Strokes Vol #3 (9 page)

Zane was enlisted due to his tracking expertise and his intimate knowledge of the area. When he wasn’t busy with his nearby horse ranch, he led photographers and hunters through the canyon.

We rode two of his personal horses—Zane on a tall black gelding and me on an even-tempered bay mare. After two days in the saddle, despite the fact I rode often for relaxation, my ass was numb.

Zane flicked a glance my way, turned off the radio and stowed it in his gear. There’d be no need to keep in contact with the team now the search was over. We’d head back the way we came. I hoped he’d take his time.

I wanted time to savor the silence and my growing attraction to the stone-faced Comanche cowboy who’d begun this journey more than a little irritated I’d insisted on accompanying him. I guess he’d thought I wouldn’t be able to keep up. I’d earned his grudging admiration the first time we’d taken our horses down an arroyo and I hadn’t freaked at the steep decline. I’d cemented his respect the first night we’d stopped and set up camp. With a quiet efficiency that matched his, I’d cared for my horse and then set about sweeping away brush and rolling out my sleeping bag, never complaining about the lack of a crackling fire to provide comfort in the darkness.

For two days, we’d barely spoken, except when he’d paused to point out the signs he’d found—broken branches, boot scuffs, dried puddles where the two young boys urinated against a tree or behind a boulder.

I trusted his instincts. Not something I did easily. He was so competent and briskly impatient that I’d gone along with his every suggestion, biting my tongue before adding my own two cents. He didn’t need them.

And now we’d be alone. Miles and miles from civilization. For the first time since I’d begun this journey, anticipation rather than quiet dread thrummed in my chest.

If he felt it too, he hid it well. He repacked his gear, ran his hands over his horse’s head and flanks, then lifted his hooves to check his shoes. I followed suit, not wanting to earn his disgust if my horse fell lame because I’d been too moon-eyed to see to the mare’s welfare first.

When I dropped the last hoof to the ground, I straightened. Zane stood closer than I expected. I drew back startled, my eyes widening. His face hovered over mine, so still, his dark eyes watchful, that my breath caught and held. What was he searching for?

I went with my gut, with my own desire. My lips parted as I let my head fall back. An invitation extended with the lowering of my eyelids. Beneath the sweep of my lashes, I noted the tensing of his jaw, the narrowing of his gaze. He was looking at my mouth.

And then slowly, he bent closer, his mouth drawing nearer. “We should head back into the canyon and follow the edge of the stream.”

I drew in a ragged breath. He was so damn close.
Just kiss me.

He moved away, but not before I saw one corner of his firm mouth twitch.

My face grew hot. Almost as hot as the juncture of my thighs where moisture pooled. Only once before, when he’d checked my seat on his horse and the length of my stirrups before we left the parking lot, had he stood that near. And then, his hand had been on my boot, easing it in and out of my stirrups, adjusting the length a notch. His hand had brushed my calf just above my boot, but I’d assumed it was accidental, because he certainly hadn’t given me any clear sign he was as aware of my body as I was of his.

From that first moment when he’d arrived in his big Ford pickup with an old dented trailer in tow, I’d been intensely aware of him. I was to lead a ground team up one possible trailhead while another team followed a well-established hiking route. We’d all stood staring at the park map behind the Plexiglas; Zane beside my shoulder as I’d traced the first team’s route with a finger.

Zane had shaken his head. “Do we even know that was where they planned to go?”

The trail was popular. “Where would you go?”

“Straight up the ridge overlooking the canyon.”

The face of the bare outcropping of rock was a favorite with climbers, but the rugged trail along its edge led into wild backcountry. Only skilled hikers, and ones who carried proper gear, including GPS and radios, should ever attempt it.

The two boys didn’t have the extra gear and carried only sleeping bags and light packs with food for two days. Their parents had thought they intended to sleep in the canyon camping area, but the ranger at the station remembered them standing in front of this very map and asking about trails.

Zane and I took the harder route. The one he said two boys who liked to look for trouble would go. By the end of day one, we’d found signs.

Zane bent over his saddle, peering at the dusty trail. “Two hikers.”

“We don’t know it’s our boys.”

