Curvy Girls: Claimed By The Cowboy (The BBW and the Billionaire Rancher) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Ty set his fork down and glanced across the table at the woman who didn’t want to be his wife.

“Lunch was delicious,” he told her, and meant it. She’d made pasta puttanesca, with homemade tomato sauce and fresh mushrooms and garlic from his own garden out behind his house. She was a great cook. It was one of the many things he appreciated about her.  He’d dated his share of bone thin women who looked at food with hatred, who picked at their plates when he took them out to dinner and who wouldn’t know a saucepan from a cat litter pan. It wasn’t a lot of fun.

Abigail loved food, and he loved to watch her eat.  She enjoyed her food with a sensuous passion that he wished she felt for him.

They’d been married a week now, and it hadn’t gotten any easier. She avoided him as if she were afraid he carried the bubonic plague. She left first thing in the morning to head in to work, worked late, came home, cooked dinner, made polite conversation over dinner without meeting his eyes, and then rushed back to her room, where she sat and talked on her cell phone with her little posse of girlfriends every night.

She’d even gone to work on Saturday. The only reason she hadn’t worked today was because the Telegraph was closed on Sundays.  He suspected that she’d have rushed into town anyway and hung out there all day if she wasn’t afraid that people would talk. The marriage had to look real, after all.

What little time she wasn’t hiding from him in the bedroom, she’d spent redecorating the kitchen, throwing away the faded, forty-year-old curtains and replacing them with gingham checked café curtains, and adding hand carved sculptures of fruit that she picked up from a downtown gift shop on the Crooked Mile.

When he offered to help, she answered him with a clipped “No, thank you,” without even turning to look at him.

And yet…what baffled him was the way he saw her look at him when she didn’t know he was watching. He’d glanced at the mirror and seen her look at him with her lips parted, with her eyes shining, the way she had when they’d had sex first time.  He’d looked away from her once, only to look back and see her staring with a strange mixture of hurt and hunger in her eyes.

He knew she wanted him…but he sensed she’d rather die than admit it.

Just to torment her, to make her burn for him the way he burned for her, he’d taken to walking around the house without his shirt on. He wasn’t hampered by false modesty; he knew what he looked like. He saw her eyes follow him. He heard the quick, sharp intake of breath when he passed by her in the hallway, brushing against her accidentally and murmuring “sorry,”and not meaning it at all.

Although it hurt him just as much as it hurt her, because being close to her meant that he smelled the sweet, light floral notes of her perfume and remembered the smell of her musk when she was aroused, and he dreamed of burying himself in her soft flesh again, of taking refuge in her in her warmth.

But there was no refuge to be found there anymore, he knew. Just anger and hurt and too much past history between them to ever overcome.

Fine. He stood up. “I’m going to take a quick shower before I head back out,” he told her. He’d been planning for several days now to accompany his ranch hands when they rode up to the higher mountain pastures to check on the cows and calves. Today was as good a day as any.

“Enjoy yourself,” she said, without meeting his eyes.

“I will,” he bit out, and stalked out of the room.

Well, that had come out both childish and churlish. But that’s how he was feeling right now.

He walked into his room, ripped his clothes off, and tossed them on the floor, not bothering with the hamper.

Angry, he climbed into the shower, wondering how much more of this he could take. Being so near to her and not being able to touch her. Watching her flinch away from him.

He found his hand drifting to his thick erection, gripping it hard, imagining that it was her hand on him. God, what he’d do to her…

Suddenly, he realized that somebody was in his bedroom. He could hear drawers rattling and a door slamming.

That wasn’t Abigail, was it? It couldn’t be. She had literally never set foot in his bedroom.

He turned the water off, toweled off quickly, and then wrapped a towel around his midsection. He flung open the bathroom door to see Abigail dumping a garbage bag of clothes on to his closet floor and quickly shutting the closet door.

His bedroom door was wide open, and she’d stripped off her shirt and stood before him in her lacy camisole and flowered skirt, the outline of her pink nipples standing out in perfect circles.

At his startled glance, she hissed “Follow my lead,” and threw her arms around him, tilting her head back for a kiss.

