Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  It was too much and not enough, and she wanted more. She wanted it all. She wanted everything she had been fantasizing about for the past interminable week. And she wanted it now. She released her death grip on his biceps and slid her hands up over his shoulders and nape, grasping handfuls of dark silky hair to pull his head up.

  “Now,” she panted into the scant heated space between their lips. “I want it now.”

  “Not yet.” The words were an automatic assertion of male prerogative, an instinctive reaction to her blatant attempt to dominate the encounter.

  Jo Beth’s reaction was equally instinctive. She yanked his hair. “Now,” she demanded.

  Clay reached up and grasped her wrists. “I said—” he enunciated each word very clearly “—not yet.”

  He pulled her hands down and behind her, anchoring them at the small of her back, holding her immobile, making her feel, strangely enough, both protected and threatened by his rampant unrepentant masculinity.

  Jo Beth fought the small traitorous thrill that zinged through her sensitized body, valiantly resisting the urge to melt into him in abject and utter surrender. She stiffened her spine instead, arching away from him, and glared up into his face. “If we’re not going to have sex, then let me go.”

  He grinned. It was the same charming, cocksure oh-so-knowing grin he’d bestowed on her when she was sitting naked in the water tank, the one that whispered of sin and sex and rollicking good times between the sheets.

  “Oh, we’re going to have sex all right,” he assured her. “Just not yet. You’re not quite ready yet.”

  “I’m ready, damn it!”

  “Then I’m not ready. And I’m the one in charge at the moment.” He placed both of her hands in one of his and with the other, reached up to capture her chin. She could smell the musky scent of her arousal on his fingers. She dipped her head, quick as a striking snake, and tried to bite him.

  “Bitch,” he said, but the word was a caress and he was still grinning that wicked cowboy grin of his.

  Aroused, infuriated, inflamed, she lunged forward, aiming to sink her teeth into his shoulder.

  He wrapped his hand around her braid and pulled her head back, then bent his own and touched his lips to the underside of her chin.

  “You need to learn how to slow it down a little and savor the experience,” he said mildly, as if she weren’t standing taut and trembling in his arms wearing nothing but her panties and a pair of high-heeled sandals, as if he weren’t pressing a gigantic, pulsing hard-on against the softness of her belly, as if he hadn’t just finished manipulating her into multiple orgasms that had left her body silently screaming for more. His lips skimmed leisurely down the long, arched line of her throat. Nuzzled her collarbone. Kissed her shoulder. “It’s better when you take it slow.”

  Jo Beth’s breath quickened exponentially until she was nearly gasping for air, and she could feel the rapid beating of her heart between her legs in a steady rhythmic pounding that had her fighting the urge to squirm against him.

  “We haven’t got time to take it slow,” she said with admirable calm, despite her heavy breathing and the pounding of her blood. “We have to get back to the reception before people start to miss us.”

  His lips continued to descend by tiny, delicious increments down her upper chest. “Why?”

  “Why?” she echoed faintly, distracted by the warmth of his mouth on her skin. He’d reached the first gentle curve of her breast and was heading inexorably toward her peaked and eager nipple. Oh, God, she wanted his mouth on her nipple! “What do you mean, why?”

  “I mean why do you care whether people miss us or not?”

  “I care because I live here. And because I don’t like to be gossiped about, that’s why. Because I don’t want everyone knowing that I—” she gasped as he flicked her nipple with his tongue “—that I slipped out to the barn for a quickie at my best friend’s wedding. Which they wouldn’t if you’d get on with it and stop trying to impress me with what a great lover you are.”

  Clay sighed heavily and lifted his head. So much for his efforts to seduce and charm her. “All right. You win.” He let go of her hair and hands, and straightened. “How do you want it?”

  She blinked at his sudden capitulation. “How do I want it?”

  “On your back on the blankets? Up against the wall?” He unhooked his black satin cummerbund as he spoke and stuffed it into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “Bent over the saddle stand?” He flicked open the button at the waist of his pants. “You’re the boss.” He lowered the zipper on his fly. “How do you want it?”

