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

  “Biological?” She was really beginning to enjoy herself. He was blushing fiercely, a deep red flush staining his freshly shaved cheeks. “Really? Do tell me more.”

  “You know what I mean.” He scowled at her, trying to look ferocious and in control despite the heat in his face. “Men are visual. We like to look. Women don’t.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Nobody had to tell me that,” he blustered. “It’s a known scientific fact.”

  Jo Beth found him utterly adorable, completely appealing, and irresistibly sexy. He was so damned cute when he blushed.

  “None of my women friends know it,” she informed him. “We all like to look. We like to look at shoulders.” She reached up and cupped her hands over the hard, rounded swell of his. “And biceps. We love looking at biceps.” She smoothed her hands down over his arms. “And nice hairy chests.” She drew her hands in, curving them over the bulge of his pectorals. “And washboard stomachs.” Her fingertips trailed down over his belly. “And tight little cowboy butts.” She moved in and reached behind him, cupping a cheek in each hand. “And cocks.” She drew her hands forward, bringing them together, palms facing, fingers pointed downward, and lightly clasped his erect penis between them. “We love looking at cocks. Especially when they’re big and hard.”

  “You can look all you want without me putting these on,” he said stiffly.

  Jo Beth sighed. “I guess I’ll have to give you a little more incentive.” She stepped back, far enough so that he could see all of her. Grasping the front plackets of her—his—shirt, she yanked it open. She shrugged her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor behind her, and spread her arms as if offering herself for inspection.

  She was wearing one of the bachelorette party favors so thoughtfully supplied by LaWanda. The ensemble was made of slick wet-look black fabric. The bottom half was a tiny triangle that barely covered her pubis, and held on by narrow satin strings that tied in a little bow at each hip. The top half was a skimpy shelf bra that lifted and displayed her breasts without covering anything. She’d rouged her nipples and areolae with a slick red salve that made them look like glossy, ripe red cherries.

  “Sweet Jesus God,” he said.

  She did a slow pirouette to give him the full view. There was nothing to see in back except a narrow black string that rode low on her hips and disappeared into the crease of her ass—and a temporary tattoo of a horseshoe on her left cheek.

  “Sweet Jesus God,” he said again.

  “I thought you’d like it.” She smiled wickedly, seductively, like Lilith and Eve and Jezebel all rolled into one. “Now it’s your turn. Put the chaps on, Clay.”

  He hesitated.

  “I knew you were a prude.”

  He put the chaps on.

  “I feel like a fool,” he said as he stood there in the galley of the trailer while she circled around him and looked her fill.

  “Well, you don’t look like a fool. You look magnificent.” The chaps, clasped together below his navel with a silver belt buckle, rode low on his hips. The worn, supple leather covered his legs completely from hip bone to ankle, while leaving his entire groin area bare. Despite his embarrassment, he was beautifully erect. Jo Beth stroked the length of him with the tip of her finger, making his penis twitch. “If cowboys wore their chaps like this, rodeo would be the biggest spectator sport in the world,” she said, and circled around behind him to enjoy the rear view. She patted his bare butt approvingly then leaned down and bit him. Not too hard, but not too gently, either. Just enough so he’d carry the imprint of her teeth for a while.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  “It’s a brand,” she said. “It means this ass—” she patted him again “—is mine.”

  He reached around and pulled her in front of him. “And what about this ass?” he said, cupping his hands over her cheeks.

  “It’s yours,” she said. “For as long as you want it or until the end of the summer, depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  She shrugged uneasily, unsure how to answer him, unsure, even, of what exactly she’d meant by the careless statement. “On whichever lasts longest, I guess.”

  “I can’t imagine not wanting it,” he said. “Not wanting you. Not wanting this.” He grasped her hips more tightly, urging her up, lifting her.

  Jo Beth darted a quick glance downward. He had both feet firmly on the floor, his weight evenly distributed. She hopped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. The satin crotch of her G-string panties pressed against his throbbing erection. She locked her ankles at the small of his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving herself the leverage necessary to rub up and down against him, putting the pressure where she needed it most.

  “I could come from this,” she moaned. “Just this. Only this.”

  “Not yet,” he said, and turned, setting her on the edge of the kitchen counter. He wrapped his fingers around her wrists, pulling her arms from around his neck, and pushed on her shoulders, pressing her torso back and away from him so that he could see her bare, rouged breasts.

  Some of the red salve had rubbed off on his chest, but her nipples and areolae were still wet and glossy with it. They looked swollen and ripe enough to burst. He bent his head and drew one puckered nipple between his lips. The salve made his lips tingle.

  “What is this stuff?”

  “It’s called Hot Cinnamon Kisses. It warms up the skin wherever you put it and makes it swell a little so that it’s more sensitive.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “LaWanda says it’s made with all natural ingredients.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He bent his head again, drew her nipple into his mouth and bit down. Very gently.

  She gasped.

  He sucked the nipple into his mouth.

  She shuddered and reached up to grasp his hair in both her hands, holding him there as if she would die if he moved away.

  Still sucking on her nipple, he worked one hand between them, cupped her other breast in his palm and rolled her slick, swollen nipple between his fingers.

