by Lexi Whitlow
In a moment I stand back and slip her jacket from her shoulders, tossing it on the couch. I study her, taking in her full measure from boot to eye brows. She’s stunning. Soft and voluptuous. Pure female sexiness.
She stands before me, her cheeks a little flush, taking me in with a curious expression, waiting for me, biting her lip.
“I wanna do it on the floor, in front of the fire,” I say. “With your boots on.”
Grace blinks, then breaks out into a big grin, laughing. “Okay!”
I take my time with her buttons, letting my fingers glance over the round rise of her breasts, gently pressing the bump of her nipples over smooth cotton cloth. With her shirt open, I kiss her neck and chest, the lace of her bra catching the stubble at my chin. Slipping her shirt down, I nick and lap at her shoulders, tracing every turn of skin, noting the placement of freckles and tiny moles on the warm, ivory surface of her body.
Usually we have to hurry. Usually we have to take care not to be heard. I want to make it clear to Grace what it will be like when we’re not hiding, when we don’t need to keep secrets.
I kiss and nuzzle her breasts over the satin and lace of her bra, peaking her nipples hard with my teeth, making her moan, hopefully making her wet between the legs.
Her hands find my shirt, unbuttoning it while I lap and kiss every inch of skin above the cinched waist of her skirt. She shoves it back and I shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor. Then I peel off my t-shirt so I’m bare chested in jeans, my skin warmed by the fire and her touch.
I slip my hands under her skirt, fingers tracing up her thighs, dancing over her soft flesh. Touching her, seeing her laid vulnerable to me, is pure pleasure. Her hot skin sends an electric pulse up my arms as her hips rise to meet my advancing hands. I hook her panties, slipping them down her thighs, over her knees and boots, and off into my hand. I lift them to my face, breathing in her scent. Her scent makes my dick go hard, pressed tight inside jeans.
I lift her skirt, shoving it up high over her hips, exposing the soft mound of flesh I’ve wanted to taste and feel all night. With one hand I gently touch the short curling hair, stroking it, parting it. Then I slip my thumb between the seam that protects her most sensitive places.
Grace moans softly. Her jaw slacks. Shallow breaths catch in her chest.
I take my time with fingers, mouth, and lips, bringing her forward, sucking slick pleasure salty and hot from her, listening to her cries, feeling her fists gripping my hair, fingers digging in as her pussy shudders to my touch.
When Grace lies still, glowing, senseless, I give her no rest. I want her whining, moaning, calling my name.
“Turn over,” I instruct, seizing her hips in my grasp. I roll her over, then lift her ass up so she’s on her hands and knees.
We’ve never done it this way before, but I want to. I want to fuck her hard and deep.
I shove her pretty lace skirt up, revealing her bare ass and her dripping, swollen folds. My hands swirl over her pale, porcelain skin, caressing her cheeks, grabbing handfuls of soft dimpled flesh at her hips, running my fingers along the tender surface just inside her upper thighs.
“God, you look so good…” I half-growl, my voice graveled with heat and anticipation.
“Inside me,” Grace pleads, turning her head so she can see me. I hope she sees how badly I want her.
I unhook my belt, then the button and zipper on my jeans, freeing my pent-up lust, stroking myself to length. Gripping my dick firmly, pleasuring myself, I tease the crease between her cheeks with the head of my cock, pressing, spreading pre-cum on her skin, rubbing it in.
“You want me inside?” I ask, touching the dripping, hot hole between her legs. “You want me to fuck you like this?”
She nods, breathless. “Please,” she begs.
I press in to that swollen, pink, heat, shoving past her seized, tight muscles, and am quickly enveloped in molten pleasure, consuming me.
Grace cries out. Her grip on my cock tightens. My hands slide over her hips, up her back and to her shoulders, wrapping them tightly. I draw her body down onto me roughly with each hard thrust. She cries out again and again as I drive into her like spiking a fence post. Her back is rigid and straight. I shove her knees farther apart with my own, going even deeper.
“Oh, fucking… God… Cam… Oh…,” she mewls, clawing the rug.
