Dare to be Dirty (The Dirty Girls Book Club #2) (14 page)

Before she could move, Ty caught her hips and held her there. “Put the condom on me.”

Though she was tempted to give in, she pulled away to straddle his thigh. “I haven’t got to the good part yet.”

“I’ll give you the good part.”

She gazed down at his cock jutting up in invitation. Another perfect part of him, shaped for a woman’s pleasure. She itched to stroke him, to taste him, and mostly to feel him thrust between her legs. But later, after she played some more.

Unless he was tired of her game. This dirty girl stuff was new; she didn’t know how she was doing. Tentatively, she asked, “Are you hating this?”

“Jesus, no. It’s a turn-on. You’re driving me crazy, Kim.”

She gave a satisfied grin. “Me too. So let me turn us on awhile longer. You’re a tough guy, cowboy. You can hold out.”

“Guess I can if you can.” His thigh flexed under her, and she resisted the urge to squirm against him and stroke her own sexy itch. “Besides,” he said, “you’re giving me a new appreciation of art. Maybe I’ll do some painting myself one day. If you’re the canvas.”

A shiver tingled through her. “We could buy edible body paints.”

“Or we could improvise.” His hazel eyes glinted with mischief. “I have some blackberry syrup that tastes great on pancakes. I’m guessing it’d taste better on you.”

She squirmed at the notion. She was such an artist, it had never occurred to her to paint him with food. But now that he mentioned it . . . “I love whipped cream with a dash of vanilla.”

“Orange marmalade,” he countered.

Her eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

“Mmm. Between your legs, all sweet and tart and sticky.”

She gave an involuntary whimper. “Oh God, Ty.”

“Yeah, I’m getting into the idea of painting. Got any whipping cream?”

“No. And stop distracting me. There’s a masterpiece in progress here.” She got busy again, swirling paint in strokes that were part art and part pure sensual appreciation of his fine body as she painted from his knees to his waist. She applied paint to every part of him except his genitals; applying a condom over paint might not be the wisest idea. If she had whipped cream, though, you bet she’d be slathering it on—and licking it off.

The heat in her body, the moisture between her legs, built with each stroke of paint.

Ty twitched, writhed, and let out occasional groans and soft curses, but didn’t stop her.

Finally, she figured they’d both had enough sweet torture. With classic black—the first time she’d used black—she wrote the Chinese symbols for her name to the left of his thick erection. Didn’t ranchers brand animals to show who owned them? For this moment, Ty Ronan was hers, and she was putting her mark on him.

“We should have colored condoms,” she said, reaching for the package he’d tossed on her bedside table. “That would be the finishing touch.”

“We can come up with a different finishing touch.”

She knew what he meant, and it was exactly what she had in mind. Except, his words gave her a flash of inspiration. She tossed the condom down, unopened.

“What now?” he groaned.

Fourteen

S
he gave Ty a wicked grin. “I want to take my work of art and . . .” She slid down to lie on top of him, and wriggled her body against his, side to side and up and down.

“What the—” he started, clearly taken by surprise.

She sat up to straddle his hips and studied first his body, now a glorious abstract swirl of colors, and then her own. The two of them looked primitive. If she did this onstage, as performance art, people would pay to see it. They’d pay, and go home turned on.

But this was personal. She could only imagine indulging in this kind of sexual, artistic play with Ty.

His face had an expression of wonder. “Kim, you look incredible. I’ve never seen anything so wild. You’re . . . a tropical bird.” Then a golden spark lit in his eyes. “When we have sex, every move will create a new painting.”

Oh, yes!
“I’m turning you into an artist,” she teased. A fair trade, because he’d turned her into a creative lover, a more sexy, kinky woman than she’d ever guessed she could be. The idea of combining her passion for art and her newfound passion for sex was a total turn-on.

“Then come here, painter girl, and let’s make beautiful art together,” he said. Then, chuckling, “Sorry, hokey line.”

“Great idea, though.” Quickly, she wiped smears of paint from his cock with the already stained sheet, then sheathed him. She rose up, guided him between her legs, felt him press firmly against her sensitive clit, then shifted so he could slide into her.

His hands caught her by the hips and held her steady, then he thrust up, hard, like he couldn’t wait a moment longer to be buried deep inside her.

He pumped a few strokes, then pulled her down so their paint-slick bodies rubbed against each other, slippery and sensual. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled them so they were side by side, and separated their upper bodies to study the new colored patterns.

“You’re crazy,” he muttered, voice raw, “but I like it.”

“You make me crazy. You give me ideas.”

He swirled his fingers around her painted breast, making patterns, the sweat from their bodies keeping the paint from drying. He dabbed up some red and stroked lines along her cheekbones, then he pulled her close again and they kissed hungrily while he rolled their bodies until he was on top.

She wanted him so badly, the need inside her coiled tight. He gave her exactly what she wanted, pumping into her fast and deep as if he could no longer hold back. Seeing him above her, his body a work of multicolored primitive art, a painting they’d created together, was the most erotic sight she’d ever seen. Everything inside her tensed and gathered and waited. She ached from that waiting.

