One Hot Cowboy (12 page)

Rose Jordan, waiting for him.

Moving down her body, he pulled her

legs over his shoulders.

Cabe Dawson’s dark head covered her

pussy. She could feel herself growing

wetter by the moment. She’d wanted him

inside her, but now—well, maybe now

waiting wasn’t so bad. Cabe Dawson was

driven. Determined. And right now, he was

hell-bent on giving her pleasure. A woman

could live with that.

Hell, just knowing that she was wide

open to him, that he was looking at the

most intimate part of her as his warm

breath feathered over the sensitive flesh,

she couldn’t stop herself from moaning.

“Cabe.” She was so close to begging.

One big finger stroked down the very

core of her, parting her folds, and a bright

shock of pleasure fired through her. She

hadn’t known she could feel that intensely

or that Cabe Dawson could be so

impossibly gentle. She was so close to

coming.

“Apples,” he said, his voice husky.

“You smell like apples.”

Then he lowered his head, covering her

with his mouth, and thinking became

impossible. He gave her more than any

fantasy or lover she’d ever had. His tongue

parted her, dragging through the thick, lush

folds. Each wicked stroke pushed her

higher, feeding the fire burning her up. Her

hands fisted the sheets, holding on because

she was coming apart.

“So good,” he whispered hoarsely

against her, the raw words making her jerk

in his hold.

His lips and tongue slipped deeper into

the soaked folds of her pussy. So good.

Yes
. When he found her throbbing clit, the first pass of his tongue was gentle. The

second was harder. She wanted to scream,

but all she could do was hang on and ride

that wicked, wicked mouth of his.

Tension built inside her, too sweet, too

fast. She wanted this moment to last

forever, but the little quivers were already

finding her, and she started to come.

“Now, Cabe,” she groaned. “I want you

right now.”

He came up over her, and she heard the

welcome sounds of a foil packet opening

as he rolled on a condom.

“You taste just right,” he whispered, the

broad head of his cock finding her opening.

“Don’t talk,” she demanded. “Move.”

His masculine chuckle warned her he

wasn’t done playing with her. He was still

going to make her
wait
for the pleasure.

Sure enough, he stroked just inside her,

stretching her. God, he was so big, and so

there
. His fingers then threaded through

hers, pinning her hands to the bed as he

penetrated her one slow, delicious inch at

a time.

Her hips bucked upward, demanding.

“Faster, Cabe,” she begged.

She didn’t want to wait. She was so

very, very done with waiting.

“If you’re sure, darlin’,” he groaned.

“Now,” she panted, reaching for the

pleasure he could give her. Right now she

wasn’t alone. Right now, she belonged

exactly where she was. In Cabe Dawson’s

arms.

Then he was giving her what she

wanted. Hot and hard, that cock of his

driving into her, driving her inexorably

over the edge into complete surrender.

After their breathing had returned to

normal, her last thought before she let

herself go, tumbling into sleep in his arms,

was that Cabe Dawson had been well

worth the wait.

When she drifted awake, hours later, the

sheets were tangled around their legs, and

the bedroom was full of evening shadows.

She could hear the faint sounds of others

moving around in the house. That was

going to be awkward, if Seth and Rory

caught her leaving Cabe’s room. But she

needed to go. The restlessness was back,

an itch she couldn’t quite scratch.

At some point, Cabe had draped himself

over her, pinning her to the bed. She

wanted to get closer, to surround herself in

his delicious heat. Even though she should

be getting up. Should leave. When she

turned her head, she saw his hat sitting on

the bedside table next to the orderly pile

he’d made of her clothes. That was her

Cabe.

He wasn’t hers, though. She couldn’t

afford to forget that truth. Whatever they’d

done here in his bed was just a temporary

thing. Because, if she let him, a man like

him could swallow her up, and she needed

to keep on standing on her own two feet.

He was a play-by-the-rules kind of man,

honorable to the core, while she needed a

little more gray in her life. She didn’t

expect him to understand.

The arousal was still there, quieter now,

but a slow, sweet heat, a low ache inside

her. Cabe Dawson was a threat to her

heart.

It was already too late, she realized. She

already loved him. Maybe she always had.

Even as she admitted that to herself, she

tried to roll away, but his large body

stopped her. He was awake. There was no

shifting Cabe Dawson once he’d made up

his mind.

“I need to go,” she said quietly.

“Stay a while,” he countered, drawing

her even closer. “There’s no need to rush

off.”

There was. There was every need. She

wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him,

wasn’t supposed to want more than

whatever memories he could make for her.

If she stayed here much longer, in his arms,

she’d be hoping for a future that couldn’t

happen. She’d screw it up, wouldn’t be

what he needed or who he needed.

But, God, she wanted to be perfect for

him.

So, so badly.

