Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 (4 page)

“You know something else I like to do out here?” he said at last. “Go for drives.”

“Around Oleander? What’s there to see?” she scoffed. “Burnt grass? Dust storms? Roadkill?”

He pointed a french fry at her. “Okay, Miss Snooty-pants, this ain’t the Bay Area. No ocean, no fog. But we have our own secret spots.” He chomped on the fry as he watched her face. “In fact, let’s go for a drive after lunch.”

“This afternoon?” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got another meeting at three. I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t worry. The place I want to take you—it’s not far.”

* * * * *

“Turn here,” Dean said.

After a twenty-minute drive down the highway, he directed her down an old fire road that wound around a blond, dry hill of grass. The road was unpaved but wide and well maintained. There was nothing out here but scorched grass and an occasional gnarled oak, dwarfed by the lack of water, providing small spots of shade in the blazing midday heat.

“Keep going,” he said.

They turned around the bend and on the western-facing side of one of the hills, the dry grass was carpeted in bright orange, as if someone had spilled cans of paint across the landscape.

“This is the spot.”

She gasped. “What is this? Did someone plant this?”

He shook his head. “Wildflowers. They grow on their own.”

“Why here?”

“It’s cooler on this slope.”

“What kinds of flowers are they?”

“California poppies.”

She stopped the car in the middle of the road and they walked out. The riotous color grabbed her eyes and wouldn’t let go. Everything dulled in comparison to that vivid orange. The dry grasses that just a moment ago seemed so yellow had turned a dull straw color. Even the clear blue sky appeared grayer.

Only Dean MacKinnon’s eyes stood out, those pools of cool, pure blue. He looked at her to see if she liked what he was showing her.

“Beautiful,” she said quietly. She walked gingerly through the field of flowers. “How did you find this place?”

“The flowers grow here every year. Even dry years. We used to ride horses all up and down these hills. Never paid much mind to whose property was whose, although we probably should have.”

“Bet you brought a couple of girls up here to impress them,” she said.

He said nothing but followed her out into the middle of the field until they were surrounded by poppies. The color deadened her other senses, and when Dean leaned over to kiss her neck, she jumped in surprise.

“Shh.” Dean reached down and picked a poppy from the thick carpet at their feet. With surprising delicacy, he tucked it behind her ear and brushed the hair away from her neck and shoulders. He gazed at her a moment like a man admiring his handiwork. The blossom was warm and velvety against her skin.

She looked up into his eyes, and her lust rose in response to the heat she saw there. She stepped forward and rested her hands on his rock-hard shoulders. Without a word, he put his arms around her and kissed her. Full lips, wicked tongue. Her hands slid down around his curving triceps. He was solid, bull-like—a thick, handsome man and a dynamite kisser. Monica was so turned on, she didn’t trust herself to speak when Dean pulled back.

“So,” he whispered against her lips. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely audible, a ghost of air carried away by the wind.

“I think you know.” He kissed her again, and before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled her down to the ground with him. The dry grass and soft blanket of flowers crinkled like hot paper beneath them. He sat down and she straddled him, her knees crushing petals that looked like orange fire in the desert.

Dean took off his hat, placed it on the ground, and traced a trail of hot kisses down the side of her neck. Pleasure ran a circuit through her body, firing her nerve endings as her lust rose to high tide.

She dug her hands through his dark hair. It was silky, long enough to curl. When he began to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses on her throat, she grabbed his hair in her fingers and tugged at it gently. A low moan rumbled in his chest.

His lips found hers again. They quickly established a rhythm of breath and tongues that pulled all consciousness from her brain. She was flying, far too high on Dean to realize she was riding him, rubbing herself against the hardening bulge in his jeans.

He broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers. He let go of her waist and dragged his fingers through her hair, clasping it and gently pulling it back until her lips parted with a gasp.

“Tell me what you want.” His deep voice sent shivers up her spine.

She was silent, paralyzed with pleasure.

“Tell me what you want, Monica,” he said again. His firm tone made her insides clench. Already she could feel how wet she was, how ready.

“You need it. Same as I do.” He touched her face and skimmed his fingertips down her throat. “Don’t you?”

