Last of the Red-Hot Cowboys (26 page)

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “She's not the woman I fell in love with anymore.” He blew out a breath. “And to be honest, we probably weren't really in love with each other then. Not deep, forever love. She needed me, and I needed … I guess I thought I was protecting her from the big, bad world. Hell is not for sissies.”

“I'm so sorry,” Ava said, and it was clear that she meant it. Ava's face was so expressive—or maybe he'd learned to read her too well. “It's hard when people change, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” It was—especially when they let Hell make them hard. Tough. Hell did that to a person. He wasn't going to tell Ava that Dee was one of Ivy's toughest girls now. Everyone made choices, and he'd had to respect the fact that he couldn't save Dee from hers.

She stood up, and he looked at her regretfully, hating the fact that she was about to leave. Knowing she was right to go.

“You asked me if I wanted last night to happen again.”

“Yeah. I did.”

Her face was solemn. “I have to go exercise my horse, and then I've got a late shift at Hattie's because I'm helping her do her weekly baking tonight while the Rolling Thunder is closed.” She approached him, and he stared up at her, feeling like a boulder was about to be dropped on him. “You have exactly one hour to do what you promised.”

He looked at her, his heart dancing in his chest like a skittish horse.

“I believe you said you wanted to get me out of my skirt,” Ava said, putting his
hands on her waist, guiding him to push the soft skirt down.

He stared, stunned, at the purple lace revealed to his gaze, held the bunched soft chamois of her skirt in his hands, so close to the sweet heaven he wanted so badly to lose himself in. “Are you sure?”

“Fifty-nine minutes,” she whispered.

He took a deep breath, moved her skirt back up. Sat her in his lap, kissing her gratefully, reverently. He tugged off her boots, dropped them to the floor. Laid her back against the armrest, letting his eyes roam over her. A white eyelet bustier topped the brown chamois skirt which revealed long, brown, fit legs. So soft, so sexy. He ran his palm from her ankle to the inside of her thigh, astonished by the softness. He was sure if he undid the cute zipper on the cami top, he'd probably find a delicate lacy bra, feminine and sexy. She watched him, waiting, knowing he was fighting a war within himself.

Very slowly, she undid the zipper, and the two halves of the top parted.

She wasn't wearing a bra at all.

He took in a deep breath, overwhelmed. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve
her
.

He cupped a breast, stroking it with his thumb, amazed when it peaked tightly. The other one did the same, and her lips parted as she took a surprised breath. She was so beautiful it hurt. He moved his hand down her smooth, flat stomach to the waistband on her skirt, told himself he was being no gentleman. He owed her the truth: Judy's plan was no good. He wasn't going to fall for Ava, or any other woman she threw at him.

“I can hear you thinking, Trace.”

He swallowed hard.

“I'm not looking for anything,” she said. “If you're worrying that you're going to hurt me, don't. I'm not as fragile as you think I am.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Gently pushed her skirt up so that he could see the vee between her legs, covered by the peek of purple lace. “You're so beautiful. So soft.”

“Not as soft as you think.” She pushed her skirt down, and he slipped it over her feet, dropping that to the floor, too.

Maybe. He doubted it. Definitely too soft for him, for the games in Hell. She'd
never stay. This one would go, like Dee should have.

It would kill him. He knew that.

But he was staring at heaven, and God only knew he was no hero, so he hooked a finger in the pretty lace and slowly pulled it down, his gaze drawn to her, his heart racing as he pushed the thong to the floor.

Just when he thought he might be able to retain his sanity, she slowly parted her legs and held out her arms to him. His whole world rocked into some kind of strange orbit. God, she was wet, seriously slick and wet, and it was all for him.

He was lost; he knew it. He made big noises about being truthful, but the fact was, he was only pushing Ava away because he knew he was falling head over heels for her. He knew he didn't deserve her.

But he wanted her like he'd never wanted anything before in his life.

He ran a hand over her mound, traced her slickness. Slipped one finger inside to find paradise, closed his eyes when she gasped, her body tightly spasming so that he felt every bit of her eager desire.

