Pushin' Buttons (Boot Knockers) (6 page)

Spearing her, splitting her, he grunted his elation. Then withdrawing, he delivered short flicks over her clit. The pearl hardened on his tongue. His cock throbbed in response.

For long minutes he toyed with her clit, pulling moan after moan from her. He lost himself in the act, tasting her because he wanted to—needed to. Not because it was his job.

She stopped moving, and he teased her slit with this tongue, testing how close she was.

But her tasty, wet folds seemed softer somehow, indicating she wasn’t clinging to the edge anymore.

He peeked at her face while peppering her pussy with tender kisses meant to ignite. He wanted to watch fireworks burst in her eyes as she came undone.

Sibyll stared at him, frustration clear on her face.

Changing gears, he removed her panties, wishing he could keep them as a souvenir. Then he guided her onto her belly.

“What are you doing?” she asked a little breathlessly.

“I want to see this fine ass up in the air. Is that okay, baby?”

A shiver snaked down her spine in answer. Grinning, he gripped her hips and drew her onto her knees.

Once he got an eyeful of her ripe globes and the glistening peach of her pussy between her legs, he gritted his teeth.
Don’t come, Donovan. Don’t you dare.

Thank God she hadn’t asked him to remove his jeans. If his cock were free, he couldn’t be held accountable for his actions.

Touching her ass was like having a little piece of heaven in each palm. She moaned as he squeezed her to fit his hands. Her pussy grew wetter, and the scents of her arousal battered his control.

When she began to thrust her ass back at him, he slipped two fingers down, down, down her pussy. He tapped her clit twice in time to his heartbeat.

Then plunged his fingers into her core.

She cried out, jerking forward. Her face was turned hard on the pillow, giving him a perfect view of her beautiful, blissed-out face. She was going to come, and soon.

He primed her with his fingers, moving slowly at first, then faster, pressing upward to strike her G-spot. On her next moan, Hugh trapped her clit under his thumb and toggled it back and forth.

She tensed. Stopped breathing.

“Come on, baby. Soak my fingers.”

Her body went lax. Her muscles loosened, and his cock lost a bit of rigidity too, knowing she’d lost it—the orgasm was just out of reach.

Something akin to panic clawed at his insides. Never, ever, in years of playing with women both on the ranch and in his personal affairs, had he failed to get a woman off. Most had multiple orgasms. Many claimed he was the best they’d ever had.

Battling the blow to his ego, he twisted his fingers in Sibyll’s pussy. Her body barely gripped him.

Motherfuck.
Had he done something wrong? Maybe she’d lost it when he’d spoken.
Okay. No more pillow talk.

He leaned forward, blanketing her body with his. She breathed heavily, as if on the verge of tears instead of ecstasy.

Nuzzling her neck, he whispered, “Okay, sweetheart?”

She poured out words, frustrated words filled with anger. “I’m sorry. I’m just so stupid, and this body is stupid.”

“What? No, that’s not it, baby.” He rolled her face up. She slung her arm over her eyes. His heart panged at the sight of an unhappy woman in his bed.

He stretched out beside her and drew her tight against his chest. Curling around her, he simply held her while she got control of her emotions. Having her sweet body tucked against him made him throb, and he didn’t want to contemplate the way her nearness made his heart trip.

After a minute, he kissed the side of her neck. “Sibyll?”

Her voice came as a croak. “Yes?”

“Don’t give up on me.”

Before dawn sent its fingers into the sky, Riggs got out of bed and was in the field. Right now being with the animals was preferable to going to breakfast with the guys and all their women.

Women Riggs didn’t have.

He wasn’t usually a spoilsport about having a week of downtime. No, it was the thought of Hugh holding Sibyll all night that he hated. They hadn’t come out of the bungalow—he’d checked. Twice.

Walking through the tall grass in the pasture before daylight felt good. He cut a path up the hill where he’d ridden with Shoot the Moon yesterday. Grasses parted around his steps and cool air filled his lungs.

