Prairie Passion (Cowboys of The Flint Hills #2)

by Tessa Layne

  Then sped up again as she placed her hands on either side of his face and pulled his head the remaining few inches to meet hers.

  Hell, yes.

  His mouth crashed into hers, his tongue diving into her recesses, tasting and savoring. Her tongue slid into his mouth, twisting and curling against his, pulling him into her mouth, then parrying and thrusting into his.

  She moved, rising and pushing him backwards against the wall. He spun them around, pinning her as she raked her hands through his hair.

  Never in his years of Casanova antics had he wanted a woman as much as he wanted Jamey.

  He ran his hands down to her waist, slipping his fingers underneath her tank to rest on the silky skin above her waistband. Moving his hands up, he traced her ribs, reveling in the way her muscles tightened under his fingers.

  As his fingers reached the curve under her breast, she groaned in the back of her throat and rolled her hips.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “God, Jamey, I’ve been dreaming about your tits for weeks. It’s the fucking sexiest thing, you walking around with no bra.”

  Her lips smiled against his. “You noticed.”

  He growled, taking another taste along her neck. “God, woman. How could I not? You set my balls on fire.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  Her low giggle thrummed through him and settled in his nuts. Holy fuck, she made him blind with need. “I just did.”

  He captured a peak between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it to a hard point, reveling in the way she threw her head back against the wall. He moved his hand to her other breast to do the same. Her breath came in fast pants now.

  “Your tits are perfect.”

  A wry smile twisted her face. “They’re too small.”

  He growled in protest. “Whoever told you that should get pounded into the dirt. I love the way they fit in my hand.” He gave her a little squeeze for added emphasis before pushing up her tank and bringing his lips to the rosy peak. He sucked it in, rolling it with his tongue, then scraped his teeth gently over the tip.

  Her hips bucked, and she stopped her perusal of his chest to clutch his shoulders.

  “Jesus, Brodie.”

  He lifted his head, surveying her flushed face through hooded eyes. She was soft and pliant under him. A contradiction to the tough as nails firebrand who kicked ass and took names in the kitchen.

  “Is that a Jesus Brodie stop now? Or a Jesus Brodie you love this?”

  She pushed his shirt up giving him a sly smile. “I know you’ve seen me givin’ you the glad eye.”

  “Not following. Is that Irish for I’m hot?”

  “No, you arrogant bastard. It’s Irish for fuck me now before my head explodes.”

  Raw lust thundered through him. He yanked her tank over her head, baring her. Then reached for his own shirt, throwing it next to hers.

  “You sure?” He brought his mouth to the base of her neck, sucking and nipping, half afraid of her answer. He didn’t know why hearing her say she wanted him meant so much to him. It was only sex.

  “You want me to spell it out?” She panted, running her fingernails over his chest, and holy hell… She sucked on the hollow at his neck, scraping her teeth over his collarbone. Her antics sent a jolt of electricity straight to his balls, building on the ache that had kept him awake nights the last few months. If she kept this up, he’d lose control before his pants dropped.

  “Yes, dammit,” he gritted out between breaths. “Say it.”

  He needed to hear her say it. Grabbing her ass, he hauled her up against his rigid shaft, not that he had far to pull. She was so damned tall, he only had to tilt his head to kiss her.

  “Fine, then.” She raised her head, spearing him with dark lust-glazed eyes. His insides scorched, and he locked his knees against the onslaught of craving that crashed over him.

  “I want you, Brodie Sinclaire. Right here in this office. Pants off.”

  CHAPTER 15

  She didn’t need to ask twice.

  Releasing her, he fell to his knees, fingers tugging on the elastic of her chef’s pants.

  “Wait.”

  Goddammit. She’d gone and changed her mind. Fuck him for being the idiot.

  He glanced up at her, working to bring his breathing under control, but what he saw wasn’t the face of a woman who changed her mind. A hungry glint lurked in her eyes, as a crooked smile curved her lips.