Follow her lead? Okay. This was only what had been haunting his dreams ever since the night he’d been with her…

He grabbed her roughly, fingers tangling in her silky brown hair, tilting her head back and claiming her mouth in a kiss that bore no tenderness at all. With one hand, he cupped the full globe of her left buttock, and pressed her up against him, so his throbbing cock was pressed into her soft flesh.

He ravaged her mouth, with hungry thrusts of his tongue, sucking her into him, his fingers tightening in her hair.

In the hallway, he heard angry shouts and footsteps banging towards them.

“You can’t go in there! What do you think-“ It was the voice of his ranch hand Mack, in his doorway. He let go of Abigail spun around, only to see his brother, his brother’s wife, and Winston Maplethorpe, head of the trust that managed the Jackson ranch’s affairs, all standing and staring at him.

Ludmilla, Clayton’s wife, was a tall, willowy blonde, shockingly thin, with sharp cheekbones and beestung lips. She dressed like someone pretending to be a rancher’s wife, in spotless designer jeans that looked as if they were painted onto her pipecleaner-thin legs, and gleaming new ostrich skin cowboy boots with mother of pearl inlay which must have cost several thousand dollars and would never get a speck of mud on them. Her makeup was flawlessly applied, pink lips gleaming with frosty gloss and emerald green eyes outlined with perfectly applied makeup in khaki tones.

Clayton wore a gray suit, hand tailored raw silk, with a pale blue silk shirt and shoes of buttery soft Italian leather. He had travelled as far from his ranch roots as he could go without taking a rocket to the moon. He even highlighted his brown hair now.

Only Winston looked as if he belonged on a ranch; a silver-haired farmer in his sixties, he wore battered old cowboy boots, well worn jeans, and a denim snap-front shirt with a bolo tie clipped with a hunk of turquoise. And he had the good grace to look embarrassed at their intrusion.

So that was why his wife was suddenly overcome with passion for him, Ty thought with a dull throb in his chest. Because his brother had showed up to spy on him.

Anger and frustration boiled up in his chest.

“Excuse me? Can a man get some privacy in the bedroom of his own house?” He stalked over to the doorway.

Winston grimaced and stepped back.  “Ty, I apologize. I’ll come back later.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. They staged it; the ranch hands must have tipped them off that we were coming. I’m telling you, their marriage is a fake!” Clayton snapped at Winston.

“Look up the papers at the county courthouse, Clayton,” Ty said coldly. “Our marriage is quite legal. And since we got married four hours before you did, the ranch is mine and you’re trespassing on my property. Go home…and try not to be a sore loser.”

Clayton shoved forward, trying to barrel past his brother into the bedroom. Ty shoved back, pushing his brother into the hallway.

He glared at Ty.

“Just because you said I do in front of a j.p. doesn’t mean this is a real marriage. You really expect me to believe that you’re doing it with Fatigail Wintergreen?”

Before he could say another word, Ty’s hand shot out and caught him square in the jaw, sending him staggering back out of the room.

Clayton’s wife wailed like a banshee. “You monster! You animal!” She howled, turning beseechingly to Winston, her hands fluttering in the air, her sparkling green nails glittering in the sunlight that poured in through the hallway window. “Look what he did to my husband! Call the police, call the police!”

Winston spun around and glared at Clayton and Ludmilla. “Clayton deserved what he got, and then some. If anyone had spoken to my late wife that way, I’d have done the same thing.  I told you two I would speak to Ty about your accusations. I did not say I would stand by while you insult a man and his wife and barge into their bedroom.” He turned back to Ty. “Ty, I offer my sincere apologies for coming here like this. But we do need to talk later. After dinner tonight?”

“No problem,” Ty said, shutting the door.

Then he turned back to Abigail, who stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“One of the ranch hands called me to tell me that they were headed this way,” she murmured, glancing at the door. “I barely had time to get my clothes out of my bedroom and move them into your closet.”

“Good job.”  He laced his hands together behind her back, and she didn’t protest, didn’t move away from him.  “I’m sorry about what he said.”

She shrugged. “Not your fault. It’s Clayton. He was a dick in high school, he’s a dick now. Hey, remember when I snapped that picture of him and the head of the cheerleading squad having sex under the bleachers, and I showed it to that other girl he was dating, and she scratched his face so bad he couldn’t go to prom?”