Maybe it was time to get out of the lady business and leave the Boot Knockers Ranch.

Even as the idea formed in his mind, he shoved it away. Where would he go? He couldn’t just get a job as a lowly cowpoke now, not at his age.

But his money had launched the ranch, so he was entitled to shareholdings. That money might help him settle, buy a modest place where he could have a small herd of breeding horses.

With a shake of his head, he dumped that idea too. Who was he kidding? Hugh held him here. Riggs was tethered to the man as tight as a bull rider’s hand to the bull. Riggs had to talk to him, today.

As he headed back down the hill to the grub house, he couldn’t unglue his stare from Bungalow 9. Riggs didn’t like the way Hugh looked at Sibyll—all soft-eyed and thoughtful.

It’s the way I want him to look at me.

So far, none of the Boot Knockers had gotten serious about one of their clients. It was strictly against the rules, and they’d all signed contracts. Then again, Hugh had broken his own rules in order to steal Sibyll.

Riggs pushed open the door of the grub house with more force than necessary. It hit the wall, and three cowboys seated at the long table looked up.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch, Archer?” Damian drawled, forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth.

“Nothin’.” Riggs crossed the room to the sideboard, where the resident chef had a smorgasbord of scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes. A big bowl of fruit salad nestled in an ice bath, along with individual bottles of juice and milk.

Riggs headed straight to the coffee. He poured himself a brimming mug and took it back to the table. He had no desire to sit with the other guys today, but sitting apart would only invite questions, so he sat in their group.

“Not wearing panties today, is that it, Archer? You’re chafed.” Damian’s question drew laughs from the others.

Refusing to rouse to their teasing, he took a sip of scalding coffee. The brew scorched his tongue, and after he swallowed, he blew out a breath.

“Nah, we all know Archer wears briefs. It’s Hugh who goes commando.” Jack’s simple statement hooked Riggs square in the gut.

The first time Hugh had joined Riggs on a threesome, Riggs had nearly come when Hugh had slid his zipper down to reveal a trim patch of brown hair and his half-hard cock. No fabric barrier—just Hugh.

Behind Riggs, the door banged open, and footsteps sounded on the tile floor. “Speak of the devil,” Jack said.

Every hair on Riggs’s body stood on end.

“Mornin’, boys.” Hugh’s gruff tone didn’t invite response.

Riggs stared at his friend’s back as he poured himself a mug of coffee. Hugh held himself stiffly. Maybe all wasn’t paradise in Bungalow 9 after all.

When Hugh took a seat, it was at the far end of the table. He didn’t care that he looked surly to the others. It was one of the things Riggs loved about him—Hugh was his own man.

While Riggs was known on the ranch to never back away from a challenge or fight, he had no desire to let others get a glimpse of his inner turmoil.

Hugh caught him staring, and Riggs raised his mug in salute. Hugh grunted and returned to brooding over his coffee.

“Boss must have had a bad session,” Jack whispered.

“He hears you, he’ll kick your ass all over this floor,” Riggs said, voice barely a murmur.

Jack nodded and shoved the last of his pancake in his mouth. He licked a drop of syrup off his full lips—lips Riggs knew intimately. They’d kissed during a few threesomes. And Jack had sucked Riggs off like a pro, even though he was new to being with men.

He was a pretty boy—all American blond-haired, blue-eyed boy. Fun in bed. But he was no Hugh Donovan.

Hugh stood abruptly and clomped across the room. He set his empty mug in the dish pan and pivoted to look at Riggs and the other guys. “The ranch is waking up. Treat the ladies right today, cowboys.”

His gaze settled on Riggs. Dark heat wove through Riggs. Maybe he could speak to Hugh now. He started to shove to his feet, full cup still steaming in front of him. “Hugh—”

Hugh tore his gaze away and strode to the door. “I’ll catch up to you later, Archer.” His use of Riggs’s last name sounded business-like, but Riggs knew better. Right before Hugh spilled his orgasm into Riggs’s body, he always called him Archer with more tenderness than Riggs had ever known.