  “I—” Her glance flickered down to the open V of his pants where a gratifyingly large erection was outlined behind a pair of snug white cotton briefs. Her attention momentarily arrested by the sight, she reached out to touch him.

  He was just pissed enough, just disgruntled enough, to deny her what she wanted, even though it meant denying himself, as well. Talk about cutting your nose—or other parts—off to spite your face, he thought, as he grabbed her wrist, halting her in midmotion.

  “No time for that,” he said brusquely. “Just tell me how you want it so we can get this over with and get back to the reception.”

  Any other woman of his acquaintance would have slapped him or burst into tears or otherwise expressed her displeasure at his crudity and his dismissive tone of voice. But not Miz Jo Beth Jensen. Not the no-nonsense, cool-as-a-cucumber boss lady of the Diamond J ranch. Instead, she stood there, stock-still, her wrist in his hand, actually considering his question.

  He could see her thinking about it, could follow her thought process as her gaze darted from the pile of blankets on the floor, to the rough wooden plank wall, to the padded saddle stand. The blankets would be comfortable enough but she’d probably get her hair all messed up and crush all the tiny flowers decorating her fancy French braid. The rough-hewn plank wall might leave splinters in her backside. The saddle stand—

  He didn’t let her follow the thought to its logical conclusion. Instead, he made the decision for her, just seconds before she could make it for herself. Using the wrist he still held for leverage, he whirled her around in a move that approximated a twirl on the dance floor, put his hand on the back of her neck and pushed her head down, bending her over the padded leather saddle stand before she could so much as whisper a word of protest.

  “Don’t move,” he said, and yanked her panties down to her knees.

  Jo Beth had no intention of moving, not when her fantasy was so close to finally being fulfilled. She spread her bare arms out along the padded surface of the saddle rack and arched her back, waiting for the first delicious thrust of his cock. She heard the rustle of foil as he ripped open the condom package, heard the whisper of his trousers as they slid down his legs, felt his big hands cup her hips, and then…nothing.

  She hung there for a few seconds more, bent over the saddle rack, her bare bottom thrust up at him, all the small delicate muscles in her body quivering with anticipation and need and lust, desperate to be penetrated, to be taken, to be ridden, damn it! And he was just standing there, his hands on her naked butt, squeezing and stroking it as if he had all day to get the job done. Not that what he was doing didn’t feel good. It felt wonderful, in fact, but it wasn’t what she wanted…needed…had to have.

  Frustrated, irritated, flushed with arousal and desire too long denied, she looked back over her shoulder. “Well?” she demanded, the snap of command in her voice.

  “You have a great ass,” he said, and slid his palms, fingers spread wide, down over the swelling curve of each buttock. “A world class ass.” His extended thumbs touched the moist, pouting folds of her exposed labia.

  Jo Beth jerked in reaction.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “Easy now.” He separated the folds, opening her swollen vaginal passage, and gently stroked the edges of her feminine opening.

  Jo Beth groaned and dropped her forehead onto the padded leather. “God, you’re good at this,
” she moaned, unable to stop herself from saying it. It was the truth, after all. And it was no surprise. She’d known he would be.

  She felt the head of his penis, then, finally, pressing against the vulnerable entrance to her body, felt him enter her that first excruciatingly sensitive inch, felt him withdraw slowly, and then thrust again, a little deeper. And then again, deeper still.

  But still not nearly as deep as she wanted him to go.

  “You’re so huge,” she said breathlessly, hoping a little feminine flattery would hurry him along and get her what she wanted. That it was the absolute truth added veracity to the hoarsely whispered words.

  “And you’re so hot. And wet. And tight,” he said, punctuating each word with an increasingly deeper thrust until, at last, finally, he was seated to the hilt, completely engulfed in her wetness and heat, completely filling her.

  Jo Beth dug her fingers into the padded leather support beneath her cheek and told herself to breathe. Just breathe.

