Cowboy Tough (13 page)

Cat reached the loft on a tide of warmth and feeling, her feet tripping up the steps easily, her weight supported by Mack's arm around her waist. She shivered when she reached the top, and it wasn't from the cool air. It was a good shiver—a shiver of anticipation.

She pushed away all her doubts like lace curtains blocking a bright window. Mack was a good man—grounded and respectful, kind and caring even if he didn't always communicate his feelings. He was strong, even aggressive, but there didn't seem to be a mean bone in his body.

And in this relationship, there would be no questions about the future, and no ugly breakup. Those only happened when one partner expected more than the other, and they both knew better than to expect anything between them to last. She was out of here in a week. Heading back to her world, and leaving him to his. That made a relationship practically risk-free.

Deep down, she felt a tug of warning. No relationship was without risk. But she smothered the foreboding and concentrated on the present.

Zen
cowgirl. Live in the moment.

He tilted her backwards and she fell, unresisting, on the bed. Mack was smiling, his eyes lit with anticipation as he flicked on a small bedside light. He looked down at her.

“You,” he said.

“You,” she echoed. A laugh bubbled up in her chest and she let it out. It came out in a ridiculous schoolgirlish giggle, but she didn't care. She felt like a girl—like a girl sneaking off to be with a boy.

“This is going to be good,” she muttered. She hadn't meant to say it out loud, but Mack just grinned.

“Yes, it is.” He took her hand. “Very, very good.”

They'd avoided looking at each other for days, and she was surprised at what she saw in his eyes—relief, of course, that they'd dispelled some of the tension between them, and the same sexual spark she'd seen under the stars. But there was something else there—something new and better. She felt as if they were something more than strangers coming together to satisfy their needs. They were friends, free of expectations, free of rules.

Their gazes locked and held, and she realized they'd never shared a held gaze. He'd never let her. Their exchanges had always been guarded, cautious.

Not now. And with that protective cloak of uncertainty lifted, they shared something far more honest and real.

Maybe it was
too
honest and real. She could feel a connection humming between them, as if they were joined by a wire that was electrified and just a little too hot. Up until now, he'd been a cowboy, something exotic and a little dangerous, a dalliance in a far country. But now he was
Mack.
A man. And a lover, unless she shut him down right this minute.

That tight fist of fear tugged at her heart again. She had an impulse to crack a joke, laugh, cut the tension somehow. But all she could do was look, and let him look back.

He really did live in the moment—fully and without reservation. In life, that meant he was easygoing and adaptable. But in a relationship, it meant he was fully present. She felt like they were both naked, and they hadn't shed a single article of clothing.

Yet.

Impulsively, she kicked off her shoes and twisted in his arms, letting the soft parts of her body meet the hardness of his. Opening the top button of her shirt, she swept it over her head in one quick motion. If he looked at her breasts, maybe he'd stop probing her thoughts. Maybe he'd skim the surface instead of plumbing the depths with those dark, intense eyes.

A button snagged on a bobby pin and she tilted her head back, tugging her bun so her locks uncoiled down her back. She didn't know how it looked to him, but to her it felt graceful, quick, and wonderfully wanton.

She'd been right; the breasts changed everything. His eyes went suddenly soft, his gaze reverent. He reached for her as if he couldn't help himself, tucking a finger under the delicate strap of her bra and tracing it down to the lace that cupped the swell of her breast. She was glad she'd worn lace that day, ivory with a thread of gold running through it. In the light of the moon, it looked like a fairy garment spun of silk.

She leaned back on the pillows and let him look and touch. He stroked his finger gently along the edge of the fabric and set every nerve in her body to flickering. She felt like she'd come alive in a new way, waking from the sleepwalk of the everyday into a world of possibilities.

Sighing, she reached up and swept her fingers through the hank of dark hair that fell over his forehead. Touching him like that made her feel tender, fond, and somehow protective of this strong man who was so obviously undone by soft skin and a scrap of lace.