“I do.” She was still. “But no one can know about this.”

“I understand.”

“Dean, I’m serious. Not a soul. Promise me.”

He nodded. “I promise.”

In a heartbeat, he lifted her and laid her gently on her back. She closed her eyes. Peach-colored sunlight shone through her closed eyelids. Dean distracted her with hard kisses as he undressed her, pulling her blouse from her skirt and undoing her buttons, one by one. He pulled her up, unhooked her bra clasp and whipped the bra off her. Wind cut through the ravine, stirring the grasses and flowers and racing over her skin, making her nipples harden. Dean cupped her breasts with his enormous hands and stroked her nipples with his fingertips.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly.

He kissed her mouth once more, a deep, commanding kiss that made her blood bolt to her pussy like quicksilver. Still rubbing her nipples with the pads of his fingers, he traced an achingly slow trail of kisses down her chest and stomach until he reached her belly button. He brushed his fingers in a line between her hipbones, and she almost jumped out of her skin.

She opened her eyes as he sat up and stripped off his shirt.

“I don’t have anything with me,” he said, looking down at her. “But…I can still make you feel good.”

Monica stared at Dean’s naked chest. She couldn’t have imagined a hotter sight if she tried. Broad as a door, he was tan and tight and beautiful. Well-built shoulders sloped down to rounded pectoral muscles and abs packed together like six shiny apples in a gift box.

Her eyes rak
ed over him. Random scars marred his skin, silvery stripes, wide jagged slashes and puckered lines where stitches had been put in and taken out. Dark hair covered his chest, narrowing into a trail that led down past his shallow belly button until it disappeared behind the shiny buckle of his belt. The name
Cecilia
was tattooed over his heart, the ink faded to slate green. A second tattoo covered his right biceps, ornate knots and spidery lines.

“You all right?” He slid his hand across his abs, as if he needed to draw any more of her attention to his body.

“Who’s Cecilia?” she asked.

“My mom.”

God, how many women had ogled him like this? Did he enjoy seeing the looks on their faces when he took off his clothes? Did he even care anymore?

Monica cared. The sight of a shirtless Dean MacKinnon had already burned itself into her memory. She’d remember it until she was an old lady in her rocking chair.

That one time I had me a cowboy
, she’d think to herself.
A long time ago.

She glanced down past his belt buckle. Over the last couple of weeks working with real cowboys, she’d noticed that they wore their jeans a little looser to be able to move as they worked. Dean’s were the same, but there was no concealing the big bulge behind his fly. He saw where she was looking and smiled as he rubbed it with his palm.

He dropped to his knees, grabbed his shirt and spread it out on the ground. Gently, he helped her onto it. With his big hands, he gathered her skirt up over her hips until it bunched around her waist. She was wearing a plain cotton thong, but he looked at her with appreciation twinkling in his bright blue eyes.

Without another word, he embraced her. He smelled musky and sexy. She savored the weight of him, pressing her into the earth, crushing the flowers. As he kissed her neck, she ran her hands up his muscled back, her fingertips grazing his hot skin in lazy trails.

He hooked his thumbs into the elastic of her underwear. “Up,” he murmured.

She raised her hips as he slid her panties off.

“Spread your legs,” he said.

The edge of command in Dean’s voice made her drip hotly onto his shirt. Staring at his face, she parted her thighs and leaned back on her elbows to watch him as he lay down between her legs.

Dean didn’t touch or tease her. He didn’t stroke her legs or skin or play with her breasts.

He simply lowered his head and kissed her, long and hard, sealing his lips over her sex. She yowled in surprise and tried to clamp her legs shut, but he held them open with his enormous hands, and she was pinned to the ground, unable to move.

And then he went to work.

His hot tongue began to lap languidly at her, up one side of her pussy and down the other, teasing her open. He placed his big thumbs on her outer lips and spread her gently. Her entire body felt raw and exposed, and when he dipped his tongue inside her, she gasped and jumped reflexively, like a knee hit with a tiny hammer, every nerve on high alert.