  He shifted his hands to her hips, pulling her back against him, holding himself deep inside her, feeling her incredible heat and the tight clasp of her aroused body all along the pulsing length of his penis. It was a staggering, mind-blowing, toe-curling sensation, and one he had obviously too long denied himself judging by his reaction to what was, at base, an experience he’d had countless times before with countless other women. It couldn’t really be as good as it felt. It was just that it had been too long since the last time. Prolonged abstinence had more to do with his overblown reaction than Jo Beth Jensen’s admittedly fantastic ass and glove-tight pussy. Still, his fingers clamped down on her creamy white butt, pulling her closer, holding her tighter, savoring the moment….

  “Please,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper of need. “Please.”

  He began thrusting, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed and strength, giving her his full length on each down stroke, nearly withdrawing completely each time he pulled away. His movements were measured and deliberate, plunging deep into her feminine core, withdrawing slowly, plunging again, until she was nearly mad with passion and lust and the need to come.

  She pushed against him, her back arched, her legs spread as wide as the panties around her knees would allow, answering each thrust with one of her own, every sinew stretched tight as she reached for the final crest. She rolled her forehead against the saddle stand, breathing hard, blood pounding, her fingers leaving impressions in the supple leather, her whole body straining for the ultimate release.

  Oh, yes, this is what she wanted, this is what she’d been fantasizing about, this man inside of her, filling her to bursting, making her writhe and burn.

  “Yes,” she said in time to his thrusts, the word both an affirmation of pleasure and a demand for more. “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

  He picked up the pace, his hips pistoning wildly now, slamming into her. He held her bracketed between his hands, his fingers curved around the voluptuous swell of her hips, holding her steady as he rammed into her. He could feel his heart beating against the wall of his chest, could feel his breath sloughing in and out of his lungs, could feel his cock high and hard and nearly ready to burst.

  “Come on, Jo Beth,” he coaxed, his voice ragged with the effort of holding back. “Let it go, baby. Let me have it.” He reached under her body, stroking her clitoris for added stimulation. “Give it to me. Now.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes,” she moaned as his expert touch pushed her over the precipice into the abyss of pure physical sensation. Her whole body clenched as the tension peaked unbearably, exquisitely, endlessly.

  Clay thrust twice more, holding her at the pinnacle, while his own body exploded in a tumultuous climax that curled his toes inside his cowboy boots and nearly made his eyes roll back in his head. He wouldn’t have been surprised to feel steam coming out of his ears.

  “Oh, yes, Clay. Yes!” she screamed softly, collapsing across the padded saddle stand as glorious release drained every last ounce of tension out of her body.

  Clay followed her down, his body curving over hers, exhausted, replete, his arms sheltering and cradling her, his breath warm and moist against the back of her neck.

  They stayed like that for a few moments, resting together as their breathing evened out and their raging heartbeats slowed to normal. And then he turned his head and pressed a tender kiss on the soft skin beneath her ear. “That was incredible.”

  “We’ve got to get back to the reception.” She shifted restively beneath him without acknowledging the kiss, or his softly whispered words. “Let me up.”

  Clay nuzzled her neck. “Most women like a little postcoital snuggling,” he murmured persuasively. What he meant was, he liked a little postcoital snuggling and most women were more than happy to give it to him.

  Jo Beth shrugged away his tender kisses, like a mare shrugging off flies. “I thought we’d already established that I’m not most women,” she said coolly.

  “No, you damn sure as hell aren’t,” Clay snapped, thoroughly exasperated with her. Without another word, he pushed himself up and away from her with a hard shove against the saddle stand.

  6

  THEY RETURNED to Cassie and Rooster’s wedding reception the same way they’d left it—separately and unnoticed.

  Clay entered the Second Chance bunkhouse through the back door, well out of sight of the people gathered under the white party tent, and sauntered casually out the front a few minutes later, where he joined half a dozen of the male wedding guests who’d left the main body of the party to grab a smoke or chew, and partake of something a little stronger than champagne. Clay waved away the tin of Redman tobacco but accepted a nip from the battered silver flask when it was offered to him. He needed a little something to fortify him after what had happened in the barn. And he didn’t mean the sex.