He thrust deep, and it shattered, all the tension and waiting. It burst in sensations as vivid as the colors on their bodies and she cried, “Ty!” as she spasmed around him.

He lost it then too, giving a hoarse cry and jerking with his own climax.

Slowly, both of their bodies loosened and he collapsed down on her, then pulled himself off to lie beside her. His chest heaved as he drew in quick breaths, but he got out, “Oh, man.”

“Yeah.” She struggled for breath too.

After a few long, silent minutes, he lifted his head and gazed down at their bodies. “Jesus, would you look at us.”

She forced her head upright and did the same. The paints were all smeared, blending together. “We created colors that didn’t exist before.”

He chuckled. “Finger painting on steroids.”

“No, on hallucinogenic drugs. It was mind-blowing.”

They laughed together, then he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her up against him. She snuggled a painted cheek against his painted chest.

* * *

S
miling at Kim’s comment, Ty realized something. “You speak English like a native.” Then, realizing his comment might sound condescending or even racist, he said, “Sorry, did that come out wrong?”

Her soft hair brushed him as she shook her head. “No, I know what you mean. Lots of people from Asia who came here as adults and are totally bilingual still have a bit of an accent, slightly different speech patterns. They don’t get the colloquialisms. But I’m the next best thing to a native speaker.”

Intrigued, he shifted so their heads were on separate pillows, facing each other. He looped his arm over her slim waist. “How d’you mean?”

“I lived here for four years as a little kid. Kindergarten through third grade.”

“Oh, yeah? How did that happen?”

“My parents had me late in life. By then they’d built CPM. They not only managed property, they’d bought some. Apartment buildings in Hong Kong. Anyhow, in 1986, there was a big world’s fair in Vancouver. Expo 86.”

She sounded so businesslike, yet looked like a tropical bird. The woman was so damned fascinating. “I’ve heard of it.”

“The world discovered Vancouver. Asian businesses opened branches there, Asian kids were sent to English-language schools, Asian restaurants sprang up. My parents wanted to check out the investment opportunities. In the early nineties, we all came for a visit. Now, my parents never do anything impulsively—”

Ty laughed. “Yeah, I can relate to that.” He stroked the curve of her hip, trying to be gentle, aware of his rough, callused skin against her smooth flesh.

She grinned. “Investment is different than risk, right? Anyhow, they wanted to invest in property in Vancouver, but only after thorough on-site research. Dad would run the business in Hong Kong and Mom, whose English was better, would stay here. Aside from flying back and forth a few times a year, Mom and I lived in Vancouver.”

Her dark eyes softened with memories. “It was so much fun. I already spoke English, but those four years as a kid made me fluent. After that, I was back often, with my parents when they came here on business. I stayed friends with some kids from those early school days and we e-mailed all the time. Add in American TV, books, Facebook . . .” She shrugged.

“You’re at home in two worlds, Hong Kong and Vancouver. That’s pretty impressive.” Compared to him, a country boy through and through.

She cocked her head. “You think I’m impressive?”

“Damn right.”

“Hmm.” Her lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. “Cool. The rodeo star thinks I’m impressive.”

Her words pumped his male ego and he gathered her in again, snuggling her against the base of his throat, one of the few places where his body was paint-free. Damn, but she felt good there.

She must have felt the same, because she sighed softly and planted a warm kiss against his chest.

At the ranch, Ty slept with the window cracked open for most of the year. There, the nights were quiet but for the sounds of nature: stirrings of wildlife, the patter of rain, occasional thunder and lightning. Here, the noise of traffic through Kim’s open window-wall was a constant hum accented by the occasional roar of a motorcycle starting up or the shrill whine of a siren. She didn’t seem to notice.

Despite the noise—and even after what was, hands down, the craziest sexual experience of his life—it was peaceful. He stretched out contentedly with his arm around her as she curled into him, warm and naked, her head on his chest.

It would be easy to drift into sleep, but then he’d have to get up at a ridiculous hour. He squeezed her shoulder. “I should get going.”

She stirred. “You don’t have to.”

It was nice, her inviting him to stay. Sex was one thing, but trusting a guy enough to let him sleep over was another. Wanting to sleep over was another too. So he let her know. “Thanks. I’d like to stay, but I have to be at the ranch doing chores by five.”

She shuddered. “I’m a morning person, but that’s crazy early. Especially on a Saturday.”

He gave a slow, lazy laugh. “Ranches don’t sleep on weekends. Neither do ranchers.”

“I guess not. I don’t really have a picture of your life. What do you do, Ty?”

“Business stuff, help Dad with the cattle, train horses, exercise, do my rodeo practice.”

She ran a finger across the now-dry paint on his chest. “No rodeo this weekend?”

“Nope. Used to be at rodeos two hundred days of the year, but those times are long gone. Now it’s more like a dozen. I have another in three weeks, in the interior.”

“But you still practice?”

“If you’re out of shape, it’s easy to get hurt. ’Sides, when you’ve been champ, it bruises a guy’s ego to drop too far in the standings.”

“How did you end up doing last weekend? I’m sorry, I never asked.”