  “My boots.”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  He attacked the laces of her ridiculous purple patent leather Doc Martens with a ferocity normally reserved for fighting with his brothers. He was all thumbs working at the ties. As the laces loosened, she kicked her foot out and used it to push on the other boot he was madly working to remove.

  As soon as her foot was free, he reached up and unceremoniously jerked down her pants and panties in one swift motion.

  Finally.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and appreciation all at once, as she stood completely exposed to him. He’d never seen anything like her.

  Red curls only slightly obscuring glistening pussy lips just waiting to be tasted and claimed by him. This was better than fucking Christmas Day. Peering up, he could see her mouth parted and her head thrown back against the wall. Her breathing came in shallow pants, and her tiny breasts thrust out, standing at perfect attention.

  God, she was gorgeous. Like some wild ethereal Irish sprite.

  Running his hands the length of her thighs, he gently pushed them out, silently demanding greater access. She shifted, spreading her stance. He slid his thumbs up the inside of her thighs and paused, resting at her apex, caressing the link between torso and leg and reveling in the strength of her.

  Slowly, he slid a thumb the length of her slit, eliciting a high moan as he encountered her silky wetness. The scent of her arousal assaulted him and only served to deepen the ache in his balls.

  He brought his other thumb up and traced the length of her, spreading open her lips, baring the deepest part of her to him.

  Leaning forward, his breath stuck in his ribs.

  How long had he been dreaming of this moment? Fantasizing about her? Her scent, her taste?

  He couldn’t breathe.

  The reality was so much better than the fantasy.

  She reached down and slid her fingers through his hair, urging him forward. Coming forward on his knees, he bent his head to her pussy. All pretty and glistening pink. Keeping himself back from diving in and devouring her, he nuzzled her lips, reveling in the sweet tangy musk of her desire.

  “Quit. Toying. With. Me.” Her command ended on a high gasp as he flicked his tongue out to taste her, moving on the same path his thumbs had. Her cream ran over his tongue, filling him with her taste. Salt and sweet and… her. He was ruined for anyone else.

  Ever.

  She clutched at his hair as he took his pleasure with his tongue, swirling her clit, then sliding his mouth down the length of her pussy lips to plumb the depths of her honey.

  There was only her, and the taste he could never have enough of. Over and over, he dove into the recesses of her hot silky sex, licking along her cleft, and circling her clit as it stood higher and harder with each pass. Digging his fingers into her ass, he pulled her forward, his tongue diving deeper and flattening to sweep the length of her. She was keening now, muttering profanities under her breath as her hips undulated beneath him.

  He covered her clit with his lips, then sucked in, allowing his teeth to gently graze her peak. Crying out, she went rigid. He continued suckling as her body shuddered, slipping one finger, then two, into her hot, wet, channel so she could fully ride the waves that shattered her.

  He swallowed hard, working to keep himself in check. Every sound she made went straight to his cock, heightening his own desire and practically wringing out what little control he had left.

  He slowly rose to his feet, drawing her nipple into his mouth and curling his tongue around it before mov
ing his lips to her neck. She slid her fingers inside the denim at his waist, running along his belly and pausing where his cock was jammed ramrod straight, confined against the zipper. Grazing a nail over the head of his cock, she laughed low and velvety.

  A groan ripped from his throat and he crushed his mouth to hers, his tongue demanding entry. She eagerly opened and he thrust in his tongue, letting her taste herself. Her answering moan had him fumbling with the button and jamming down his jeans.

  Pressing into her, he lifted her thigh to his hip and in one fluid motion thrust into her slick entrance.

  God, she was a piece of tight, hot heaven. His breath caught in his throat as he settled into her. The sensation of her skin gliding over him, surrounding him, nearly undid him right there.

  Her breath came out in a little moan as she twisted her hips against him. Pulling back, he angled himself so he slid against her clit as he pushed back into her. She threw her head back, fingers digging into his shoulders and gasping for breath.