I could fuck her like this forever, by hard balls slamming into the flesh of her pussy, pumping her clit hard and fast.
I feel her muscles tense, then begin to tremble irregularly. Her hands ball to fists, gripping the rug beneath her. Her back arches, shoulders rolling. I grip them harder, shoving myself inside her, feeling the tremors build until her body erupts, flooding slick, dripping lubrication onto me and down our legs.
Her body shudders. She falls to her elbows, completely weak, at my mercy, heaving breath.
I pull out and roll her over so we’re facing again, then shove her knees wide. Without pausing I push back into her throbbing walls, lost in the liquid heat of her body.
I ride her at a cantering pace, the shaft of my cock dragging rough over her clit, popping past her muscles, in and out, until she’s wrapped around me, her boot heels dug into my ass, her nails ripping my shoulders, head thrown back, whining like a cat.
I watch her come with her eyes closed, that peaceful expression coming over her, her lips open, chest heaving as I rock her body with my own. Watching Grace come is the single sexiest image I’ve ever seen, and it rips me down to my balls. They draw up tight, and in just a second demand release.
I come, hauling hard into her, losing my mind, going blind, senseless, my bliss filling Grace, both of us calling out, groaning our pleasure in unison. She milks me dry, sapping every ounce of strength from me. I slump heavy over her, heaving for air.
We collapse on the floor as one thing, tangled up, completely spent, breathless.
Chapter 13
Grace
Good lord. What the hell was that?
I breathe, trying to fill my lungs. Cam’s slick skin is hot against mine. His body is wrapped around me, our arms and legs piled together in a heaving mass.
Whatever that was, it’s worth repeating again, and again, and again.
I’m laughing. I can’t help myself. It’s reflexive, like a blink or a hiccup. In a moment I’m laughing so hard tears trickle from the corners of my eyes. I laugh until it almost hurts to breath.
Cam comes up on his hands beside me; soon he’s laughing too. He rolls back, leaning against the couch, pulling me into his chest, tenderly smoothing back the wet strands of hair stuck to my forehead. We calm in an embrace, naked, warmed by the gas flames flickering in the hearth.
I could sit with him, quiet and snug in his arms forever.
I know forever isn’t realistic. I know this is a tricky relationship. But I’m falling for Camden Davis, falling hard and fast.
In a few moments the sweat and breathless heat of our exertion has passed. Goosebumps start to rise on my flesh. Cam’s hands smooth over my skin, warming me. Still, I shiver.
“We should go get in the hot tub,” he coos into my hair. “Warm up, then play some more.”
He doesn’t have to suggest it twice.
There is something about a man in a tux that’s just irresistible. Flip that tux into Cowboy Formal mode, with a starched, pin-tucked, bibbed shirt, wrapped at the wing-tip collar with a bolo tie paired with neat, pressed-crease indigo boot-cut jeans secured at the hip with a big silver and rose gold champion’s buckle. All of it’s anchored at the foot by shiny black, high heeled cowboy boots with silver spurs attached at the heels—a genuine fashion statement.
Hang all that off Camden Davis’ incredible physique, and you’ve achieved an iconic image of masculine perfection, causing every red-blooded, straight woman (half the lesbians, too, I suspect) in the big banquet room to halt mid-speech, drop jaw, and just gawk.
That woman from last night—Anne, I think her name was—sees us walk
in and can’t help but stare. I catch her eyes and give her a smirk.
He’s all mine, so back off.
It might be a little catty for me to think, but at least I’m not saying anything.
Cam thought I looked nice at dinner last night, but tonight I’m turned out. I’m wearing a variation on the little black dress theme, with a short hem reaching just past mid-thigh. It’s got a high waist and a low neckline, exposing more of my cleavage than I’m usually comfortable showing off; but as Cam’s mom said when I tried the dress on—‘honey, if you have the goods, flaunt them.’
My wrap is a white silk, tailored morning coat with silver western buttons and faux black and white ‘Paint’ horsehair lapels. With my new black and white Paul Bond snake skin boots, I’m cutting a sharp path through the crowd on Cam’s arm.