For a long time, he pleasured her, making her wetter and wetter with each masterful lash of his tongue. Soon she was drifting above the poppy field, high on the opiate of her own arousal.

Just when she thought she couldn’t fly any higher, Dean lifted his head and swiped her clit with the hardened tip of his tongue.

Pleasure sliced through her. She gasped and squirmed again. His hands clamped down on her legs, pinning her to the dirt. He pressed his lips against the front of her pussy and began to strum her swollen clit with his tongue. He didn’t stop, his unrelenting rhythm jacking up the orgasm that was threatening to break inside her like a thunderstorm.

His lips, his tongue, the sensation of his beard against the hypersensitive skin of her inner thighs, the feel of his calloused hands gripping her open, the way he knew exactly what he was doing—Monica’s body tightened like a windup toy. No one had ever turned her crank like Dean. She was so wet. When a new rush of moisture trickled out of her, Dean growled and quickened the pace, a man on a mission to see her fall apart.

She was sweating and cursing quietly. The sun beat down on her. There were flowers tangled in her hair. Dean pushed his body forward and nestled his rock-hard shoulders behind her knees. With one last trick up his sleeve, he opened her legs wider, pushing her thighs up and out until she was completely open, like he was cracking the spine of a brand-new book.

At exactly the same time, he pressed his tongue against her clit, hard.

The orgasm exploded out of her, a pent-up monster finally let out into the light of day.

Ecstasy crushed her in long, agonizing waves. She convulsed as he held her steady, his tongue never leaving her, his grip never loosening.

After the last tremors of her orgasm slid through her, Monica lay perfectly still on the ground. The hot sun burned her, and the wind licked the sweat from her skin. As hot pleasure drained out of her, she concentrated on catching her breath, dry desert air filling her lungs.

Dean rested his bearded cheek on her thigh and stroked her hips with a surprisingly light touch. A few seconds passed before she realized she’d reached out and torn handfuls of flowers out of the earth as she’d come. The velvety orange petals were crushed in her fists. She unclenched her hands and the petals blew free.

She sat up slowly and reached for him. He brought himself to his knees and let her kiss him, slowly, graciously, as though they had been lovers for a long time. When she broke the kiss, he lifted her chin with his forefinger and looked into her eyes.

“Why so lonely, princess?” he whispered.

She stroked his sun-warmed shoulders and said nothing.

* * * * *

When Monica finally caught her breath, Dean stood and helped her up. He still had a massive hard-on. She reached for him once more. While she kissed him, she slid her hand down those rock-hard abs and over the hot metal of his big brass buckle. But he took her wrist before she was able to go any lower.

“Today was for you,” he said softly. “All for you.”

“What the hell?” she blurted out. “That’s weird.”

His eyes crinkled up and he laughed through his nose. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Make sure you know what you want. I ain’t in no hurry.”

She stared at him, bewildered, as she buttoned herself up. He picked up his shirt, shook it out and put it back on. He tucked it in and adjusted his belt.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

They drove past the Rambling Ranch Inn without a word. Monica was sunburned, breathless and guilty. One of her aunties was watering the begonias outside the front office. Monica leaned down in her seat, afraid that what she and Dean had just done was written all over her face.

Oh God. What have I done?
This was no anonymous motel hook-up in San Francisco. This was Dean MacKinnon, the most famous man in town. If her family found out what she was up to—Monica shuddered.
This is bad.

“You okay?” he asked. He’d put a poppy in his hatband when she wasn’t looking. The little orange blossom flickered like a flame.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

When they reached the parking lot of the diner, most of the patrons were gone. Dean’s ancient pickup truck was one of the few cars left in the lot. She pulled into the empty space next to it to let him out.

After she put the car in park, he turned to her. “You should come with me when I visit Bo Walker this week. See the property, check out the bulls.”

She nodded. “Let me check my schedule. I’ll let you know.”

They looked at each other in silence. Dean was completely clean and put-together. What they’d done in the field could’ve been a feverish daydream or a product of her wishful imagination. But then she caught sight of the flower in his hatband and the still-raging bulge behind his fly. She pressed her thighs together and felt the slickness he’d left between her legs.