  She came. Hard.

  He sucked more strongly. Squeezed a little less gently.

  She moaned and came again. Harder.

  He lifted his head. His lips and tongue were tingling with sensation. “Can this stuff be used anywhere on the body?”

  “LaWanda said it’s mostly used for oral sex.”

  He plucked at her nipple, gathering as much excess salve as he could onto his fingers. “Take off your G-string,” he said.

  Jo Beth jerked at the bows on her hips and raised herself up a little, tugging the narrow strip of fabric out from between her legs. She was so aroused the friction of that alone was almost enough to send her over the edge again.

  “Scoot forward to the edge of the counter and spread your legs as wide as you can,” he ordered.

  She obeyed.

  He started to kneel down, found the angle awkward and the position uncomfortable for his bad leg, and stood up again. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, careful not to rub the salve off of his fingers. “Put your legs around me and hold on,” he said. “It’s time to go to bed.”

  He dropped her onto her back on the bed without bothering to pull off the bedspread, stuffed a pillow under her hips, and ordered her to spread her legs again.

  She obeyed without hesitation.

  Carefully separating the petaled folds of her labia, he exposed her clitoris. She was already slick and swollen, already fully receptive to his touch, already exquisitely responsive to the most fleeting caress. “Okay?”

  She nodded.

  He touched his salve-covered fingers to her most sensitive flesh, working it gently into and around the tiny bundle of nerve endings. She could feel the extra warmth immediately, and then the tingling began, little prickling sensations that were almost—almost—unbearable. Her head began to thrash on the pi
llow, and she tried to clamp her legs closed. He blocked her with his shoulders, holding her open and vulnerable, continuing the slow, steady strokes that were slowly, inevitably driving her crazy.

  “Oh, God. I’m burning up. I’m on fire.”

  He pulled his hand away. “Does it hurt?”

  “No. No. It burns. I burn. It—Oh, God, Clay. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  He scooted farther in between her widespread legs, bracing on his elbows, and used both hands to push back her labia and hold her open. And then he bent his head and sucked her clitoris between his lips. It was like an overripe berry against his flickering tongue, plump and juicy and ready to burst. He slipped his hands under her hips, cupping the cheeks of her squirming ass in his palms and concentrated all his considerable expertise and single-minded focus on bringing her to the most explosive orgasm of her life.

  Jo Beth arched like an overstrung bow. The top of her head and the soles of her feet pressed down hard against the bed. Her hips pressed upward. Her body heaved. Her hips bucked wildly. Like the championship bull rider he was, Clay held on and rode it out to the end, refusing to turn her loose until she crested, high and hard and fast, screaming in exultation as she came. He waited until she started to come down the other side of ecstasy, and then sheathed himself in a condom and moved up her body and slid into her in one bold, hard thrust, ruthlessly driving her up again.

  She reached down to hold on to him, her fingers curved, seeking purchase. They brushed the thigh straps of his chaps, the ones that snugged down tight just under his butt. She curled her fingers around them and held on, pulling him into her as she drove her hips upward to meet his pounding downward thrusts.

  The straps of his chaps exerted an exquisite pressure against his scrotum. The residue of the cinnamon gel created a strange, tingling, tantalizing warmth in his penis. The tight clasp of her hot female passage soothed and excited and enflamed him. He let go and went under. Completion rolled through him in a wild, throbbing torrent of almost unbearable pleasure.

  11

  CLAY LIKED WAKING UP alone the next morning even less than he had liked it the morning before. And it wasn’t just because he was horny again and wanted morning sex. He did, of course, but that wasn’t the reason he was disgruntled and discontented and, well, just plain glum.

  Actually, he wasn’t quite sure why he was feeling so melancholic. It didn’t make any damn sense, especially after the fantastic night he’d had, and it wasn’t like him.

  He wasn’t a moody kind of guy. He was easygoing and affable, most of the time. Happy with who he was and what he had, loving the free-and-easy life of the rodeo cowboy, perfectly content with living in a trailer and never having a permanent place to call home.

  If it was sometimes lonely, if he sometimes felt restless and rootless and even a little bit aimless, well, hell, everything had a downside.

  For the most part, he enjoyed the lifestyle, enjoyed the crowds and the accolades and perks that came with the silver trophy belt buckles. He liked the challenge of his chosen way of life, liked pitting himself against something bigger and meaner and more dangerous than he was and coming away on top most of the time. He damned sure liked winning and being the best at what he did. The prize money at the top wasn’t bad, either; it made what he raked in from the sponsors just so much icing on the cake.

  Sometimes he worried about losing his edge, about sustaining one too many injuries to compete anymore, about getting too old for the game, but that was another downside every professional athlete eventually had to face. But he wouldn’t have to face it for years yet, he assured himself. And when the time came, he’d know, and he would bow out gracefully, while he was still on top.

  He sure liked the women that came with the life he’d chosen—the free-and-easy buckle bunnies willing to tumble any available cowboy, the steady country girls looking for a little thrill to spice up their lives, the society debutantes looking to take a walk on the wild side. The women had always come easy to him, even before he’d started to win big and make a name for himself. He assumed they always would—at least, until he was too old to care anymore.