After getting drinks from the open bar, we take a turn around the room with Cam chatting and shaking hands with new acquaintances and old friends he’s known for years. I can tell the difference between the two by the first question they ask. His old friends ask about Emma, inquiring into her health. Mere acquaintances simply ask how he’s been doing since they last saw him, wondering at his absence from competitions and other events.
“I hung up my contest saddle when my daughter was born,” he tells one inquisitive man from South Dakota. “We’re just focused on the family and growing the ranch.”
The man turns to me, and creating a truly awkward moment. “Is your daughter as pretty as her momma? Is she old enough to ride? She can’t be, as you look not a minute over sixteen yourself.”
He laughs as he says it, and I know it’s supposed to be a compliment (of some sort, to someone,) but his words make my skin crawl.
“Emma will be five next week,” Cam replies in my stead. “She rides almost every day.”
Cam makes our excuses, moving us along. He slugs his drink, rolling his eyes. He dips down to my ear to speak. “Sorry about that, but I didn’t want to go into details with a stranger.”
I shrug and nod, not offended in the least. The guy creeped me out and I’m happy to be away from him.
The dinner bell is literally rung, and the crowd ambles toward assigned seats. Our table includes Jim Burke, Tyler and Amanda, a husband and wife team of ranchers from north of Ronan, and two men and their wives who co-own a ranch called the Triple Star near Turtle Lake. Before long, dinner is served and the presentation on stage at the head of the room, begins.
Sitting through most of the event is about as exciting as watching paint dry. Speakers from each state in the association drone on at length about their individual accomplishments and superlatives. A gentleman from Idaho provides only the briefest of entertainment as he fumbles with his notes, then drops his glasses, causing a brief ripple of laughter in the crowd during his prolonged search for the lost implement that will permit him to continue boring us to tears.
“Hope we didn’t come all this way for nothing,” Tyler says in a half-whisper, leaning toward Camden.
Cam lifts his whiskey to his mouth and sips. “Well, if we did, at least there’s a band afterwards,” he replies cooly.
An hour later, as the waiters efficiently clear our plates, the president of the RMBA takes the podium. He’s a sixtyish year-old man dressed like most others in the room, in jeans, boots, the big champion’s belt buckle, and shiny tux jacket. His face is tanned dark and weathered like someone who’s spent his entire life out of doors. Despite his advancing years, he stands tall and straight, with a powerful build and commanding presence. It occurs to me that thirty years ago, this man likely resembled Camden in essentials. Likewise, thirty years hence, Camden will have aged, presenting a similar, distinguished appearance.
The man begins speaking, explaining that the RMBA always saves the Montana awards for the last of the state award presentations, since the majority of the membership is comprised of Montana breeders.
As the calling of categories and winners begins, Cam and Tyler both pull notebooks and pens from their jackets and start taking notes. I don’t follow what they’re recording, but a third of the way into the state award ceremony, Tyler leans forward to Cam.
“That one’s ours too. She’s by Prickling Hair, by Gunner out of Carabella, who went to the Bakers at Broken Leg four years back, and out of Tender Night, by Gunner, out of Osage. Sold her at auction in Missoula six years back, I forget to who.”
Cam nods, writing all this down.
Half way through the presentation of awards, with various owners rising to claim their shiny trophy buckles, one of the recipients leans in to the speaker’s microphone. “Just gotta give props for this to Camden Davis and Tyler Burke at the Kicking Horse ranch. Bella Boy is the toughest, smartest, most graceful animal I’ve ever had the pleasure to train and compete with. He’s unsurpassed, like every horse Camden and Tyler have produced in the last five years.”
Camden breaks out in a wide grin, slapping Tyler on the back enthusiastically. The men and women around the table interrupt with a small round of applause.
Tyler and Cam keep taking notes through the rest of the presentation. When it’s concluded, the two put their heads together and start adding numbers. When they’re done, Camden looks at Tyler.
“Seventy percent? Maybe more?”
