by Meg Ripley
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Rachel murmured, though she didn’t resist his move to kiss her.
“Not if you’re careful,” Dylan countered, claiming her lips. He lifted her carefully and Rachel found herself standing, climbing onto the couch, straddling his hips slowly and carefully as the kiss deepened, Dylan’s hands wandering over her half-clothed body.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a one-track mind?” Rachel asked, barely breaking away from the kiss. Dylan chuckled lowly, his hands sliding up underneath the loose sweatshirt she was wearing to cup her bare breasts, giving them a lingering squeeze. Rachel’s nipples began to harden to his touch, a rush of heat flowing through her in automatic reaction to the caress.
“A few busted ribs… are not going to stop me,” Dylan murmured, his fingertips wrapping around her nipples, teasing and rolling them slowly. Jolts of hot-and-cold pleasure crackled through Rachel’s body and she felt herself heating up from within, her pussy starting to feel slick. “I need to make up for lost time.” He pulled the sweatshirt up, over her head, and tossed it across the room, his hands falling to her hips.
“You’re insane,” Rachel told Dylan, kissing him on the lips lightly. He shifted underneath her, groaning slightly; his ribs were healing, but slowly. Rachel squirmed against Dylan’s hips as she felt the blanket that separated them slipping out from underneath her.
“You love it, really,” Dylan countered, and Rachel felt the heat of his erection pressing against her slick folds as he moved her body on top of his. She moaned as his cock slid and slipped along her labia, tantalizingly close but not exactly where she wanted it. “Let’s just take it slow,” Dylan suggested, rocking his hips up against hers. Rachel nodded, for the moment too turned on to speak; she caressed him carefully, holding herself up on her knees, balancing her weight on her hands above his shoulders. Dylan’s fingers slipped down between their bodies and Rachel moaned out again as he found her clit by touch, stroking her teasingly.
“Slow is good,” Rachel managed to say, shivering as Dylan rubbed the bead of nerves, rocking his hips steadily to rub his cock along her slick labia. “But if you don’t—if you keep teasing me like this—it’s not slow, it’s just mean.”
“Can’t have you thinking I’m mean…can we?” Dylan’s fingers retreated from her pleasure center and Rachel gasped as she felt him guide his cock up against her, as he thrust his hips upward, sliding inside of her inch by inch. She pushed down to take him in deeper, opening her eyes to look down at his face. Dylan’s dark eyes were nearly black with desire, staring up at her with undisguised need as they began to move together, friction building up between their bodies enough to make Rachel sweat in moments.
She rocked and twisted her hips, rising and falling, as Dylan’s hands danced all over her body, caressing and teasing her. He cupped her breasts, bringing them up to his mouth to claim each of her nipples in turn with his lips and tongue. Rachel felt the tension mounting in her moment by moment, felt her body heating up, her muscles flexing in spasms around Dylan’s cock as she became more and more turned on. Dylan’s hand slipped between their bodies once more and as he thrust deeper and deeper inside of her, Rachel cried out at the feeling of his fingers playing against her clit, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through her body in crackles that lit up her nervous system.
She struggled to hold back, wanting to savor the closeness of their bodies, wanting the moment to go on forever; but as Dylan pulled her face down to kiss her hungrily, his tongue probing her mouth as he thrust harder and faster inside of her, Rachel felt her self-control breaking. She held herself up off of his injured body with an effort, shifting her knees up to take him deeper, pushing herself down onto him harder as she moaned against his lips. In a matter of moments, it was nearly impossible for her to hold back her climax anymore, and Rachel grabbed at the pillow underneath Dylan’s head, every muscle in her body clamping down as the first wave of her orgasm jolted through her.
Dylan kept himself under control, holding back, and Rachel’s climax deepened, pleasure rippling through her as he slowed down and then sped up once more, his hands wandering over her with possessive lust. Her spasms began to abate and Dylan continued to touch her, working her out of satisfaction and into renewed need. He groaned as her body heated up again, hands tightening on her, and Rachel found herself moving to his rhythm, falling into his movements as readily as a dance, as aftershocks crackled through her nerves and she felt the tension mounting once more.
