Texas Outlaws: Billy

by Kimberly Raye

  Hunger raged inside him and he dipped his head, flicked his tongue over the swollen tissue and lapped up her sweetness.

  At the first contact of his mouth, she arched up off the bed and her hands tangled in his hair. He tasted her, savoring the bitter sweetness and relishing the soft, gasping sounds coming from her trembling lips. He swirled his tongue around her clitoris and felt the tip ripen for him. She whimpered as he sucked the sensitive nub into his mouth and nibbled until she tensed beneath him. Her fingers clutched at his hair in a grip that was just short of painful. The sensation fed his ravenous desire and made his breath quicken. He stroked her once, twice and her breath caught on a ragged gasp.

  “Please. Just do it. Do it now.”

  He gathered his control and pulled away, determined to make it last for both of them. But then his gaze collided with hers and he saw the fierce glitter in her eyes—a mix of desire and impatience and fear—and he had the strange feeling that there was more than just an orgasm hanging in the balance.

  As if she feared the morning after even more than he did.

  Good.

  At least they were both on the same page.

  That meant if one of them lost perspective for whatever reason, the other could push them back on track. It was all about tonight.

  This moment.

  Nothing more. He snatched up his jeans and retrieved a condom from his pocket. After sliding on the latex, he settled between her legs. Bracing himself, he shoved his penis deep into her wet heat in one swift thrust that stalled the air in his lungs.

  He gripped her lush hips, his tanned fingers digging into her pale flesh as he plunged into her again. She closed her eyes, lifted her hips and met each thrust until he couldn’t take it anymore. His cock throbbed and filled and he was right there. He thrust again and the pressure built.

  Pleasure fogged his brain and before he could stop himself, he reached down between them and parted her flesh just above the point where he filled her. He caught her swollen clitoris between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed lightly.

  She moaned and her body convulsed around him and he knew she’d tumbled over the edge. He buried himself deep one last time and followed. He held her tight and relished the way her inner muscles milked him.

  Finally, his hold loosened and he collapsed onto his back. He reached for her, tucking her against his body and losing himself in the frantic pounding of his heart.

  Fear hammered at the edges of his brain, but he wasn’t going to let it in. Not just yet.

  There would be plenty of time later to beat himself up over the fact that he’d lost control for a few precious seconds and, in the process, violated every promise he’d ever made to himself when it came to women and sex.

  Plenty of time.

  But right now... Right now he just wanted to close his eyes and hold her close. Just for a little while.

  * * *

  GET UP. THAT’S what Sabrina told herself the minute she heard the soft snores coming from the man next to her.

  Get up.

  Get out.

  Get moving.

  While she didn’t have to worry about alarming Livi if she failed to make it out of Billy’s room before daybreak—she and Livi had opted to get separate rooms since they were splitting up most of the time to work more territory—she’d still promised to meet her first thing in the morning for breakfast.

  Even more, she had a column to finish for one of the blogs she regularly wrote for. The name of the column? “Oh, No, She Didn’t.” It was a weekly tell-all on female celebrities and their outlandish behavior that she penned for a tabloid website out of Los Angeles. A far cry from CNN or Fox News, but the site paid a small fee per word and at least she was actually getting paid to write something. Heaven knew she had a stack of journalism pieces she’d written on spec that would never see the light of day. Commentaries on the state of the nation, a story on the outrageous salaries paid by the L.A. County Water Department, and even a twenty-page analysis on the anti-gluten craze. Anything she’d felt might draw some interest, she’d penned and sent in to every newspaper and website she could think of. And the most she’d gotten back was a few comments saying her writing was good, but they needed material that was groundbreaking. A fresh angle. A cutting edge story that would sell copy. And so she’d stuck with her one sure writing gig—the column for the tabloid site. A paycheck, however small, at least made her dream seem legitimate, even if it didn’t pay the bills.

  She thought of the bank robbery that had put Lost Gun on the proverbial map. The story had been big news back in the day, but she didn’t know nearly as much as she needed to in order to start thinking about an angle. An easy fix, of course, thanks to Google. A few articles would put her up to speed and maybe spark some ideas for a new look at the story. But first she needed facts.

  Who? What? When? Where?

  Billy’s arms tightened around her and suddenly the last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of her night chained to her computer, checking facts or slogging another story about yet another actress who’d ditched rehab and gone on a party spree.

  No, what she really wanted was to stay right here and snuggle down into the warmth wrapped around her.

  All the more reason to get up.

  The last thing she needed was to fall asleep and risk an awkward morning after. While she’d fallen out of practice thanks to her change of heart, she’d still had enough one-night stands to know that she didn’t want to get stuck facing Billy Chisholm the morning after.

  She had no doubt he would tell her thanks and hit the road faster than she could blink. He’d made his intentions crystal clear, and so had she. She didn’t want more. At least, not from him.

  Now if he’d been any other man...

  Maybe a bank executive or a photojournalist or anyone but a Stetson-wearing bull rider. Then she might have thought about getting to know him.

  But she already knew more than enough.