“Trace,” she murmured, and it was like he finally woke from the fear clouding his brain.

He kissed the softness of her thighs, taking his time to enjoy it. Moved to her belly, wanting to take big mouthfuls of her, forcing himself to be gentle, not devour her.

He had to devour her.

He placed a gentle kiss at her bikini line, then lower, taking his time, knowing he was about to taste sweet heaven. Kissed the tip of her pleasure spot, licking her into tight wanting, eliciting a moan from her. Ava clutched at him, but he was determined to enjoy every minute. In Hell, nothing was ever guaranteed, as even Steel knew from his precious Saturday nights with Judy. Trace gently pushed Ava onto the sofa, opening her to him, a ball of desire smacking him in the chest. He kissed her, tracing each side of her sweet plump lips with his tongue, reveling in her cry of pleasure. Ava writhed against his mouth, and his erection was almost too tight, too strong—still, he went slowly, dragging out the pleasure. He teased her with his tongue, not slipping it inside her the way he desperately wanted to, continuing to stroke her opening, loving the taste of her.

Slowly, gently, he slipped a finger inside her, suckling her bud as he did.

“Trace,” she begged, and he slipped another finger inside her as she rocked wildly. Sucking just a bit harder, he was stunned into steel hardness when she came quickly, frantically crying his name. He removed his fingers to slip his tongue inside her, moaning at the sweetness that flooded it.

“Trace, please,” she begged, her voice soft and urgent. He shucked his jeans, tossed his shirt to the floor, pulled a condom from his wallet, gently pushed her back against the sofa. Parted her legs a bit farther, let himself sink into the mind-bending desire that was Ava.

She cried out, wrapped her legs around him, held on so tightly, so sweetly. God, she was sweet. “I'm going to make you the happiest woman in Hell.”

Christ, she had such beautiful breasts—he had to kiss them; the mouthfuls of teasing sweetness couldn't be resisted. He ate her mouth, rocked hard inside her, pulled out just enough to make her cry his name.

Not loud enough.

He kissed her again, slipped a hand between them so he could reach that sweet bud again, suckled a breast as he teased that magic place. She tightened on him so hard he saw spots, told himself to hang on for the amazing moment he knew was coming. Felt her drench his fingers. She had his face, was kissing him hungrily.

“Come for me,” he whispered, and she looked up at him with those beautiful wide eyes. He buried himself inside her and she cried out.

“Trace. Oh, God,” she whispered. “Don't ever stop.”

He kissed the plea from her lips, eating at her, then ever so gently pinched her bud, holding it as he rocked into her.

She cried out again, this time his name loud enough on her lips to rattle the paintings on the walls.

“Hurry,” she begged, and now he could, holding her tight to him, pinning her into the sofa, moving in and out, feeling her touch a part of him he'd long ago forgotten about. Her body tensed against him, wrapping him in warmth that wouldn't let him go, tight and hot and slick, and Trace felt himself dying a little, yet somehow being reborn, too.

And when he came, he collapsed into her arms, gasping, heaving for air, wondering if he'd ever be the same now that Ava had come to Hell.

It was another week before Trace saw Ava again, before he finally realized Ava wasn't coming to training, and wasn't going to seek him out. Without Declan and Saint, he had so much keeping him busy with the running of the training center that he couldn't get away much—just for an occasional dinner at Redfeathers.

Ava was never there. Cameron and Harper were remarkably closemouthed about her, which he found odd for women, and even stranger for women living in Hell, where gossip was a fine and respected art.

Trace decided those two might be a better fit for Hell than he'd realized. They were tough, resistant to even his most well-disguised digs for information about Ava.

He missed her. Like crazy, almost to the point he thought he was going to go mad. He woke up with an erection, he went to bed with one made of rock, and he'd find himself in his office staring at nothing during the day, his brain completely drained by fantasies of Ava.

She, on the other hand, obviously wasn't suffering. He finally located her at Hattie's Rolling Thunder Café on a late Saturday night, only because her truck was parked outside.

Telling himself he should check on her—it was the courteous thing to do when a woman was out late on a Saturday night—he knocked on the café door. He thought he heard voices, female laughter. Pounding harder, he wondered if he needed a secret knock for entrée.