Her second orgasm crashed through her as abruptly as the first, and Rachel fought to keep from collapsing onto Dylan’s body, supporting her weight on arms that felt like jelly and legs that seemed more and more unreal with every driving thrust of Dylan’s cock inside of her. This time, they reached their orgasms together—and Rachel swallowed down Dylan’s moans hungrily as she felt his warm gush flooding into her once, twice, a third time.
She carefully picked herself up off of Dylan’s body, and he shifted on the couch lazily, pulling her around and cradling her next to him. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and Rachel thought hazily that they’d both want a shower in a matter of minutes, but she was too satisfied to move.
They would stay in Ireland for a while; James was still working to regain full control of his company, and to clear up her precarious legal situation. But upon their arrival in Ireland, Rachel had not been at all surprised to find that her bank account showed a balance of nearly ten million dollars, with a note on the bank transfer that brought her to that balance telling her to enjoy herself. “We could just stay here, you know,” she said to Dylan, reaching up to swipe a lock of his hair away from his face.
“We could do that. Or we could go back to Rouen and work on your French some more.” Rachel rolled her eyes, swatting at him playfully, careful not to hit him where he was injured.
“As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are,” Rachel said quietly.
“I told you: you’re not getting rid of me. I’ll follow you anywhere, Rachel,” he said, tucking a wisp of her hair behind her ear. “I love you.”
THE END
Alpha Cowboy Romances By Sierra Wyatt
Riding The Rodeo Cowboy
I thought it was going to be a typical girls' night out at Cowboy South, but little did I know it'd be a night I'd never forget.
I reluctantly agreed to try my luck at riding the mechanical bull, but I'm no cowgirl—that thing threw me to the ground in no time! I didn't realize that a gorgeous rodeo cowboy named Jesse had been watching my little “performance,” and I nearly died from embarrassment when he came up to give me some expert advice. I took him up on his offer, though, and managed to ride that freakin' bull like a pro...which gave me a little practice for what would be in store for Jesse and I later that night... ;)
It was only supposed to be a one-night stand, but good lord...that cowboy couldn't keep his hands off these curves if he tried. The thing is, Jesse's only in town to compete in the rodeo, and his future hinges on winning the grand prize. Is this just a summer fling, or is it the beginning of our long, wild ride together?
As a man sings about how all he needs in life are his whiskey, his chili, and his woman (most likely listed in order of importance); I wish I still wore a watch. Taking my phone out to check the time would be too obvious, but I bet I could check a watch without any of them noticing.
Stupid technology.
“So, how’s work going?” Sherry shouts at me over the insufferably loud country music. Her narrowed brown eyes say, You said you would try to have fun. So try!
Sherry’s friends, who look just like Sherry (long, shiny hair; perfect skin; thin enough that I keep having to resist shoving sandwiches in their general direction), whip out their phones as soon as Sherry mentions “work”. Clearly, they don’t care about offending Sherry with their lack of attention.
I do, though. Sherry and I have been best friends ever since we worked at the library together, before I quit to freelance f
ull-time, and she quit to get married and start popping out babies.
Even with an army of children, Sherry still manages to have a more active social life than I do. She dragged me out with her gaggle of other young, beauty-pageant-ready mothers and insisted I stay until at least ten.
“Work’s been good,” I answer Sherry.
A blonde member of the gaggle—I think her name is Lou-Ann or Mary-Lou or something of that ilk—lifts her eyes from her phone to look at me. “I still don’t get what exactly it is you do, Annabelle. You write … but you don’t write books, right?”
Her voice has that Western twang that some Cheyenne residents have. “No,” I answer. “I write for a bunch of different individual clients.”
“How do you find ‘em?” Lou asks (I know there’s a “Lou” in there somewhere, so that’s what I’m calling her for now).