  Again, he pulled out and buried himself into her, lifting her off her toes and reveling in her tightness, her heat. His own inferno grew and pooled in his belly, winding him tighter with each thrust.

  She rocked with him, crying out as he drove into her, her voice pitching higher with each movement until she clenched his cock in waves as her release shuddered through her. Her ecstasy surrounded him, coming in ripples down his hard shaft and squeezing his own climax from him in a blinding bolt that ripped a shout from his throat. He threw a hand up against the wall, bending his forehead to hers as their breathing slowed to normal.

  Panic started to creep into the edges of his awareness as they separated. “Fuck, Jamey. I’m so sorry.”

  She gazed at him with glassy, sated eyes. “What do you mean?” A slow, satisfied smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “You’re feckin’ magic, you know.”

  “Condoms,” he rasped out, his heart in his throat. “We didn’t use a condom.” He’d never ridden bareback before, and he’d been so far gone, he hadn’t cared.

  Blake had basically drummed into him the summer he’d dated Kylee Ross that his dick would fall off if he didn’t use a condom. He bit back a laugh. His dick hadn’t fallen off, not by a long shot. Being inside Jamey had been heaven.

  She rolled her head, eyes wide. “Shit.” She let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so carried away I didn’t pay attention.”

  “So it was good for you, then?”

  Her eyes softened for a moment. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re magic.”

  His chest swelled with pride. He might be a mess everywhere else, but at least he knew how to satisfy a lover.

  The softness about her was only fleeting. All too quickly, what he’d come to think of as her business face was back in place. Damn. He liked her soft around the edges.

  She slapped his arm. “Well, I’m on the pill. And clean. So no worries about making little Irish babies.”

  The comment jarred him. Not that he wanted baby Sinclaires anytime soon. But the vision of a little redheaded girl loomed over him and his heart thumped a little bit harder against his ribs.

  “Brodie. Snap back.” She waved her fingers in front of him.

  “I get tested every six months.”

  Her eyes registered surprise. “Really? How… responsible of you.”

  Her astonishment rankled him. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Why did everyone just assume he was a reckless fuck-up? Maybe because he’d always let them.

  Jamey’s eyes narrowed. “Are you some kind of a man-whore?”

  Heat flushed the back of his neck. “Umm… no,” he hedged. Maybe? What constituted a man-whore? “Blake drilled safe sex into all of us. You?”

  “I’m not a man-whore either,” she answered with a wink. Her voice still held a hint of the breathy quality he’d come to associate with her level of arousal.

  He drew a finger down her cheek. “What are you then?” He grinned back, already starting to get half hard.

  She brought her hands up to his chest and pushed him back, her smile turning into a smirk. “Trouble, cowboy. My middle name’s Trouble.”

  “I thought it was Irish Whis – Hey. What are you doing?” He scowled as she sashayed to the desk, hit the space bar, and brought the laptop to life.

  She tossed him an open grin over her shoulder. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m finishing what I started.” She shifted her attention back to the computer, punching a few keys and bringing up a spreadsheet.

  He stiffened as if he’d been sucker punched.

  Shit. If she saw that his numbers were all jumbled, that his spreadsheet was a mess…what then?

  “Let it go, Jamey,” he spoke sharply. She made quite a picture, bent over his laptop, studying his numbers, buck naked and freshly fucked. She had nerve. And why the hell did she have to swish her ass so tantalizingly as she did it? Grumbling, he bent to retrieve his jeans, jamming in one leg, then the other.

  She glanced back at him, eyes filled with concern. “Brodie? What’s going on with these numbers?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He ground out the words, yanking up the zipper and buttoning his pants closed. She seemed remarkably oblivious to the fact she was naked.

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s supposed to mean these numbers are all off. Let me see–”

  “I’ve got it under control.”

  She stuck out a hand as the spreadsheet scrolled. “Hand me my shirt will you?”