  Billy Chisholm wasn’t her type.

  She knew that, but with him so close, the scent of sexy male filling her head, she had the gut feeling that she wouldn’t be all that happy to see him go.

  The thought struck and she gave herself a mental kick. She didn’t have to think about him walking out because she intended to walk out first.

  Soon.

  At the same time, it had been such a long day and she really was worn out. Exhausted. Might as well take advantage of the warmth and close her eyes for just a few seconds. A cat nap.

  Then she was up and out of there.

  Guaranteed.

  5

  “WHERE THE HELL are you?” Livi’s frantic voice carried over the line the minute Sabrina answered her cell phone. “You’re not hurt, are you? Oh, crap, you’re not dead, are you?”

  “Yes, and I’m speaking to you from the hereafter.”

  “Very funny. Seriously, I all but freaked when I woke up this morning and realized you hadn’t come back to the motel room.”

  “Morning?” Sabrina blinked against the blinding light pouring through the open curtains, and panic seeped through her. It was morning.

  She’d slept with Billy Chisholm.

  Slept slept.

  There’d been no creeping out before dawn. No “Thanks, but gotta go.” Or “I really appreciated it, but have a nice life.” No, she’d snuggled right up next to him and closed her eyes and now the sun was up and she was late.

  “So?” Livi’s voice pushed past the panic beating at her senses. “How was it?”

  “How was what?” She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was eight-thirty in the morning. Not only had she fallen asleep, but she’d slept past her usual 7:00 a.m. And all because of a man.

  A cowboy.

  “Did you get lucky?”

 
More like unlucky. Of all the available men in town—the reporters and the out-of-town fans—she’d hooked up and fallen asleep with a homegrown, certified, grade A cowboy.

  “Well?” Livi prompted.

  “I really need to go.”

  A thought seemed to strike and her friend’s voice rose an octave. “You’re not still with him, are you?”

  Was she?

  Her gaze ping-ponged around the room, looking for boots or clothes or something before stalling on the open bathroom door. She strained her ears for some sound, but there was no water running. No footsteps. Just the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner humming from a few rooms down.

  “Of course not.” She ignored the disappointment that niggled at her, pushed the blankets to the side and scrambled from the bed. She grabbed her undies, which lay on the floor a few feet away. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes. Where are you?”

  “The diner next door to the motel, remember? That’s where we agreed to meet.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Cowboys have to eat, right?” Livi went on. “Plus, they’ve got the best coffee in town and you know how I need my coffee. Lots of coffee.”

  “Save a few cups for me. I’ll be there in ten.”

  She spent the next few minutes plucking her clothes up off the floor and damning herself for forgetting the all-important fact that she’d agreed to a one-night stand only. The key word being night. She’d had every intention of being the first one to hit the road after the deed had been done, the first one saying goodbye, walking out, calling the shots.

  She certainly hadn’t meant to close her eyes. To get too comfortable. To forget for even a split second that cowboy Billy was not the morning-after type and that, even more, neither was she.

  Luckily that all-important fact hadn’t slipped his mind.

  She spared a quick glance around the room. There was no suitcase. No personal items scattered across the dresser. No clothes hanging in the closet. And definitely no note. He’d taken everything with him as if he meant to never come back.

  And the problem is?

  No problem. Sure, she preferred being the one out the door first, but at least he’d had the good sense not to linger and make things that much more awkward.

  Anxiety pushed her that much faster and she pulled on her clothes quickly. She was getting out of here now, and she wasn’t going to think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been nice if he’d at least said goodbye.

  Forget worrying over one measly cowboy. She had one hundred and fifty-two to think about.

  Slipping out of the motel room, she ignored the knowing smile on the maid’s face as she rushed down the walkway and rounded the corner toward her own room. A quick shower and change, and she would hit the soda machine next to the ice maker before the diner. She wasn’t facing Livi and a room full of Stetsons until she’d calmed down completely. To do that, she needed sugar. Lots of sugar.

  A soda. Maybe a bag of M&Ms.

  Forget a fully stocked minibar for the source. The Lost Gun Motel was like any other small-town inn she’d ever known.

  That meant vending machines instead of minibars. Homegrown soda fountains and pharmacies instead of McDonald’s or a CVS. A family-owned general store instead of the brand-name, big-box type.

  Sure enough, she rounded another corner and spotted an old Coke machine stuffed with glass-bottled sodas. A crate sat next to the rusted-out monster, the slots half filled with empties.

  Her gaze snagged on an Orange Crush and she could practically taste the sugary sweetness on her tongue. As if it had been just yesterday that she’d given up her favorite drink, instead of eight years. The day she’d turned eighteen and left town in her granddaddy’s ancient Bonneville.

  She’d never looked back since.

  She’d never wanted to.

  The soda had been just as bad for her as the small-minded hometown where she’d grown up, and so giving it up had been a no-brainer. She’d switched to lattes and bright lights and a great big city full of zillions of people who didn’t know what a big pile of unreliability her father had been. There were no knowing looks when she walked into the corner drugstore. No one gossiping behind her back when she went into the nearest Starbucks. In L.A. she was just one of the masses, and she liked it that way. She liked her privacy.

