Cowboy Heat (16 page)

My legs buckled as an orgasm erupted within me.

Jason caught me as I collapsed. He carried me through the sprawling ranch house to his bedroom, his Stetson falling to the
floor somewhere along the way. He threw me across his king-sized bed and pulled off the last of my clothing.

Then he stripped off his clothes, revealing what I had already seen and admired, and climbed onto the bed to kneel between my widespread thighs. His cock stood firm and erect, and I took it in both hands. I pulled the foreskin away from the swollen purple head and wiped away a glistening drop of precum with the ball of my thumb before guiding him toward my cunt.

He entered me slowly at first, but once he was certain I was well lubricated with desire, he slammed his cock all the way into me. As he drew back and did it a second time, I wrapped my legs around his waist and hooked my ankles together behind the small of his back. Then I wrapped my hands around his neck and pulled his face down to mine.

We kissed deep and hard. The taste of my arousal on his lips and tongue excited me even more, and I drove my hips upward to meet every one of Jason’s powerful thrusts. He rode me hard and fast. No man had ever taken me this way, so confidently, so powerfully, so aggressively, and I responded in the only way I could.

I came and came hard.

I wanted Jason to stop, but I thought I’d die if he didn’t continue.

I tilted my head back and screamed.

And he slammed into me one last time before he came.

He collapsed atop me, his thick penis continuing to spasm inside me as my pussy clenched and released around it as if attempting to milk him dry.

Afterward—after we had caught our breath and I lay wrapped in his arms—he asked, “Did you get all the photographs you need?”

“No,” I told him. “I was interrupted.”

“I can show you around the ranch tomorrow,” he said, “if you wish.”

“We’ll need to retrieve my car tonight.”

“We can do that,” Jason said as he guided my hand to his thickening arousal, “but not right away.”

We made love a second time, slower but with no less intensity, then retrieved my car. I spent the night in Jason’s bed. The next day he escorted me around the ranch, stopping the truck whenever I saw something I wanted to photograph.

We made love one last time late that evening before I returned to Austin. I completed the assignment a few days after I returned home and mailed Jason a copy of the magazine when it was published two months later.

But the best photographs I’d taken on assignment weren’t the ones in the magazine; they were the photographs I’d taken of Jason rising nude from the stock pond. I made a print of the best one and hung it in my bedroom so that I could see my cowboy Adonis every night before I fell asleep and every morning when I awoke, and I hung the sweat-stained gimme cap next to it.

Now that I’d had a cowboy, no city boy would ever be man enough for me, and I vowed to return to the Bar-B-Dahl Ranch where I knew Jason was awaiting my return.

He’d even promised to take me swimming in the stock pond.

DENIM AND LACE

Robie Madison

Y
our handsome-as-sin cowboy is staring at you again.”

Luella Jean’s deadpan drawl was barely audible above the raucous noise inside the Hold ’Em Tight Saloon, but Margot Goodwin heard her cousin just fine, thank you, as the band struck up yet another depressing love ’em and lose ’em Country and Western song.

Margot took a slug straight from her beer bottle in the desperate hope it might numb her senses. Which she’d apparently lost the moment she’d stepped onto Texas soil. The offer of a free beer at the bar her cousin worked at wasn’t worth being subjected to a night of torturous tunes about love gone wrong.

“He’s not my cowboy,” she said, because if he liked this music he was definitely not the man for her. Whatever happened to the idea of love gone right?

“Yet,” Luella Jean murmured. “But I think that’s about to change.”

And Margot couldn’t help herself. She stole a glance past her
cousin’s shoulder into the mirror behind the bar. She didn’t have to ask which cowboy Luella Jean thought was hers. He was already on his feet, scrubbing his hands across his jeans and, with one last look at his friends, sauntering toward her.

Even Margot, down on men as she was, had to admit he was quite a specimen. Topping six feet, his sandy hair could have used a cut, and he was way too young. Feeling all of her twenty-seven years, she downed another mouthful of beer—a beverage she was fairly certain the
boy
heading toward her wasn’t legally allowed to imbibe.

“Don’t you have thirsty customers to serve?” she asked when Luella Jean stood there with a front row seat for the coming show.

Her cousin made a pretense of wiping down the bar with the cloth in her hand. “Play nice now, you hear?” she said and was gone.

Margot drew a deep, calming breath. He was going to ask her to dance, and Margot had her answer all planned out. A polite, but firm, no thanks.

She wasn’t prepared for his voice, deep, full of Southern comfort—and confidence. She’d give him that. He held out his hand in invitation. It was large and calloused and without really knowing why, she hesitated.

Uh-huh, like she could fool herself. From his size-extra-big cowboy boots on up, he was a long, lean temptation in denim, pure and simple.

Still, that was no excuse to rob the cradle, even if she did appreciate all those gorgeously sculpted muscles just begging to be caressed beneath the washed-out blue. Then she made the mistake of looking at his face. His eyes were a really warm shade of brown and filled with the certainty she was going to turn him down.

She tipped the beer bottle back for one last drink and from beneath her eyelashes she watched as his gaze slid down her exposed throat to the cluster of silver hearts hanging from a chain around her neck.

The fact he actually smiled, and that he didn’t glance any lower, decided his fate. She plunked the bottle onto the bar and set her hand in his.

What was the harm in indulging in one flirtation-filled dance with a hot, young stud? A tendril of heat skittered along her arm as she allowed him to pull her onto the dance floor.

The song changed to something more up-tempo, and she lost herself in the music and the moves.