  The sex had been great. The sex had, in fact, been absolutely fantastic. Far from being a prissy, dried-up stick, Jo Beth Jensen was a juicy, passionate, demanding woman. Emphasis on the demanding. She’d gotten him hotter, harder, faster than any woman had in a good long while. A big part of that was, of course, that it had been a good long while, but he was fair-minded enough to give the devil her due. She was a sexual dynamo, with enough sensual heat to fry a man’s brain. That didn’t mean, though, that he still wasn’t just the slightest bit pissed at her. Okay, he was more than slightly pissed. He was a lot pissed.

  She’d used him like a goddamned stud!

  Talk about wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am or, in this case, thank-you-sir. And he hadn’t even gotten the thank-you. When she’d gotten what she wanted, she’d pulled up her lace panties, shimmied into her dress, smoothed a hand over her hair, and beat a hasty retreat without even a kiss goodbye.

  “Give me a two minute head start and don’t leave the same way you came in,” she said before she slipped out the door.

  He was left standing in the tack room, his pants unzipped, his crumpled cummerbund hanging out of his jacket pocket, listening to the rapid clickity-clack of her heels on the brushed cement floor of the barn as she hurried away from him.

  He wasn’t used to that kind of cavalier treatment from a woman. Especially not from a woman he’d just made love to. Women he’d just made love to—starting with Tish Bradley in his sophomore year in high school and continuing right on down to the buckle bunny who’d availed herself of his services in the hospital bed after the run in with ol’ Boomer—were normally loath to let him go. Women he’d just made love to wanted kissing and cuddling and, usually, another go-round. And he was always more than happy to oblige. To his mind, the kissing and cuddling—both before and after the main event—were part of what made sex so much fun and, not coincidentally, kept the ladies coming back for more.

  Obviously, Miz Jo Beth Jensen didn’t share the general feminine view as to the desirability of the myriad sexual pleasures to be had outside of the act itself. Or she just wasn’t interested in another turn with him. The first possibility was an affront against nature. The
second was, frankly, inconceivable. Both were an insult to his skills as a lover.

  Clay Madison wasn’t a man who took an insult lying down, and he plumb hated to see a woman miss out on the plethora of physical pleasures available to her sex. As he set himself to rights, he began pondering all the ways in which he might rectify the situation to their mutual advantage.

  WITH HER FOREARMS casually crossed atop the paddock fence adjoining the barn, Jo Beth made it a point to be found admiring Tom Steele’s newly acquired Charolais bull. The massive animal was long-bodied and heavily muscled, and sported moderate-sized horns atop his majestic head. His hide was creamy white with beige mottling on his flanks and belly. His muzzle was an incongruously delicate pink.

  “Fine animal,” she said as the bull’s owner strolled up beside her, “but I still think you should have gone with a Brahman. Crossbred to your Herefords, you’d’ve still gotten a decent lean-to-fat ratio without sacrificing your reproduction rate.”

  Tom propped his forearms on the fence next to her and lifted one booted foot to rest on the bottom rung. “I’m not worried about the reproduction rate with this big boy,” he said. “Besides, Brahmans are ornery cusses. Most of ’em would sooner stomp on you as look at you.”

  Jo Beth arched an eyebrow, slanting him an amused, slightly patronizing glance. “That’s your rodeo background talking,” she chided. “Brahmans are as docile as lambs if you know how to handle them.”

  The implication was, of course, that he didn’t know how to handle them. She didn’t often revert to taking potshots at her ex almost-fiancé these days. She’d gotten past the hurt feelings a long time ago and had come to the realization that they got along much better as friends and neighbors than they ever would have as husband and wife. Besides, when you came right down to it, he was only an almost fiancé; he’d never actually asked her to marry him, not in so many words. But he’d been planning to ask her. He knew it and she knew it, and the whole town of Bowie, Texas, knew it. It had been understood by all concerned that he was going to have one final rodeo season, one final fling, and then he was going to come home and settle down with the cowgirl next door.