While she stroked his hair, he found the clasp at the front of her bra and undid it, sweeping the halves to either side and cupping her flesh in his hands. She wasn't exactly Marilyn Monroe, but he made her feel soft and round and wonderfully feminine. He stroked his thumbs over her nipples and she arched her back, closing her eyes.

She opened them to find him watching her again. There was a faint note of triumph in his smile. He'd knocked down a few walls and he knew it.

It was time to play defense.

She knew this wasn't a fight. They didn't need to dominate each other or settle who was boss; that was something that wouldn't matter in the short time they'd be together. But she wanted to tussle with him, wrestle and tumble and
play
. Grabbing the collar of his shirt in both hands, she pulled. It was something she'd been wanting to do since the morning, when she'd noticed as she sponged off his shirt that it was fastened with snaps, not buttons.

It clicked open with a satisfying series of pops, revealing a tanned chest with a veil of dark hair fanned over hard swells of muscle.

“Mmm.” She let out a wordless purr and lowered her head to run her mouth over the blade of his collarbone. Her left hand skimmed down the side of his face, swept past his neck, over his shoulder and chest. She stroked one flat nipple with her fingertips and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Looking up, she saw his eyes weren't focused on hers anymore. They weren't focused at all. She'd won this round, stroked him into stunned silence.

Cat one, cowboy zero.

Well, that wasn't quite true. The cowboy had scored a few points himself, but she wasn't about to admit that—to him or to herself. She was enjoying herself too much to keep score.

It was about then she realized her pants were gone. Just gone, in some fabulous cowboy stealth move. How had he done that? The giggle burbled up again as she thanked God for matching lace panties. His admiration of the little bow that decorated each hip was giving her some time to regroup.

But once she was fully grouped, she realized the bows were gradually making their way down, down, down. Down her thighs, past her knees, over her calves, and off.

He was way ahead. It wasn't fair. Her clothes slipped off; his required a wrestling match.

It was time to get to work on that belt.

***

Mack had heard artists were crazy, and now he knew it was true. This woman was a wild thing, beautiful and eager for him in a way that was somehow pure. There was no buckle-bunny agenda. With other women, he'd always felt like he was taking and they were giving. Like they were doing him a favor. He was always conscious, even in the throes of sex, that there was a price to pay.

But Cat wanted him in a simple, straightforward way that made them equals. This wasn't about promises and lies, expectations and bargains. It was about this moment, right now, and the sweet sensation of touching each other.

He paused in his mission—which was to hook her panties over the bedpost—and watched her tug at his jeans. The panties sailed off in some random direction. God only knew where they landed.

“It works better if you take off the boots first,” he said as denim bunched around his ankles. She let out one of those little animal sounds that drove him crazy, a choked little laugh mixed in with a mew of frustration. He toed off one boot, then the other. She bent down to slip his jeans off, putting her face on a level with his lap.

They didn't have any secrets now. She knew exactly what he wanted, and how bad.

She pointed a finger and stroked it slowly down the length of him, making him twitch and throb. He couldn't help watching her face. She seemed fascinated by his body, transfixed.

“Yee-haw.” She drew out the last syllable like it tasted good.

Resting her arms on his thighs, she kept stroking. He looked down at the pale seashell curve of her back, the tumbled curls spilling over her shoulders. He was savoring the little dimples just above her sweet round ass when sensation rippled through him and stole his breath.

Her mouth. She was using her mouth. That little tongue, those sweet lips. Dreams really did come true, even the sexy ones.

He leaned back and groaned, gathering her hair in one hand so he could see her face. Her eyes looked up at him, honest but somehow enigmatic, challenging even as she gave him everything he wanted.

“You have to stop.” He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw. “I'm going to lose it.”

Her eyes gleamed wickedly as she ran her tongue up the hard ridge on the underside of his shaft. But she only did it once before she scrambled up to straddle his lap. Warmth flooded him as she laced her arms around his neck and snuggled tight against him, her lips nibbling his jaw.