The cowboy could dance; she’d give him that, too. Then he swung her out and twirled her around once, twice, three times before tugging her just hard enough that she smacked against his deliciously solid torso when he reeled her in. The muscles in his arm shifted and tightened as he slid it round her waist, crushing her to his chest, surrounding her with his masculine heat. A sizable erection nudged her belly.

Whoa, there cowboy
. Her breath caught. They’d finished their dance, but it seemed he wasn’t willing to let her go just yet.

“I take it you’re happy to see me,” she said, teasing him just a little because she hadn’t pushed away from his embrace. His hold was sturdy and oddly protective given all the electrical impulses zinging between them.

A blush stained his face, but he looked her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”

At that she had to laugh. “Seriously, you’re calling a woman you have a hard-on for ma’am?”

“Yes, ma—” He shut his mouth and nodded.

“Maggie,” she said, which wasn’t exactly a lie, but an old
nickname. “Maggie Smith.” And, okay, that last part was a total fabrication.

“Ben,” he said and glanced past her head at his cowboy buddies still sitting around the table before he looked at her again.

For a long moment, he just stood there looking and swaying. Not even bothering to dance anymore, which actually showed some taste since the band was playing another melancholy melody. But beneath her hand, his heart hammered double-time against his rib cage.

She licked her lips, suddenly parched. When his gaze tracked the movement, her heart kicked up a notch.

Uh-huh, like her heart racing at Indianapolis 500 speeds had nothing to do with the lazy path his fingers were making up and down her side, turning her core to molten lava. God, one dance and a few caresses and her panties were already soaked.

“Maggie.”

She blinked up through a decidedly sensual fog and smiled.

If anything the flush deepened along his cheeks. To hide his embarrassment, he bent his head and nuzzled her hair. He swore a soft “Damn it all, anyway,” but then he lifted his head, took another quick glance at his friends and then down at her.

He cleared his throat. “I can’t afford you, but I gotta ask.”

Whoa, cowboy. Margot’s eyebrows shot up. He thought she was hooker?

She tried to grab hold of her common sense, but got a fistful of buttery, soft shirt instead, which maybe explained why she wasn’t so much offended as curious. For details. From a purely academic point of view, of course.

“Just how old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty,” he said, then paused and added, “next month.”

Fact one, he was nineteen. Fact two—

“Just how much can you afford?”

“A hundred bucks,” he said grimacing as though the amount might be a giant insult.

Well, the good news was, if she took the job she could buy that new pair of jeans she had her eye on. Only there was the little matter of fact number three. The small fortune she’d spent acquiring two degrees in mathematics attested to her aptitude with numbers, and frankly something didn’t add up. What horny, nineteen-year-old cowboy, especially a tall, good-looking one, paid for sex?

“And how did you and your friends figure out I was, ah, looking to make a hundred bucks tonight?”

It had to be the shirt. Luella Jean had insisted Margot borrow one of hers, to be authentic and all, but then her cousin didn’t have a size-C cup. A substantial amount of black lace was on display because the damn thing barely buttoned up past her naval.

“Your shoes,” he said. “They’re real—I like them. A lot, but Shane said they meant you were a high class—” He cleared his throat. “He said you were way out of my league and that I couldn’t afford a dance let alone a…a… Shane called them—”

“Fuck-me heels,” she said, catching on real fast, though she wasn’t sure if three inches qualified. She didn’t like to go much higher. As it was, wearing them she was five-ten to his six-two, which was why he couldn’t hide the fact he turned redder than a tomato when he hesitated over saying the
H
word or the
F
word.

But height requirements aside, she had to admit her shoes definitely screamed sex appeal. Cream peep toes, with rhinestones studding the sole that ran up the arch of her foot and the outside length of the heel.

So yeah, she caught on and immediately realized question period was over. She had to tell him the truth. “Ben.”

His face was buried in her hair again. “Yeah.”

“It’s a very nice offer, but I’m not a hooker. My cousin is the bartender, and I just came in for a drink and a visit.”

He groaned. “Jesus, Clay’s gonna kill me.”

He sounded downright miserable and started to pull away, likely mortified his so-called friends had twisted his romantic notions about her fantasy-inducing footwear into something so wrong. He glanced up, looking for his friends, but she’d shuffled them in a semicircle, out of the line of sight of their table.

She slid her hand up his chest and curled her fingers around the back of his neck. “Did I say you could move?”

He stilled, and for a tiny moment she wondered if she’d read him wrong.

“No, ma’am—Maggie.”

“I take it Clay isn’t one of your friends at the table.”

He shook his head. “I met them on the circuit.”

In other words, they weren’t his friends at all.

“So you put down a hundred dollars,” she said, stood on her tiptoes and pulled his head down. “And what were you hoping I would do for that kind of money, Ben?”

He shuddered. His hand slipped down to cup her ass, and he notched his denim-clad cock hard against her pussy. His breath hitched. Or maybe it was hers, she couldn’t be sure.

“Anything I could get,” he whispered in that low Southern drawl of his. “Just as long as you wear those shoes.”

“And how much did Shane bet?”

He flinched, but he learned fast and didn’t pull away. He didn’t immediately answer either.

“How much, Ben?” She dropped her voice, making it clear it was a command.

“Ten bucks, which I won ’cause you danced with me, but that means I lost ninety.”

And finally the numbers added up to an equation she didn’t like at all. Shane was quite the scam artist.

“I don’t think so,” she said softly.

“But you’re not a—”

“Is that a ‘no thank you, ma’am’ to allowing me to have my way with you?” she asked, giving him a steady stare to make the invitation as clear as she could.

“No. I mean, yes ma’am, Maggie,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Please.”

He might be young and naïve, but he was legal, willing and he loved her shoes. Besides, she was now all hot and bothered by erotic images of him kneeling in front of her—minus all that denim.