“Online, mostly, and sometimes referrals from other clients I’ve worked with.”
“Like on the computer?” Lou wrinkles her nose. “But what do you write?”
“Blog posts, tweets, Facebook posts—whatever the client needs.” Lou looks at me like I’ve started speaking a different language. But she’s being nice, so I go on. “Actually, right now I’m working on—”
“Guys!” another one of Sherry’s friends interrupts. This one’s a brunette with big blue eyes. Maddy. I’m 89% sure that’s her name. “Let’s do shots!” She says this as though it is the most original and intriguing idea anyone has ever had.
That is also exactly how her suggestion is received by the other women sitting in our circular booth. They whoop and holler, and before I know, it a shot of something blue is sitting in front of me.
Generally, I don’t do shots. I enjoy decent beer and whiskey but have never seen the point of forcing liquor down my throat.
I realize when I squint that I can see the time in the corner of the sports game playing on the television behind the bar (I’m sure Sherry would know what kind of sport it is). It’s a few minutes after nine.
Accepting that I’m stuck here for another hour, I drink the blue stuff back. It tastes how a moist towelette would taste if it decided to procreate with a bag of Skittles. I take a large gulp of my beer to drown out the sickening sweetness.
A middle-aged man in a red flannel shirt and a black cowboy hat steps up to a microphone near the bar. Please don’t let it be karaoke night, I pray. It’s bad enough hearing the booze-soaked country songs through the radio—I don’t think I could survive the amateur version.
“I just wanted to let y’all know that we’re startin’ Bessie up for the night,” the man in the flannel says. “Come on over and try your luck!”
“Bessie!” Maddy shouts. I’m not sure she knows how to operate at a lower decibel. “Oh my God, you guys, we have to ride her!”
“Who the hell’s Bessie?” I ask.
“The mechanical bull!” Lou says. I vaguely noticed the bull when we came inside, but it kind of blended into all the animal heads, antique guns, and other honkytonk bullshit that fills this bar. “And since this is your first time at here at Cowboy South, Annabelle, that means you’ve got to go first!”
I can feel the blood drain from my face. “I, uh … no. No, thanks. One of you guys should go.”
“Why not?” Maddy asks. “Are you scared?”
I grit my teeth. “Of course not.”
“Not drunk enough?” another member of the gaggle asks. “Because we can fix that!”
She shoves another one of the blue shots in my direction. I look at all of their expectant faces. From the seat next to me, Sherry lets me know with her eyes that she won’t hate me if I refuse the challenge.
I drink down the second shot and stand. I’m stuck here for another forty minutes—what else am I going to do? Explain to Lou how Twitter works? The girls applaud as I walk away from the booth.
I approach the man in the flannel, who’s now standing in front of a black box with buttons on top—that’s probably what controls the bull. And in the center of a big, red padded circle is my nemesis: Bessie.
The man smiles wide at me. “You going first, little lady?”
I roll my eyes. Nothing about me has been “little” since I hit puberty. I give him a silent nod and do my best to negotiate climbing on the bull around the fact that I’m wearing a dress and not pants. I eventually succeed and give another nod to the mechanical bull operator.
He turns on his microphone. “All right, all right! We’ve got our first rider. I forgot to ask you your name, darlin’.” He gives another wide grin. “So how about we just call you Marilyn?”
I’ve already rolled my eyes once at the man—I shouldn’t risk doing it a second time. He’s the one who’ll be controlling the bull, after all.
Besides, he’s not the first one to make the Marilyn Monroe comparison. It’s a fate that befalls all curvy blondes, although people usually add “crossed with a sexy librarian” for me, thanks to the glasses.
Suddenly a spotlight’s shining in my eyes, and I can hear the operator calling, “Get ready, get set, go!”
Before I have a split second to get my bearings, my ass goes flying off of Bessie, my face pressed into the red cushion on the floor. I curse myself for not removing my glasses beforehand and pray they’re not broken. After a few seconds of blindly searching, I finally retrieve them. I quickly pull my skirt over my legs (something I probably should have done sooner) and get up, not at all gracefully.