Ty grinned. “I do recall that. I loved how feisty you were back then. How you always stood up for yourself. You were a force to be reckoned with.”

He was standing right over her now, looking down at her. He took a step closer, so he was pressing up against her, and she took a step back so she was backed up against the foot of the bed.  

“Abigail, I think about you every minute of the day. I want you so bad it hurts. I know you want me too; I could feel it in the way you kissed me just now.”

Abigail bit her lower lip, and a blush crept over her the creamy skin of her face.  His arms were around her, and she was pressed tight between him and the foot of the bed, with nowhere to go.  That was exactly how he wanted it.

“Ty, I…”

“Tell me you don’t feel the same.” He cupped her breast in his hand and smiled at her sharp intake of breath, and the flush of desire that turned her ivory cheeks a rosy red. Squeezing gently, he ran his thumb over her nipple, and she whimpered.

“Don’t like it? Don’t want me? Tell me to stop, and I will.” He brushed his lips against hers softly, and then pulled back slightly when her lips parted to kiss him.

“Ty,” she choked out.

“What?” he said, all innocence, and then did it again, a hot, teasing kiss, longer this time, sliding his tongue into her mouth, and pulling away quickly when she started to respond.

With one hand he yanked at his towel and dropped it to the floor, and then pressed against her, his cock against her soft flesh.

“Damn you!” she hissed, and then she was on him, kissing him hungrily, and blood rushed to his head and he grabbed the waistband of her skirt and yanked it off her, and then peeled her shirt off over her head.

Then they were on the bed again, in a tangle of hot flesh and hungry, probing tongues, and he was sliding between her legs. His fingers slipped in between the wet petals of her sex, and she gasped in pleasure.

“Is this what you want?” His thumb traced a slow circle on her clitoris and she cried out.

“Yes!” She whimpered.  He slid his index finger inside her, curving against her inner wall and stroking until he found the right spot and she cried out.

“Yesssss….there….oh, God, don’t stop.” His finger kept stroking, slowly, and she felt embers inside her flaring and she moaned and squirmed with pleasure.

“Like that?”

“Y-yessss…” she wailed, hands clenching the bed comforter.

And then abruptly he pulled his hand out. “Ty! Please!” she begged.

“You’ve been killing me for the past week. Making me suffer. Making me want you. Say you’re sorry.”

“I- I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“Not good enough. Roll over. I think you deserve a spanking. Would you like that, baby?’

Heat roared over her like a forest fire ignited by summer lightning.  “Y-yes,” she moaned, shivering in anticipation. “I would.”

She rolled over face down on the bed.

He reached his hand around front, slid his fingers inside her, and resumed stroking her. And he bought his free hand down on the white globes of her buttocks. The flat of his hand smacked her flesh, and red hot pain and pleasure swirled together, shooting through her whole body.

“Ohhhh!” She cried out, burying her face in the pillow.

He raised his hand again, and brought it down with a resounding smack, and then did it again, and again, all the time stroking inside her until she thought she’d die from the pleasure. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, to weep, to beg for release.

Oh, God, the past week had been so hard. She’d wanted him so badly. When he came in to the kitchen in the morning barefoot and tousle-haired, when he brushed up against her in the hallway and then walked by without looking back at her, when she smelled his cologne and his earthy masculine scent…

Ohhhh! He smacked her again. She could feel every handprint on her buttocks, stinging deliciously, and red hot heat roared through her body, and she shuddered, convulsed, and the juices of her arousal soaked his fingers as she came.

Then he was spreading her legs open with his rough, callused hands, and spearing her brutally with the thickness of his erection, shoving inside her while ripples of orgasm still convulsed her.

He lay on top of her, pinning her hands above her head with his hands and pumping into her, and his harsh rasps of breath in her ear were like music because it meant he wanted her.

His smooth skin and his hard muscles pressed into her.

Harder. He pumped harder, deep inside her, every thrust rocking her body, until he finally exploded and filled her with his hot sticky seed. She felt his warmth filling her and oozing out onto her inner thighs.