  That brought him up short. This wasn’t how people behaved after mind-blowing sex. Sex between them had meant something. Hadn’t it? It was the most powerful damned orgasm he’d remembered experiencing. Disappointment crashed through him.

  The printer started to make noise, and she glanced at him sharply as she reached for the papers. “What is it?”

  He glowered. “I can handle the books.”

  “Let me help you.” She pulled the papers off the printer. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but once I figure it out, I can fix–”

  “No,” he bellowed.

  Her eyes widened, filled with hurt. “Don’t be an ass, Brodie.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Couldn’t she see that he had to figure this out on his own?

  She stepped up to him, tall and fierce. So close, her nipples brushed his chest. “What happened to teamwork?” Her lips thinned to a straight line.

  “I run the office, you run the kitchen.”

  “But you’re…” Her eyes flashed anger, followed by worry. “You need help. Brodie… I know you don’t want to hear this, but the numbers aren’t that hard.”

  Ha.

  Maybe not for her.

  “You need to charge enough to cover your costs and a little extra. Do you know which columns are which?” She flicked the papers she held.

  “Of course I do,” he blustered, covering the pool of shame building in his belly. “I’m not an idiot. I can do this.” Panic twisted in his stomach. Why couldn’t she just let it go?

  Compassion filled her eyes. “Of course not. I–”

  “I don’t want your goddamned pity. And I sure as hell don’t need you telling me how to run this place.” Anger and humiliation swirled through him, clouding out reason. Jesus. How had the best sex of his life collapsed to this? “Let’s keep this clear. You worry about the kitchen. I’ve got the rest under control.” He pivoted on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

  He’d figure out the numbers if it was the last thing he did.

  If only he knew where to start.

  CHAPTER 16

  What in the saints had she been thinking? The thwack of Jamey’s butcher knife resonated across the kitchen as she separated a pheasant wing from its carcass. She’d been up since dark early prepping food. Three days of food for nineteen heads would be a feat without prep help. She scowled and separated the next wing with an extra hard thwack.

  Brodie was nothing but a flirt. Clearly,
sex between them had meant nothing. Not only had he avoided her entirely since their crazy encounter, but Mr. Host with the Most had turned on the sugar with the female guests as they’d arrived this afternoon. He was gifted. She’d grant him that. He could charm the panties off a snow queen in winter.

  Jamey kept forcefully separating the pheasant wings. Was Brodie the popover she’d accused him of being at the wedding, or the man who made sure she had a plate of food waiting for her every night at the end of dinner service? The life of the party, or the man who treated Simon with such kindness? He paid attention to every word she said. Repaired something the second she mentioned it in passing.

  Who was he? Mr. Superficial? Or Mr. Super Amazing?

  She should never have caved and had sex with him. It… complicated things. But damn, it had been electrifying. Her body tingled at the memory. She wanted more. So much so, if she didn’t take great pains to avoid him in the future, she’d shamelessly rip his clothes off and run her hands over his magnificent body until they both exploded.

  She’d do best to remember they were a business team. And if he refused to let her help him, he was going to run this place into the ground. She needed to get something lined up at the end of her six weeks and move on. She couldn’t afford to be out on her ass for a second time in one year. Whatever was going on with him, he’d made it clear he didn’t want her help. His behavior didn’t add up, but she wasn’t going to force her expertise on him. Especially after watching him fall all over the lady guests.

  “Thinking about the other night?” Brodie’s voice drawled from the threshold.

  Her head snapped up. He stood propped against the doorframe, beer in hand, a sexy grin on his face.

  She frowned, giving the pheasant wing an extra, extra hard thwack. “We’re overbooked and have six more people arriving in the next hour, and the only thing you can think about is your pants around your ankles?”

  His smile flickered a fraction. “I’m all set for them.”

  “How lovely for you. I’m in the weeds. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She threw the final wing into the prep pan and covered it with plastic wrap. Later she’d confit them in duck fat.