A True Cowboy Christmas

by Caitlin Crews

  She’d imagined every variation from the secure position of her feet firmly on the ground because no one was likely to fling a girl like Abby aloft and tote her about like a trophy. That was for pretty girls. She’d accepted that long, long ago.

  So she hadn’t been prepared to be lifted up at all. And she certainly hadn’t been ready for how little she felt like squealing or carrying on or offering a token show of half-hearted resistance.

  Because there was nothing funny about being lifted up in Gray’s arms so easily.

  It felt like a kind of homecoming. It felt like the kind of marriage they weren’t supposed to be having.

  And worse than that, it had made her feel even more terrible about the glaring secret she was hoarding inside of her. That was the question she should have asked her friends downstairs. Was it worse to tell a man up front that he’d married the last true spinster of the American West? Or was it worse to brazen it out and hope he wouldn’t notice?

  Men were notoriously unobservant. Or so Abby had been repeatedly informed by every form of popular entertainment available and most of the women she knew.

  Still, she’d made her choice. And instantly regretted it.

  Except now … Gray was kissing her.

  Kissing her again and again as he stood there between her legs. Kissing her until the slide of his tongue against hers was another vow. Slow and luxurious, as if that was all he planned to do. Ever. As if the fact they were alone in this hotel suite was neither here nor there. He angled his head one way, slowly, then the other, trying out the best fit.

  She mimicked him. Then, as she grew confident, she matched him.

  She was vaguely aware when he shrugged out of his jacket, but she didn’t hear it hit the floor. And she didn’t care. He straightened, taking his mouth away from her and grinning when she made a small sound of protest.

  “Patience,” he said gruffly.

  I’ve been patient my whole life, Abby thought.

  Then realized she’d said it out loud when that curve in the corner of his hard, delicious mouth kicked up.

  “Be more patient.”

  He kicked off his boots, then he crawled onto the bed, hooking her beneath her arms and carrying her with him as he went. Once again displaying so much easy, thoughtless strength that Abby was tempted to imagine she was someone else. Someone darling and tiny and effortlessly charming. Someone pretty and light and airy.

  Someone worthy of a man like this.

  But then they were stretched out in the middle of the bed, and there was no time to think about pretty or worthy or anything but the man there above her, blocking out the light. Gray was holding himself up on one elbow, so he was angled over her. Not pressing her into the bed, or not entirely.

  It was better than the very wildest of her dreams.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” His tone of easy command made the trembling thing deep inside her settle. “You don’t have to worry about anything. You can touch me as much or as little as you want, and I’ll do the same. All you have to think about is whether or not you like something. If you don’t, say so. Does that work?”

  She frowned at him. “Aren’t we supposed to have a serious conversation about birth control?”

  His eyes crinkled in the corners, and she felt it, everywhere. Like lightning, bolt after bolt until she was electric.

  “Sure,” he said, and he was close enough—he was touching her—and she could feel the rumble of his voice as well as hear it. It felt like magic. “But you told me that you were a virgin, so I’m guessing that means you’re clean. And I told you I haven’t had sex in ten years, which means I’m pretty clean too. So that’s covered.”

  He started to trace a pattern along her jaw with the tip of one finger. It was distracting. It was a lick of flame and a roll of thunder, tumbling through her and pooling in the most wonderful places. Her breasts felt heavy. Between her legs, she melted.

  Gray didn’t stop at her jaw. He kept going, just the faintest touch of his finger, making his way down her neck and then along her collarbone. Then lower still. “And I already told you I want more kids. The question is if you do, the way you said you did.”

  They had talked about children on the phone, in even more detail than that first day in the farmhouse when Abby hadn’t believed this would ever really happen. In a sort of someday I’d like some way.

  But maybe this was someday. They’d just gotten married. Abby was already thirty. When she’d imagined what her life would look like, she’d expected to have kids by now. More than one. More than two, even. She could wait longer, of course. But why?

  She already felt as if she’d been waiting forever.

  Because she had been.

  “I do,” she whispered. “I do want kids.”

  Your kids, she thought, and that time she didn’t accidentally say it out loud.

  She told herself it was practical. That people entered into marriages like this one all the time, for exactly these reasons. Companionship. Shared goals. Babies. A life.

  But when Gray’s dark green eyes gleamed with approval, and something infinitely hotter, she knew there was absolutely nothing practical about the way she wanted to carry this man’s child.

  Or anything else.

  The fire in her was too hot. Her need for him was too great.

  And still his hand moved in that lazy trail, winding its way down her body as if he didn’t know he was touching her.

  As if he had no idea the storm he was stirring up within her when his fingers skirted her breasts and found a pattern to follow across her belly. Her dress felt insubstantial one moment and like a prison the next.

  She found herself shifting from side to side. Lifting her hips, as if she could catch his hand.

