him, his erection hard against my abdomen as he held me to him, the arm that had hung outside the covers cool against my skin.

  “This is never going to work,” he said.

  I stilled for a second, but the way his arms held me to him, the way his hands drifted up to my shoulders and then slid down my back and down my ass before he palmed both globes and drew me more firmly up against him, I knew I’d misunderstood.

  “What’s not going to work?”

  “This bed for one. And the furniture.”

  “What’s wrong with the furniture?”

  “There’s no couch.” He kissed me lightly on the lips. “There are so many possibilities with a couch.”

  “Mmmmm.” I liked the wicked, wooly way his mind worked. “What else would you change?”

  “The table isn’t sturdy enough to hold your weight. Then there’s the counter issue.” He grazed the corner of my jaw with his teeth and worked his way down my neck.

  I tilted my head to allow better access and tossed the covers away from our legs as the temperature beneath the sheets bordered on combustible. “The counter’s bolted to the wall.”

  “It’s a height issue, not a stability issue. And the shower—” I lifted up and freed him long enough to trap his erection between my legs. Hank almost swallowed his tongue. He ground against me and I think I heard his eyes cross.

  My chest heaved as the oxygen leaked from the room. I squirmed against him, felt the hard, hot length of him, felt my slickness, my moisture cling to him, felt the tip of him as it brushed by, teasing, enticing. My chest tingled and my womb clenched and shuddered, begging for attention. Where the hell were those condoms?

  Someone stepped onto the porch. Hank stilled. I tossed the covers back over my naked ass even though it was almost completely dark in the cabin. Neither one of us scrambled for a rifle, not because we were naked, but because the sound was light, feminine, harmless. Jenna.

  Dawn peeked over the horizon low and unsure if we’d welcome it. He still had one hand on my ass, but his erection instantly withered.

  “Don’t come in,” Hank hollered, his voice equal parts frustration and fatherly annoyance.

  “Hank?” came a female voice, but it wasn’t Jenna. Or Lottie.

  “Shit,” Hank gritted out between his teeth.

  He scrambled out of bed with me right behind him. I didn’t know who was at the door, but I reached for my clothes as he slipped on a pair of jeans. The woman knocked on the door, the hollow thumps sounding pompous, privileged, though I didn’t know how that could be.

  I stepped away from his side of the room. He strode to the door, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure I was sufficiently dressed before flipping on the lights and opening the door a crack.

  A woman brushed past him. I took her all in, from the long brunette curls cascading from her head, to the red sequined cowgirl shirt, to the flash of her silver belt buckle, to her dark-denim clad legs, to the glossy ostrich boots. The boots a concession, I assumed, to the screw-me-red stilettos her outfit cried out for.

  Her mischievous eyes darted from Hank to me and then back again as the devil toyed with her red glossed lips. There might have been horns, or a thin, pointy tail, but the cabin didn’t have the best lighting so I couldn’t be certain.

  Hank turned, hands on his hips, legs wide, his weight shifted slightly in deference to his injured leg. His chest heaved and his nostrils flared wide, his upper lip curled in contempt. “What do you want?”

  A reptilian smile curved her full lips as she correctly read the situation between me and Hank. Not that it was that difficult to read. “Never thought I’d see the day where the great Hank Nash was desperate enough to diddle the help,” the woman said.

  The help?

  His jaw clenched once, but that was the only indication I had that he’d heard her.

  I didn’t care who she thought she was or who she believed she was better than, or more beautiful than. I also had too much dignity to let the snide comment slide. “Who the hell are you?”

  She spared me an imperious glance. Her brow arched, her lips parted, and the glint in her eye told me she was going to revel in her declaration. Hank’s abdominals tightened, his head flinched as if preparing for the verbal blow.

  “I”—she paused a beat to make sure she had my undivided attention— “am his wife.”

  “Am” not “was.” The revelation shook my heart, rattled my brain, and stole my sense of peace.

  “Hank?” His name was heavy on my tongue and it kind of tumbled out, low on control and high on denial.

  As he stood bare chested before us, if his pallor were any whiter, I’d have taken him for a Greek god that an ancient artist had hand chiseled and carved, wrestled and rendered out of the stone. I waited for him to deny it, to laugh it off. He didn’t. Hands on his hips, his head dropped forward as the guillotine of truth dropped down with a solid thunk.

  Hank was still married.

  “Get out.” The words came out low and lethal, but she was deaf to it.

  “Aw, come on now, Hank,” she said with one of those fake-flirty giggles. “Is that any way to say hello?”

  He stalked toward her, all panther and power and pent-up rage. The adrenaline stealing the limp from his stride. He latched onto her arm above her elbow, propelled her onto the porch, and closed the door behind her. I tossed him a shirt.

  “Say something.” His eyes were hollow, his expression stark and empty in the harsh light from the naked bulb overhead.

  “You’re married. What’s there to say?” My words lacked all emotion because he’d obliterated all of them. I was stuck in that silence, that momentary void of nothingness after the explosion picks you up and slams you back to earth.

  “Look, Army.”

  “Oh, no. Nuh-uh.” I made a beeline for him, snagging a shard of my anger along the way, and poking him in the chest with it. “Don’t you dare ‘Army’ me. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  He stared into my eyes as if trying to understand, to see beyond the obvious. He opened his mouth to speak a few times but when it became clear to him his answers were icebergs in a mental game of Hot or Cold, he shook his head.

  “You made me an adulterer, Hank.”

  His eyebrows shot up. He clearly hadn’t expected that response. The word adulterer chewed and gnawed at my belly.

  “Mackenzie.”

  I closed my eyes and threw sandbags around my heart for protection. Hearing my name on his lips was almost more painful than the endearment. Then I opened them again and crowded
his personal space until I sensed him fighting the urge to take a step back. “Maybe in this day and age, especially in the civilian world”—I ignored the fact that this world was also my world now— “adultery may not be a big deal to a lot of people, but to those of us in the military it is a huge deal.

  “In fact, it’s a court-martial offense. Not only because it’s wrong, but because of what it says about the person who commits it. It speaks to their character, their integrity, their code of morals. If a person would willingly break a vow to the person they’re supposed to love more than anyone else in the world, what kind of vow are they willing to break to their unit, their command, their country?

  “And you…” I speared him in the chest with my outrage, my disgust, and my finger. “You made me a part of something I’ve always despised.”

  The enormity of what he’d done slacked the muscles in his face and stole the breath from his lungs. The pulse pounded at his temple and his hand shook when he went to brush back the lock of hair that had caught in the corner of my mouth. “That’s on me. That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

  I batted his hand away and yanked the hair out of my mouth, infuriated with the situation, with him. More so with myself. Outside the window, the dawn cast a timid pink hue. I could hear boots treading on the porch as Hank’s wife paced back and forth. Waiting for Hank to emerge I imagined. I needed to get to work, to check on my horse with no name, and I needed to get away from Hank before I did or said something I couldn’t take back.

  I stepped back to my bunk, grabbed my baseball cap, and pulled my hair through the hole in the back. Hank slipped the shirt over his head. I opened the door but he grabbed my arm and stopped me. His wife stood there, not even pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping. She was beautiful in that way that would make men question her motives and at the same time keep a jealous eye on her incoming calls.