Hattie opened the door. “Hello, Trace. We're closed.”

He nodded. “Hi, Hattie.” He tried to peer past her, wasn't successful. “Is Ava here?”

“Yes, she is.” Hattie cocked her head. “Can I give her a message?”

“Well—” He heard another burst of laughter that he distinctly recognized as Steel's. “Are you having a party?”

Hattie laughed. “Oh, come in. You look like a child who's being left out of the
sack race.”

“Sometimes I feel like that.” He followed Hattie, astonished to see Steel and Judy, Cameron, Harper, and Ava up to their elbows in flour. “What's going on? Why wasn't I included?”

Hattie pushed a stool his way. “Do you know the first thing about baking?”

“No, but neither does Steel.” He sat, his gaze finding Ava, watching her every move. She wore the white zipper top she'd had on last week, this time paired with a sweet pink skirt, flouncy and cute, and he felt his jeans get tight. Too tight. Cutting-off-blood-flow tight.

“Steel invited himself, too.” Hattie winked, teasing him.

“Hi, Trace,” everyone said.

Everyone but Ava. She looked his way, suddenly smiling at him, catching him off guard.

His mouth dried out. That smile haunted him.

This had to change. She couldn't go on driving him nuts. He couldn't go on barely breathing. She'd stolen his soul, or done something to him equally—

My God. I'm in love with her
.

It hit him so fast he stared, stunned, at the pile of dough Hattie plopped in front of him.

“Beat it,” she said.

“What?”

“Put flour on your hands, and then beat the dough. It needs to be well-mixed and pliable. Don't stop until I tell you to. That is, if you want to be helpful.”

He swallowed. Forced himself back to sanity. Followed Steel's example, applied himself to the task at hand. Hattie set a longneck near him, just like she had Steel. He went back to sneaking peeks at Ava, happy he'd found her tonight—finally—especially as she diligently heeded Hattie's instructions with the dough. Her whole body swayed as she beat the dough, and Trace realized he was doomed to sweet horniness.

Maybe for the rest of my life
.

It would be a sexy sentence he'd just have to grin and bear. But it would be worth it.

Except that to make it worth it, he had to convince Ava that she needed him in her life. Clearly, she'd made the opposite calculation, since she'd stayed away from him—exactly as he'd told her she should do.

Dumb bastard. There was no point in being that honest
.

You're hung big-time now
.

He drank his beer, settled in to listening to the story Judy was telling as he kneaded the dough.

“So I found a bag of chicken feathers on my front porch,” Judy said. “As if someone was expecting me to stuff a mattress with them or something. If it was a prank, I'd expect chicken guts. But feathers?” She shrugged. “Steel and I figure some kids must have driven in from the city and picked my porch randomly, since I'm on the county road.”

Trace froze. “That doesn't sound random to me.”

“Oh.” Judy shook her head. “Trace, you're always jumping at shadows. This wasn't black feathers like the chickens at Rory's place have. These were pure white.”

Like a gift. Once upon a time, white feathers would have been prized exactly for what Judy was describing; stuffing household items, or making jewelry. “No one around here has white fowl.”

She nodded. “I know. And these were clean—no blood, no skin.” She shrugged. “I sent them to a lady who'll use them.”

It was too strange, too coincidental.

“I don't suppose you ever heard from Ivy?” Trace asked.

Judy looked at him. “Why would I?”

He shrugged, his gaze meeting Ava's, bouncing away. She shrugged, indicating she hadn't mentioned Buck's visit. “I heard she was pretty upset about last week.”

“Tough shit. We were all upset.” Judy smiled, patting the back of her hair. “I had extensions put in to cover the short spot. What do you think?”

He glanced at Steel, a brow raised. Now that she pointed it out, he could see that someone had adjusted her hair, and maybe not as wonderfully as one might have; her silver-blonde hair was separated by a sandy-blonde, almost-brown hank of hair. “Nice. Who did it?”

“Buzz.” She named the barber they all used, just outside of town. “He said he was interested in practicing extensions, and I said he could start with me!”