“It’s two men. Wide strides. Light steps. They don’t weigh much. And they’re heading straight up. They haven’t stopped to eat. There’s no trash. My guess is they wanted to make the first bluff and camp there for the night to watch the sunset.”

On horseback, we’d made the bluff before noon. The boys’ campsite was evident from the trash they’d only half buried. Ramen bags. Energy bar wrappers.

Zane and I hadn’t stopped until we’d found their second campsite. One they’d taken even less time to clean up, because it was obvious they were already scared. They’d traveled in nearly a circle before bedding down, footsteps crossing their own paths.

With darkness falling, we’d stopped to rest the horses and rolled out own sleeping bags. The Army MRE bags we carried had provided a hot meal with a huge amount of calories. I hadn’t wanted to finish mine, but he’d pushed the crackers and peanut butter at me, silently insisting I eat everything. I’d guessed he didn’t want me lagging from lack of energy or complaining of hunger.

We’d lain on the dirt, three feet between our bags, beneath a starry sky. And although my body was tired and aching, I’d been too aware of his proximity to fall asleep quickly. I kept remembering how he’d looked that day, straw cowboy hat atop his dark hair, his long black braid swaying between his shoulders. He wore a light chambray, long-sleeved shirt over a dark tee. His jeans were Wranglers that hugged his hard ass and thick thighs. Zane was tall, and from the light scruff of beard on his jaw, not full-blooded Native American, although his sharp, wide cheekbones and tawny skin bespoke the majority of his heritage.

Even now, my horse needing barely a nudge to follow Zane happily down a ravine, my gaze rested on his tall, lean frame. Without the dreadful urgency that had filled me while we’d searched, my thoughts were now consumed by my partner.

I didn’t know a thing about his personal life. He didn’t wear a ring, but what did that signify? And what had that “moment” back there on the ridgeline been about? Was he mocking me because he knew I was attracted? Or was he interested too?

And if he wanted me, was it because I was the only female for miles in this wilderness? I hoped like hell not. I hadn’t been with a man in a long while, and I didn’t think I could handle something as shallow as a convenience fuck.

If fucking was even something on his mind, I couldn’t tell. He didn’t glance back. Not once. If he was interested in
me
, wouldn’t he be as curious as me and slyly watchful?

We followed a dry creek bed with a gradual decline toward the river bisecting the park. As it was early summer, the water was still high against the banks. Inviting. My horse was certainly eager. I let her have her head, and she trotted toward the edge of the water. I dismounted, dropped her reins and let her step into the water, her head ducking to snuffle and drink.

The chink of metal and dull thud of leather hitting the ground sparked my interest, and I came around my horse, watching as Zane tossed his saddle beside the packs already on the ground.

“I take it we’ll be here for a while.”

“We’ve pushed the horses hard.”

He didn’t give any more of an explanation, but I read the challenge in his gaze. I nodded slowly and turned back to my horse, following his example to relieve my mare of her burden.

When I loosened the cinch around her abdomen, the saddle lifted away unexpectedly. Zane hadn’t helped me with my gear since we’d started. Now the simple action turned me on more than a hot glance might have. His body was tight. His movements a little less graceful than usual. When he set down the saddle and straightened, I could see why. The bulge that lay trapped against his thigh was unmistakable.

My mouth went dry. “Think the water’s cold?” I asked, inanely. The water was certainly cooler than the air. But, I needed to say something other than: “I hope that erection’s for me.”

I did my best to keep my gaze on his face, but couldn’t help flitting down to check out his impressive hard-on. I felt as gauche as a teenager.

“Bathe,” he said quietly, then turned and began to strip.

I liked his economy of movement. The unfussy way he tugged and pulled and quickly dropped his clothes in a heap beside his feet.

I admired his nakedness, the round firmness of his backside, the ropey muscles framing his spine. When he reached behind him for his ponytail and began to sift the braid free, my mouth pooled with saliva. His hair was black and shining blue where the sun hit it. Thick. My fingers curled at my sides.

And then he turned, his gaze raking over me. His mouth tightened. Was that annoyance? I noted his expression, only fleetingly, because my gaze dropped straight to his cock, which was extended, the blunt cap glistening with a hint of moisture. It was long and thick, the shaft straight and rising from a dark, sparse thatch of hair.