“Aw, better luck next time, little lady,” the operator says.
I give him that second eye-roll I wanted to give him earlier and head back toward my booth. Sherry looks at me with concern, “Are you all right, Belle?”
“Yeah, that looked bad,” Lou says.
I nod, blushing slightly. “Nothing’s broken. But I’m pretty sure I was right—Bessie and I are definitely not a soulmate match.”
“But you’ve barely gotten to know her,” a man’s voice says behind me. “Won’t you give her another chance?”
I turn and have to work at not gasping. Like the mechanical bull operator, he’s wearing a flannel shirt and a cowboy hat. That’s kind of the uniform in a place like this. But this man’s flannel doesn’t cover a bulging belly—he looks like he’s in terrific shape. His skin is honey-brown from the sun and he has what looks like light brown hair under his hat. What makes his face are his eyes—they’re bright blue with little yellow stars around his pupils.
He’s the sort of guy who always comes by to hit on Sherry or one of her other friends when Sherry manages to drag me out of the house. Sherry always immediately tells these gentlemen callers that she’s married—the others usually flirt a little first, especially if the man in question is as handsome as this one. But he’s not looking at Sherry or any of the other women sitting at the table—he’s looking at me.
“Bessie’s the one who pushed me away,” I reply. “And I’m pretty sure she would do the exact same thing if I tried again.”
“Relationships take work,” he says with a slightly crooked smile that makes him look even cuter. “You’ve just gotta learn how to give Bessie what she needs. I could give you a few pointers if you want.”
I notice that his accent isn’t Western. It’s a down-home Southern accent, like buttermilk.
I look over my shoulder at the others. They’re all smiling encouragingly. Lou flashes me a thumbs-up. I really need to learn to be nicer to Sherry’s friends. They’re good people, at the end of the day.
“Yeah, all right,” I reply.
He leads me to a two-person table at the other side of the bar. We sit down and he extends his hand across the table. “I just realized I never introduced myself. I’m Jesse Adams.”
I shake his hand and am surprised by its roughness. “Annabelle Stevens. Now tell me everything you know about mechanical bulls.”
He laughs and proceeds to do just that. I thought he was just feeding me a line before, but he actually seems to know a lot about how not to get thrown off a m
echanical bull. After about ten minutes I stop him. “Okay, okay. So, my feet are more important than the hand holding onto the bull?”
He nodded. “You should hold the handle with your dominant hand, and hold it tight, but no, that’s not gonna keep you on the bull. You’ve gotta dig your feet into the sides of the bull, and hug him with your legs.”
I want to hug you with my legs, I think, then blush. Luckily, I don’t think he can tell in the bar’s soft lighting. “And while I’m holding the handle with one hand, I hold the other one up in the air for balance?”
“You catch on fast, Annabelle.”
“You know, I always thought people put one hand up on mechanical bulls to look cool—I didn’t think it actually served a purpose.”
“Staying on that bull is an art,” Jesse says. “And I think you are ready to become an artist.” Without another word he stands, grabs my hand, and leads me back into Bessie’s clutches. “My friend, Annabelle, here would like to give Bessie a second try,” he tells the operator.
The operator raises his eyebrows. “You sure, darlin’?” he asks.
I’m not, but I get back on the bull anyway. It’s not like this would be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done because of a cute guy.
Hell, it’s not even the third stupidest.
The bull starts up and somehow Jesse’s advice reaches up through my nervousness. I shift my weight subtly back and forth and squeeze my feet into Bessie’s sides. I feel like an idiot with my left hand up in the air, but it really does help me keep my balance.
When I feel myself beginning to lose balance, I jump off the bull like Jesse told me to do. I land on my feet on the red mat and turn to smile at Jesse. He puts his hands up to his mouth and whistles. I can hear loud applause coming from Sherry & Co.’s booth as well.