  There was a desperation building inside of her, thick and insistent.

  Gray watched her as if he’d never seen anything so fascinating, a glint in his dark green eyes that made everything in her pull tight.

  Then he set his mouth to hers once again.

  And Abby … lost herself.

  There was the way he kissed her, each slide of his mouth against hers more drugging than the last. There was the taste of him, rich and heady, that made her feel drunk.

  He was so big, and he was pressed against her. And the more they kissed, and the more she shifted, the more he moved until he was on top of her.

  God help her, he was on top of her.

  She might have died from the sheer, unmanageable beauty of it when he held himself there, his lower body pressed to hers, and the thick, unmistakable ridge of his arousal jutting into her. Maybe she did.

  She felt shivery and silvery at once. She felt fragile and vulnerable, vast and unstoppable.

  Abby hardly knew who she was.

  He used his hard, callused palms against her, holding them over her breasts until her nipples stood at attention. Then he moved them in slow, heated circles until she was arching her back to meet him.

  All the while he kissed her. He played with her. She moved her hips against him, and he rode her until she was whimpering there beneath him, and desperate. Wild. Outside her head and yet entirely in her body and the things he was making her feel.

  She hardly knew what she was doing when she reached for the waistband of his jeans, then tugged at his shirt.

  But she sighed in satisfaction when she pulled it out, then slid her hands onto the bare skin of his abdomen at last.

  It was better than she’d imagined, and she’d imagined it often and intensely. He was hot, smooth in some places and dusted with hair in others. Abby found herself breathing hard, as if she was running when she was definitely not running.

  She fumbled with his buttons, pulling them apart, and baring the wonder of Gray’s naked chest to her hungry eyes at last.

  He was perfect.

  He was even more perfect than that one time she and her friends had tracked him down on a bright May afternoon out there in the fields, shirtless in the sunshine.
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br />   He outdid any dream she’d ever had of him, and that hardly seemed possible, given the dreams she’d had about him. But she could move her head and lick her way across him. She could taste him, she could feel him pressed so heavily against her, and she wanted to slow down every sensation so she could drown herself in it. While at the same time, she wanted more. She wanted faster. She wanted everything.

  He muttered something she didn’t catch, but she didn’t care. There was that breathtaking hardness between her legs, and it was a wonder. She rocked herself against him and moaned when he pulled the top of her dress down so he could find her breasts again. But this time, with his mouth.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for Gray’s mouth opening over her nipple. Then sucking, with enough pressure to make her head rock back against the pillows.

  And everything in her tightened.

  Everything.

  “Keep going,” he said, and she didn’t understand.

  But then she did. The more she rocked herself against him, the more wonderful everything felt. She thought, this is how it happens.

  This was how it was going to happen. Her first orgasm with another person.

  Maybe it was thinking about it that threw her toward that edge. Maybe it was the way he hummed as he tasted one breast, then moved to the other.

  But when it hit her, it hit hard.

  She didn’t know if she was crying or laughing. She shook and she shook, she wanted to go on forever, and she worried it might tear her apart.

  When she was done, he was still there over her, that handsome face of his almost severe, though his dark green eyes glittered bright and hot.

  “Do you want more?” he asked, and his voice was nothing but a delicious scrape that seemed to track its way down her body.

  She couldn’t speak. She only nodded, amazed that she was even capable of that.

  And astounded that there could be more when that had been … everything.

  Gray’s hard mouth curved, and it was like getting walloped with heat all over again.

  He was connected to her somehow, as if the curve of his mouth cut deep between her legs, and she loved it.

  He shifted, stroking his hands down to where her legs were splayed wide open, and then tugging.

  She wanted to help him, she did. She prided herself on being helpful and hadn’t she married him to be useful? But she couldn’t seem to move, and she knew he understood that when he laughed.

  He kept tugging, until she realized he was pulling the skirt of her dress up to pool around her hips.

  She couldn’t think about what was happening then. That she was exposed. Open to his gaze, with only the panties she wore between them.

  But then he was tugging them off too. She was limp as he moved her where he wanted her, pulling the panties down one leg and then the other, and then tossing them aside.

  He left her for a moment and Abby felt she ought to protest that, but when he came back again, everything was better and she didn’t feel like protesting anyway. Because Gray was naked. And then, better yet, he pulled her up so she was sitting, and yanked her dress up and over her head. Then reached around, his fingers lighting fires wherever they touched her skin, to unhook her bra.

  He made a low, very male noise that she knew was approval, even though she’d never heard it before.

  And that, too, washed over her, a shower of flame and need.

  Gray stretched out beside her again, and this time when his hand tracked its way down the length of her body, he didn’t stop where the top band of her panties had been.

  He went lower, and Abby wondered if she ought to be embarrassed by how wet she was. How open and needy. That couldn’t be right, surely.