“Do you need help?” he asked, voice silky like I’d never heard it before.

A quiver shook my belly, making my knees weak, and I knew if I tried to take off my boots standing, I’d fall on my face. I didn’t answer, simply waited as he narrowed his eyes and strode toward me, his height and masculine breadth casting a shadow.

He reached first for my hands and pulled off my leather riding gloves. Then with an arch of his brow, he knelt on one knee, tapping the side of one boot until I gripped his shoulder and lifted my foot. He took off each boot then swiftly undid my belt and jeans and pushed them roughly down my legs, taking my cotton underwear along with them. He didn’t pause to stare, didn’t say a word as he waited while I stepped free of my clothing. Then he stood, hands going to the buttons of my plaid shirt, opening them with determined efficiency, and then dragging my sports bra over my head and off my arms.

His gaze raked my nude body, and then he turned and walked back to his bags. He shook soap and shampoo from a plastic carrier and walked to the river’s edge where he dropped them on the rocks before striding into the water.

I worried that he hadn’t been impressed by what he saw. I wasn’t overly endowed. My breasts suited my lean frame. I was well muscled, my ass nicely rounded, but not excessively so. And my legs were long. My best feature, or so I’d been told by the men I’d slept with.

He hadn’t given me the benefit of a single compliment. Still, my nipples tightened; the tips stung with anticipation. A heavy pulse throbbed between my legs while moisture slid down my channel.

I glared his way and strode for the water. The bottom of the creek bed was rocky, and I winced when I stepped on a sharp stone. But the coolness of the water was refreshing compared to the heat of the air. I kept my groan of appreciation as quiet as I could and turned away from Zane, giving him my back as I ducked beneath the surface to wet my hair. When I came up, I swiped at my eyes to clear them then gasped when hands slid around my waist and lifted me, dragging me against a hard chest and belly. A thick cock snuggled between my buttocks.

I stood rigid, confused, and began to get irritated. “I don’t like you very much,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond, unless one considered the upward scrape of large hands as they enclosed my breasts an answer. His unwillingness to talk had me frowning. I glanced over my shoulder. “Don’t you care that I’m mad at you?”

His mouth curved. Just a slight smile. Not quite a smirk. And it fascinated me.

His fingers clamped harder around my breasts, kneading them, his thumbs and forefingers pinching the tips, lightly at first, then harder, stinging me and causing me to lean harder against his chest as I drew in a hissing breath.

I barely noticed the knee sliding between my thighs, not until I sagged, straddling it. With hard muscle pressed against my engorged pussy, I hissed again—and dipped—rubbing against him.

His hands smoothed down my belly. One folded over my mound, the other scooped into the corner where thigh and swollen labia met. Thumbs parted me and cool water invaded the opening of my channel a second before fingers pushed inside.

I tried to remain quiet and still, but the inward stroke of his long fingers drew a groan, and I arched my back, my bottom pushing hard against his cock. I reached over my shoulder to grip his long hair and pull.

He finger-fucked me with slow glides until my hips undulated, following his motions. His mouth lowered to my ear. “I want you on hands and knees on the bank.” His hands glided away. His thigh retreated.

A nudge against my backside sent me forward, stumbling toward the riverbank, and I fell forward, crawling to the edge, my breasts dipping into the water, my ass raised high. I spread my knees and waited, not glancing behind me because any sign of masculine satisfaction, a widening smirk for instance, would have tilted me toward anger. I was hungry. Needy. And if he wasn’t going to take me, I would find my own damn satisfaction.

Leaning on one hand, I cupped my pussy and slid my middle finger inside, gasping at the pleasure, knowing he watched.

Water sloshed behind me. Hands roughly gripped my ass. I reached deeper between my legs and wrapped my fingers around his thick shaft to pull him toward me.

A gust of laughter sounded, but I wasn’t going to let his humor over my impatience slow me down. I pushed back and pulled him closer, fit his crown at my opening and circled to take him inside.

I withdrew my hand and lowered my chest, giving him permission to thrust, waiting while I held my breath.