  Which was why she’d stayed away from home all these years.

  Since her mother had dropped the bomb that she was getting married—again—to a local wrangler from one of the nearby ranches, despite the fact that she’d walked that road once before. Arlene had obviously learned nothing the first time with Sabrina’s father. He’d been a ranch hand. Worth his salt when it came to horses, but worthless when it came to being a good husband and father. He’d cheated on her for years before finally running off with a barmaid from the local honky-tonk when Sabrina had been thirteen.

  Her mother had been devastated. She’d cried for months, then she’d spent the next few years telling herself that he was coming back, that it was just temporary. Eventually, she’d faced the truth. Not that it had done any good. She’d turned around and hooked up with loser number two. Different time. Different man. Same story.

  Sabrina hadn’t been in any hurry to watch a repeat of the past. When her eighteenth birthday had rolled around, she’d packed up and left her mother, her mother’s new cowboy and her small-town life in the dust.

  Her resentment toward Arlene and her cheating father had faded over the years, but she’d never been able to bring herself to go home. To the same double-wide where she’d listened to her mother cry herself to sleep night after night after Sabrina’s father had walked away. The place had never felt like home.

  It never would, so there was no sense rushing back and pretending. Instead, she’d accepted the truth and turned her back on Sugar Creek like a piece of gum that had lost its flavor.

  Sure, she’d seen her mother a few times over the years, but always on neutral ground. Arlene had flown out to California once. They’d met in Vegas another time. Colorado for Christmas a few years back.

  She’d heard through the grapevine that her father had ended up single again, working on a horse ranch in Montana. Not that she cared. The day he’d walked away from her had been the day that he’d died in her mind, and so she had no desire to see him.

  But as much as she hated him, she owed him, as well. He’d at least taught her one important thing—to never, ever fall for the same type of man.

  A man who didn’t know the meaning of the word commitment.

  Which was why she was chalking last night up to a good time. A temporary good time that was now over and done with.

  No matter how much it had felt otherwise.

  She slipped inside her motel room and spent the next few minutes getting dressed, before she heard a knock on the door.

  “Maid service,” came the voice from the other side a split second before the hinges creaked and the knob twisted. A woman with bleached-blond hair and too much red lipstick came up short in the doorway. “It’s nearly noon,” the woman said as she noted the towel wrapped around Sabrina. “Folks are usually up and about by now.”

  Folks, as in the locals. But Sabrina wasn’t a local, which meant she fell into the same class as a communist/sociopath/deviant puppy kicker. Small towns like Sugar Creek and Lost Gun were close-knit. Folks didn’t take too kindly to outsiders, and they certainly didn’t trust them. Which was why Sabrina made a point to give Olive—according to the name tag—a big smile before retreating to the bathroom to get dressed, and an even bigger tip when she grabbed her purse to leave fifteen minutes later. Not that it made her any less of a communist/sociopath/deviant puppy kicker. It just meant that she wouldn’t have to beg for an extra set of towels. And maybe, just maybe, she might get an additional name or two to pursue for her database.

 
“So he’s the hottest single male in town?” she asked Olive a few minutes later, after complimenting her lipstick and matching nail polish, and slipping her another five.

  The woman shrugged as she smoothed Sabrina’s sheets. “I don’t know about hot, honey, but Martin Trawick is surely single, now that his fifth divorce is final, that is.”

  “He’s been married five times?” Unease rolled through her.

  “Six, actually, but we don’t count the first one on account of it was old man Talley who officiated and he ain’t an actual clergyman. Just tells folks that so’s he can get the clergyman’s discount special at the diner. It’s an olive-loaf sandwich with fresh pickle chips. Anyhow, Martin is always looking for his next wife. He’d probably be tickled to sign up for your service.”

  Okay, he wasn’t prime grade A marriage material. At the same time, they weren’t promoting an actual marriage service. She and her roommates had invested a lot of time in their mission statement, which outlined their venture—namely, an interactive website where women could go to meet, not marry, cowboys. Which meant the only criteria she had to establish was that any prospective candidate was a Wrangler-wearing, cowboy-hat-tipping, boot-stomping country boy.

  “What does Martin actually do for a living?”

  “Owns a pecan farm outside town. Actually, he owns a sixth of the pecan farm on account of he had to split it with each of his exes, but he’s still got a good hundred acres of his own.”

  Okay, he wasn’t a pro bull rider, but he was country. Check.

  “Does he wear boots?”

  “You’re in Lost Gun, sugar. Who doesn’t wear boots?”

  Check.

  “How about a cowboy hat?”

  “I reckon when he’s out tending pecans and it’s hot.”

  Check.

  Sabrina smiled. “Where can I find him?”

  6

  “NOW, THAT’S WHAT I’m talking about!”

  Eli let loose a loud whoop as Billy climbed to his feet and dusted off his backside. Meanwhile, several wranglers chased the bull he’d just ridden for eight seconds toward the gate leading to the holding pen.