“Came second in bareback bronc and fourth in tie-down roping. Took home a nice chunk of change.”

“Wonderful. Congratulations.” Now she wished she’d gone back on Sunday. She lifted her head and peeled her body away from his. Eyeing him, she giggled. “Better take a shower. You don’t want to put your clothes on over”—she gestured—“that.”

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and studied the abstract swirls and smears of color, duller now that the paint had dried, then laughed.

She sat up, chuckling too, and he said, “Oh man, look at you. Lord, I wish I had a camera. And your hair, you gotta see your hair. It’s terrific.”

He rose, reached down a hand, and pulled her to her feet. She had a full-length mirror on one wall of the room and they studied their reflections.

Yes, they looked funny, but there was something oddly attractive about their painted bodies and her messed-up black hair. One side sported only the red streaks she’d applied intentionally; the other side, where she’d rested her head on his chest, was a crazy mix of red, yellow, and green.

She tilted her head. “I’m a parrot. I kind of like it.”

“Me too. I kind of like all of you, in fact.”

She turned away from their reflections to smile at him. “I kind of like all of you too, Ty.”

“Join me in the shower?”

“Don’t I wish, but have you seen my shower? There’s barely room for one.”

“Too bad.” His own shower and his Jacuzzi tub were sizable, with pulsing jets to ease the aches and pains caused by rodeo and hard work on the ranch. Impulsively, he said, “You should come out to Ronan Ranch. What are you doing this weekend?”

Wait a minute.
What was he doing? He didn’t take women to the ranch. Not the women he dated casually. Only someone he was serious about belonged at Ronan Ranch. And Kim had already made her thoughts about ranches very clear.

So, it wasn’t a surprise when she shook her head. “Me at a ranch? I don’t think so.”

He should be relieved rather than disappointed and ticked off. He definitely shouldn’t say, “You didn’t see yourself at a rodeo either, but you had fun.” All the same, that’s what came out of his mouth. He followed it up with, “I promise I won’t tie you up and make you live there. It’s just one visit.”

She bit her pretty bottom lip, which already looked swollen from his kisses. “It would be interesting to see a ranch before I go home.”

If she came, he’d try to keep her out of his mom’s way. Betty Ronan was bound to read more into it than he and Kim intended. Or would she? He took another look at his Asian lover, her petite body smeared with paint, her hair even punkier than usual. It was pretty unlikely his mom would think he saw Kim as wife material. “Come out Saturday afternoon and stay the night,” he suggested. “If you’re worried about finding the place, I could pick you up and drive you back.”

“You figure I’ll get lost in the wilds of the Fraser Valley, halfway to Hope? I’m sure I can find my way. But I thought you had all that work to do.”

“I’ll get up extra early. Besides, the ranch’ll survive if I goof off a little.” He headed for the shower. Was this a stupid idea? Kim might be bored out of her mind, hate the ranch, decide he was a country hick—which he pretty much was—and dump him flat. But it was done now. No point in second thoughts.

He washed quickly, dried off on a towel that was more the size of her body than his, and went to get dressed.

She was in bed, the top sheet tucked across her breasts. A demure pose, but the wild hair and colored streaks across her cheeks sent the opposite message.

“The shower’s yours.”

“I’m going to stay like this for the night.” Her dark eyes gleamed with humor. “I like being a dirty girl.”

He chuckled. “Dirty girl, painted woman—yeah, the look suits you. But maybe you should wash before you come out to the ranch, or you might scare the horses.”

She flung a pillow at him and he ducked.

* * *

S
care the horses, Kim mused as she headed the iCar smart car out of the city. Hopefully, they wouldn’t run for their lives when they saw her.

She refused to follow Marielle’s example and dress all cowgirl, pretending to be something she had no desire to be. But she had toned things down a little. She wore her most casual jeans—no rhinestones or embroidery. Her silk-screened tee was fairly conservative—shades of purplish blue with subtle orange and black highlights, based on the Eastern Tailed Blue butterfly. She’d debated leaving her hair unstreaked, but black hair was so boring. Ever since she’d come to Vancouver, she’d been adding whimsical color to her hair. When she moved back in with her parents, she’d have to be more conservative with her appearance, but not a moment earlier. In fact, she’d taken inspiration from last night’s unplanned color job and now sported both blue and mauve streaks. Still, they were more subtle than usual, and she’d chosen delicate violet on her nails rather than the more flashy cerulean blue that decorated her toes inside her sneakers.

As she drove under a clear blue sky, she wondered for the millionth time why Ty had invited her and why she’d accepted. They had great sex. Incredible sex. He was her sexual muse, awakening her curiosity and creativity. She could handle lots more of that, if he was interested, in the weeks before she went back to Hong Kong.

But inviting her to the ranch . . . It was like inviting her into his life.

Hmm
.
At dinner yesterday, she’d made it clear that a sober Kim wouldn’t leap into bed with a stranger. She’d wanted to talk, wanted them to get to know each other, and they had. Maybe today was something similar, his way of reassuring her that he was a decent, trustworthy guy as well as being a sex god.