Tyler nods, grinning. “At least seventy percent.”
“Shit.”
Cam drains his whiskey glass, then raises it for a refresh as a waiter passes by.
They’re excited about something big. It’s written all over both their faces. I don’t have to wait long to learn what all the fuss is about.
The man at the podium steps to the microphone and smiling, he begins speaking.
“Most horsemen know that it takes six or seven generations to prove the consistent quality of a pedigree, and six years or so to rear and train a champion from the best stock. Tonight, through the long list of champions from cowing and cutting, to fence work, trails, and even dressage, we’ve seen proof of that model. What’s unusual is that among the crop of champions this year—one of the best turn out years I’ve seen in my career—an unusually high percentage of those horses descend from the bloodlines on just one ranch.”
The man pauses, looking out at the crowd.
“Ladies, gentlemen, it’s my great honor to present the Rocky Mountains Breeders Association, Montana State Breeder of the Year Award to the Kicking Horse ranch at Ronan. Camden Davis, step on up here.”
This is exciting! I squeeze Cam’s hand, because he looks like a deer in the headlights.
He turns to me, blinks, giving me a crooked smile. Then he reaches back and offers his hand to Tyler, shaking it.
“Let’s go,” he says, standing.
Tyler keeps his seat, shaking him off, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Get your ass up and come with me,” Camden insists.
Jim Burke and Amanda both give Tyler a firm shove, urging him on as the crowd begins to applaud.
On stage, Camden stands straight and proud. He’s urged to the microphone by the association president, who stands back after shaking hands, presenting Camden with a big, shining buckle in a black, velvet case.
“Ahm… I’m not used to doing this,” Camden begins nervously. “ I’ll keep it quick. Just a couple things to say. First is, whatever I’ve done right at the Kicking Horse, I haven’t done alone. My father taught me everything he knew about breeding for intelligence and temperament. And my dear friend, Jim Burke from Heartland, taught me everything he could get through my thick head about running a business successfully.” Cam pauses, turning to Tyler. “And Jim’s son, my best friend, Kicking Horse’s foreman, and my right hand, has probably done more than anyone else to keep the place going when it looked like everything was falling apart.” He holds the buckle out, handing it to Tyler. “Buddy, this one’s for you.”
The crowd rises, applauding enthusiastically. They keep going long past the point when they really should quiet down.
Cam and Tyler both w
ave and start to move off, but the President stops them,
“Ya’ll stay put,” he says, calling them back. “We’re not done with you yet.”
“This is the hundredth anniversary of the RMBA,” he continues. “We started in Helena from an association of just six ranches in the neighborhood. Today, we have over one thousand registered breeders in our membership, spread across six states.
“In commemoration of the hundredth anniversary, we’ve commissioned a new award that we hope will continue for at least another two or three centennials. We’re calling this award the Century Award, as it recognizes the outfit that has consistently, over the course of a century, produced more champions from its bloodlines than all others in the association.”
He pauses before going on as Camden and Tyler fidget nervously, watching him.
“What the Kicking Horse ranch accomplished this year with its Best of Montana achievement pales in comparison to what that outfit has accomplished over the last century under the supervision of four generations of Davis horsemen.”
Cam and Tyler look at one another, their faces, masks of surprise, of shocked disbelief. Tyler starts bouncing on his boots, while Cam just shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets, shrugging his broad shoulders in an uncharacteristically nervous manner.
The president goes on a while longer with his speech, quoting from cribbed notes stashed at the podium the statistics on champions produced by Kicking Horse over the last ten decades. When he’s done, he presents Camden with an ostentatiously huge, gold and silver champion’s buckle of intricate design. Cam accepts it, and I swear, I think he may tear up, he’s so moved by the recognition.
A few moments later, when he’s back at the table, I realize just what a huge deal all this is.
From that point forward, Camden is a rock star. Everyone wants to congratulate him. They want to talk about buying his horses, and breeding their horses with his. The banquet breaks up and a band begins assembling on the stage, and all the while the crowd encircling my date grows, crowding in.