Chapter Five

H
e was a bastard for destroying Rose’s

dream. The lowest kind of bastard,

because she believed Cabe was
helping

her. Hell, she’d even thanked him when

he’d volunteered to bring the local

inspector and a different contractor back

out to Auntie Dee’s to meet with her. “You

should know what you’re looking at. Get a

second opinion,” he’d said, and her face

had lit up with that smile of hers before she

hopped in that Honda Civic of hers and

headed out to Auntie Dee’s to wait for him.

Yeah. He was low, all right.

Twenty years of ranching, and he’d

watched other cattle ranchers come and go.

He’d gone to their auctions and put in his

bids on what was left of their herds and

their equipment. Ranching wasn’t an easy

business, and no water meant no cattle. It

was that simple.

Now, she stood on the sagging porch,

picking at the ribbons of paint curling from

the railing while she looked over a tube of

architectural drawings she’d brought with

her, but she didn’t look defeated. Not his

Rose. The inspector had already left—

after pointing out a dozen-plus code

violations she’d need to remedy before

he’d even consider giving her a certificate

of occupancy—but the contractor either

smelled blood in the water or was

enjoying the sight of Rose Jordan, because

the guy was taking his own sweet time

coming up with a bid that was all but

guaranteed to have her turning green.

Her getup was just plain ridiculous.

She’d chosen a pair of itty-bitty denim

shorts that cupped her ass and actually

stopped short of covering her cheeks.

Then,

as

if

those

shorts

weren’t

impractical enough, the four-inch wedge

sandals gave her legs that went on for

miles. Cabe should have been worried

about her breaking an ankle. Instead, he

was imagining those legs wrapped around

his waist.

Just like the damned contractor was.

Making her vision a reality wasn’t going

to be easy. Lonesome didn’t have the

contractors she needed. The house needed

more major repairs than he had fingers.

And yet her passion for her dream was

infectious. He wanted to give her what

made her happy, protect her from the blow

that was about to fall.

He could do it, too, he realized. As long

as he consigned his ranch to hell.

She caught his skeptical glance. “You

expect me to fail,” she accused him.

No, that wasn’t it. This wasn’t about her

succeeding or failing. This was about the

house, the property, the water, and the

sheer impossibility of her living there.

“This house needs major repairs.”

“But it could be fixed,” she argued. She

plopped down onto the top step of the

porch. The contractor had disappeared

back inside to “check one more thing,”

even though Cabe couldn’t imagine what

the man hadn’t investigated already.

“You’d need thousands of dollars,

Rose.” He leaned back against the porch

pillar, crossing one booted foot over the

other. “Tens if not hundreds of thousands

of dollars. That’s what it would take. Do

you have that kind of cash?”

“I could try for a mortgage,” she

countered stubbornly, crossing her arms

over her chest. That defensive movement

pushed her breasts up into luscious little

mounds. He wanted to carry her back to

bed, make her forget all about this crazy

dreams of hers. He’d make it up to her.

She’d get over it. Wouldn’t she?

“We both know a bank won’t lend on

this place. There’s no value in a tear-down

house.”

“Auntie Dee’s place is not a tear-

down.” Fingers rubbing her arms, she

tilted her head back, letting it hit the

railing. Maybe, with her eyes closed, she

hadn’t noticed the shower of paint flakes.

“Not to me,” she said, but now she

sounded tired. “Even though I can see how

you’d think it was. This place is worth

fighting for.”

He’d hoped this second inspection

would wear her down. This despair should

be what he’d wanted, he told himself.

“So what is it you want me to do, Cabe?

Just up and leave?” She opened her eyes

and looked up at him. “Is that why you

brought the inspector and the contractor out

here? So they could tell me the same things

you had, only with an even longer checklist

of everything that’s wrong with the place?”

Yes,
he thought. That was exactly what

he’d wanted. He narrowed his eyes. “Be

reasonable, Rose,” he said, because he had

no intention of answering her question.

“Tell me what’s
right
about this house.”

She shook her head as if she couldn’t

believe he was asking that particular

question. “This was our
home
.”

“Four walls”—barely—“a roof. And a

door.” He shrugged. “I don’t see anything

so special.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But Auntie Dee

would sit right there”—she waved a hand

at the two-seater swing behind them—“and

I’d sit right there beside her. You can see

the sunset from here, and we’d watch the

mountain go all pink and gold. Sometimes

she’d tell me stories about places she’d

gone, people she’d known before she

settled down in Lonesome for good. Other

times we’d just sit there together. It was

my job to push.” She stared at the swing as

if she could still see the woman who had

taken her in. As if that old woman really

had been the center of her world, even

after she’d up and gone.

“Every night,” she said quietly, “we

came out here and we sat and we smelled

the roses. She said that mattered, taking

that time together. She said she’d planted

that rosebush when she first moved in here.

She joked it took up more space on the

porch than she did.”

The rosebush was a Lady Banks. The

yellow flowers had climbed over the roof

of the porch, the sheer weight of the

blooms threatening to bring the whole thing

down beneath its canopy of green and

yellow. Rose reached out, stroking a soft

petal, lost in thought.

For the first time, he wondered what it