He set his hands on her hips, letting his fingers stroke the tempting dimples he'd been eyeing earlier. She pushed into him, then rose, her tongue flicking his ear, her soft mound against his hard body. She paused and rested her head on his shoulder, and the world stopped spinning. He hadn't been listening to the chirp of the crickets, the rustle of the trees that surrounded the cabin, but he missed them now in the hush that formed around them, bound by the circle of golden lamplight.

She lifted her head as if she caught the change too. When their eyes met, he swore there was a crackle, a jolt of electricity, and the crickets started up again. Expelling a soft sigh, she lowered herself onto him, slowly, deliberately, her eyes on his the whole way.

He was losing his grip on his sanity, his world, and his hard-won self-control when she rose again. She paused, and he knew by her smile that she'd caught his moment of weakness. This delicate, fragile-looking woman was triumphing over him and enjoying every minute.

He tightened his grip on her hips and held her there. He liked seeing her this way, but he wanted to see it for more than five minutes.

“Hold on,” he whispered. “Slow, darlin'. Slow.”

Her eyes softened, maybe at his tone, maybe at the endearment. He'd figure that out later. But for now, the mood had changed and they weren't vying for control anymore—they were together, moving in a sweet, slow rhythm, watching each other's faces to gauge the pace. What had threatened to be a quick, hot gallop turned into a smooth long lope to the finish line. He took time to enjoy the view, caressing her breasts, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her belly, before regretfully rolling her over and pushing her away.

Her eyes widened, and he felt a quick surge of victory before he cupped his hand between her legs to soothe her.

“Slow down, honey. There's more.”

***

Cat was whimpering.
Whimpering
, and pushing herself into Mack's hand like some kind of crazed nymphomaniac. And then purring, as he stroked and fondled, teased and touched.

In the back of her mind, she was struggling to sort things out. He was a cowboy. A simple man, in tune with nature and the land. She'd expected something quick and easy. Satisfying—she'd had no doubt of that—but simple. She'd expected to be ridden, mastered, spun in a few circles and pulled to a sliding, skidding stop.

Instead he was playing her, drawing out her pleasure like a musician stroking notes from a cello.

She felt herself rising in a slow crescendo of need. She forgot he was a stranger, forgot she was supposed to hold back, forgot her own name as she cried out and shattered at the last, perfect, sweet high note of the song.

***

Mack closed his eyes and drew in a breath, savoring the sweet honeyed scent of Cat's hair and the weight of her in his arms. She'd gone limp as her breathing slowed, tensing once or twice as aftershocks rocked her body. Her head rested in the hollow below his shoulder, and her breath teased his chest.

She blinked awake in minutes, looking slightly bewildered. He smiled and waited for her to catch her balance. The world might have stopped for him, but clearly it had spun for her. She clung to him and he knew he'd better enjoy it while it lasted. She wasn't the clinging type.

Sure enough, she was wriggling out of his arms in five breaths, rising to her knees in seven. He knew better than to hold her down. For one thing, she wouldn't stand for it. For another, he really wanted to know what happened next.

Hands.
Hands happened next, sweeping through his hair, trailing down his face, tracing his lips, and teasing the curve between his neck and shoulder. She caressed his chest and walked her fingers down his ribs. Sweeping her hands back and forth and back again, she caressed, teased, and stroked, smiling all the while with an evil glint in her eye.

It wasn't long before he was back where he'd started, hanging onto a thin ledge of sanity with his fingernails scrabbling at the edge of the cliff.

Roughly, he pulled her on top of him. Her eyes flipped open, the lazy glow turning to a bright light as she eased him inside her and he marveled at the slick glide of wetness and warmth. Setting one hand on his chest, she lifted the other in the air like a bronc rider. She pulsed her hips and he felt his grip on the cliff sliding perilously close to the edge.

“Now this is more what I expected,” she said.

With his hands on her hips, he slowed the pace. “What you expected?”