Chapter Four

Sibyll stood in front of the full-length bathroom mirror, staring at the red markings all over her. Breasts, belly, hips. Hugh had claimed her.

Don’t give up on me,
he’d said, as if the failure was his.

Her eyes filled with tears, which she was not about to let fall. She’d come here for a reason—to pulsate, contract, throb, shatter, whatever people called it. Last night with her Boot Knocker she’d been so close. He’d taken her to unimaginable heights, but right before her body unraveled, her brain had kicked in.

Her psyche had fed her screams of doubt. So Hugh had flipped her over and began working her from behind. Sibyll curled her toes into the cool bathroom tile at the memory. He’d whipped her into a frenzy, dragged her to the pinnacle, where she’d teetered.

And then slid backward down the slope as self-doubt crept in again.

Maybe she
was
hopeless.

With a disgusted snort, she twisted the shower knob and set the water as hot as she could stand. Some of the places Hugh had kissed felt sensitive under the spray—in particular, her neck. He’d kissed her there a lot.

Several little bottles of shower gel were lined up on a shelf, ranging from raspberry to vanilla to floral. At home she usually chose something fresh and rain-scented. But she couldn’t help but wish for that bar of cheap hotel soap she’d used the day before. The one Hugh had commented on.

She shivered. Did he sniff and tantalize every woman as thoroughly as he had her? He’d chosen her, had fought two other cowboys for her.

In the back of her head, a voice asked if either of those other guys would have given her an orgasm last night.

Her stomach dipped with guilt. In some strange way she felt an allegiance to Hugh. He’d given her more than any man in her life, and she hoped he could finish the job. But his ragged plea:
Don’t give up on me
had really bound her to him. Even if she hadn’t come by her sixth day on the ranch, she’d still let Hugh try.

Sibyll twisted away from the spray and squeezed some hibiscus shower gel into her palm. The scents weren’t so strong that she smelled like an old lady, at least.

After she was lathered, she leaned against the wall and ran her hands over her body. Prodding the sensitive areas brought Hugh to mind.

Who am I kidding? He’s all I’m able to think about.

In particular, his tongue technique drove her crazy. Maybe…

With a shiver, she slipped her soapy fingers between her legs. Her pussy was already primed, slick and swollen with arousal. She mirrored his actions last night, running her fingertip in a figure eight over her clit.

Her breath came faster. Maybe she could do this. With her hunky cowboy fixed in her mind, she might be able to reach the peak.

Throwing her head back, she increased the pressure on her clit, just as Hugh had done last night. His gruff voice filled her head.
Don’t give up on me. Don’t give up…

A sharp pang sliced through her, and she gasped. God, was this it? Was that elusive goal within grasp?

She circled her clit faster, aware of how wet thinking of Hugh had made her.

Then suddenly that other cowboy popped into her mind. What had Hugh called him? Archer.

The man was a dream on two long legs. Tall, roped with muscle, but with a dark and dangerous glint in his eyes that matched Hugh’s and yet was a different kind of danger. She remembered seeing Archer’s photo among the choices. But Hugh’s hadn’t been there—no, she would have remembered him.

Sibyll’s pussy clenched with need even as her fantasy barreled out of control. Hugh, Riggs, one after another, images flickering behind her eyes. Driving herself to the end with one then the other was working, and she was going to—

A light knock sounded on the door, followed by Hugh’s baritone. “Sibyll?”

The filament of her blinding pleasure burned out. Blackness and frustration claimed her body.

Damn. The one man who was supposed to get me off just stole it from me.

“What is it, Hugh? Am I late for breakfast?”

She thought she’d read something in the pamphlet about a buffet breakfast, not a sit-down meal. The clients and cowboys would have long nights, and many wouldn’t even make it to breakfast.