  There was no downside to women that he could find. Not for him, anyway. Some cowboys he knew regularly got tied up in knots over some woman or other and made themselves, and everyone within earshot, miserable over the sorry state of their love life but he’d never been one to get wound up over any one woman in particular. There was always another one—just as fun-loving, just as pretty, just as passionate, just as accommodating—in the next honky-tonk, or in the next town, or sitting in the stands in the next rodeo arena. He’d never been one to want or need promises of any kind from any of them. Never been one to make them, either. And, yet…

  It’s yours. For as long as you want it or until the end of the summer, depending.

  I can’t imagine not wanting it. Not wanting you. Not wanting this.

  They’d been talking about sex, of course, the way two people did when it was hot and exciting. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. No promises had been made by either one of them, and none had been, or were, expected. It was just meaningless sweet nothings and sex talk meant to tease and arouse and feed the flame of desire. And, yet, somehow, as he lay there in his lonely bed in his lonely trailer in the lonely pearl-gray dawn, feeling unaccountably morose, he found himself wanting her words to be real, to constitute a promise, to mean something because, at some level, he’d actually meant the words he’d said.

  He really couldn’t imagine not wanting her.

  Which, as far as he was concerned, was one big mother of a downside.

  JO BETH WOKE in the gray predawn feeling ornery and out of sorts. Part of that was due, of course, to the lack of sleep the night before. She was always cranky when she didn’t get enough sleep.

  The other part of it—maybe the biggest part of it—she attributed to the bitter resentment she felt at having to get up and get dressed and go back to her own bed after the most fabulous sexual experience of her life.

  A woman should be allowed to wallow in a moment like that, to savor and enjoy it, to luxuriate in the afterglow. If the universe were just, she should be allowed to repeat the experience the next morning. At the very least, she should be allowed to wake up in the same bed with the man who had been instrumental in providing it.

  Never mind that it had been her own decision to return to her own bed in the wee dark hours of the morning. Never mind that she had good reasons, sound reasons, for doing so. And never mind that she had been sorely tempted to just say to hell with all the reasons and greet the dawn in Clay’s bed, in Clay’s arms, tasting Clay’s kisses—and let people make of it what they would.

  It was nobody’s business but hers if she’d taken up with another footloose-and-fancy-free cowboy; nobody’s business but hers if she fell for him; nobody’s business but hers if he stomped on her heart and left her pride in the dust when he moved on.

  BY TWO O’CLOCK Jo Beth was crankier than ever and wishing she’d never heard of the dude ranching business. Unlike cattle, dudes couldn’t be corralled, and they resisted being herded. Instead of staying within the boundaries she’d so carefully mapped out as dude territory prior to their arrival—the main house, the pool and play area, the meticulously staged and vigilantly supervised “dude-safe” network of corrals stocked with the most placid horses on the Diamond J, a couple of docile old cows and a few goats—they insisted on wandering all over the place and getting in everyone’s way and, in general, making damned nuisances of themselves.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t scheduled enough for them to do, either, because she’d taken all of the information on suggested activities supplied by the Dude Ranchers’ Association and put it to good use. The first order of the day had been a sunrise trail ride with a chuck-wagon breakfast served at the end of it. After a hearty meal of flapjacks, bacon, sausage, eggs, grits, and cowboy coffee, all cooked over an open campfire, the dudes had the choice of attending a horsemanship c
linic, going hiking or fossil hunting, or helping a couple of the cowhands move cattle from one pasture to another. If none of those activities beckoned, there was always the pool or the horseshoe pits or the Ping-Pong table or playing checkers on the porch or merely stretching out on the cushioned swing to read. And if all that wasn’t enough to satisfy the urge for action, a guest could find golf or rafting available just a few miles down the road, if they were so inclined.

  There was, Jo Beth thought morosely, no good reason any of them should be underfoot. And, yet, every damned time she turned around she seemed to be in danger of stepping on one of them.

  “What are you doing? Huh? Is the cow sick? Can I watch?”

  Jo Beth looked up over the withers of the Hereford cow she was doctoring and met the bright-eyed gaze of one of the Branson boys. He was peering at her over the top of the stall door. Only his eyes, his unruly mop of vibrant red hair, and the grubby tips of his fingers were visible over the railing. He was wearing a straw cowboy hat, obviously too big for him, pushed well back on his head to keep it from falling down over his eyes. Jo Beth tried not to glare at him. “How’d you get in here?” she asked.

  “Through there.” He pointed back behind him to the open barn door without turning his head. “What’s that purple stuff you’re puttin’ on the cow? Does it hurt him?”

  “Her.” Jo Beth stifled a sigh. “And, no, it doesn’t hurt. It’s an antibacterial wash to keep the cuts from getting infected.”

  “How’d she get cut?”

  “She got tangled up in a barbed wire fence.”

  “What’s barred wire?”

  “Barbed wire,” she corrected him. “Not barred. It’s a…” Jeez, how did you explain barbed wire to a city kid? “It’s a special kind of fence made with twisted strands of wire with ah…” What was another word for barbs? “Really sharp points on it.”

  “How come you use it if it hurts the cows?”