  “Don’t close your legs,” he told her.

  She was burning up; she was blushing so hard and deep. It was all over her body, so intense she was sure she must have turned the color of strawberries.

  But if she had, he didn’t comment on it.

  He was too busy drawing shapes through all the wetness he’d found. He stroked his way through her folds, as if he wanted nothing more than to play with her all day. She hardly knew which sensation was the most intense. All she knew was that soon enough, she was lifting her hips to him again. She was rocking herself against his hands.

  She shuddered all over when he used his finger to find his way inside her.

  He tested her, then he stroked her. He seemed to do that for a long, long time, while she rocked against him and made herself go crazy with the feel of it. He tested that part of her where no one had ever gone. One finger, then two.

  And when she was moaning because everything felt great, he looked up at her, grinned with a deep kind of satisfaction that made everything burn at the edges, and did something impossible with a twist of his hand.

  Just like that, she was shaking and shuddering all over again, bucking up against him with her head thrown back.

  As she shook, Gray moved on top of her and settled himself between her legs again, this time with no clothes between them.

  Then he was stroking his way through all that melting with something broader and heavier than his fingers.

  She knew what it was. Of course she knew.

  Abby was so busy picturing it that the only thing she could do was buck against him, shattering all the more.

  He reached down between them and wrapped his hand around himself.

  Then she felt the pressure, pressing where his fingers had been.

  Gray pushed inside her, but he did it slowly. So slowly, she felt stretched wide open. There was a kind of heaviness, but right when it should have tipped over into pain, it dissipated. And he knew that too, because that was when he pushed again. Slow, steady, as if he was prepared for it to take all night.

  But Abby wasn’t the only one shaking when he was finally settled deep inside of her.

  Inside of her.

  Gray Everett was inside of her.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, low and lazy, his voice another caress over her heated skin.

  He pulled out then, even as he settled himself more firmly against her. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and his elbows were on either side of her head. He tipped her face back with his hands, letting his thumbs move on her jaw as he set his mouth to hers.

  Then he was inside her in two ways, and Abby could hardly handle it. It was too much. He was too much. Gray kissed her deeply, ravenously. His tongue stroked hers while below, he pulled himself out of her, then thrust himself back in.

  It was all impossible. Too greedy, too hot.

  Too real.

  Flesh against flesh. He tasted of salt and something she knew was all man. All him. She could hear the sounds their bodies made. She could feel how hard his heart beat in his chest.

  And most of all, she could feel him deep inside of her.

  She lost herself in the rhythm. For a long while, the rhythm was the world.

  Until there came a point where she could no longer kiss him because she had to tip her head back to gasp for air. She had to wrap her arms around him and dig her fingers into the smooth, rippling muscles of his back.

  He dropped his head down into the crook of her neck, and she could feel his breath there in the hot crease where her shoulder met her neck.

  She didn’t know how she could handle it. How she could survive it.

  He thrust inside her, deeper and then deeper still. He moved faster, and she did too, finding a way to meet him. Finding a way to rock her hips against him to feel even more. To go deeper. Harder. Further into that liquid, impossible thing they were making between them.

  When it happened again, she knew what it was. She gripped him, and she arched herself against him. She felt herself fly apart as if there had never been anything holding her together in the first place.

  But this time, he groaned out her name, and then she felt him jerk inside of her. The same kind of shuddering moved
over him, as if they had always been made to match each other this way.

  As if this was all meant to be. As if they were.

  And as he came down over her, a delicious weight pressing her into the bed like glory and joy, Abby shut her eyes. She tucked her head against his chest, breathed him in, and just for a second—just for tonight—let herself believe it.

  14

  The days grew even colder, harsh and raw. Snow hit hard, covering the mountains and blanketing the fields. The dark seemed to take over the world, leaving only the sparkling Christmas lights in town to stand proud against the night.

  It was December in Cold River, and Abby was married.

  To Gray Everett.

  The simple truth of that threw more light everywhere, inside and out, than she knew what to do with. She was married. She loved him the way she always had, and maybe more now. Because now she got to live with him, share his bed, be a part of his life … all things she wished she could go back in time and tell her distraught teenage self would happen one day if she was prepared to wait.

  No wonder Abby felt like her own set of Christmas lights, wrapped tight around the heart inside her chest, blazing out all that love and heat she’d only ever wanted to give the man who’d become her husband.

  Her husband.

  “Do you think we can decorate the house?” Becca asked, snapping Abby out of her daydreaming and back into the car she was driving home from town that chilly evening.

  Becca sat in Abby’s passenger seat, her gaze out on the twisting road that danced in the gleam of the car’s headlights. Where Abby’s attention should have been.

  “I don’t see why not,” she said, with more intensity than necessary to make up for letting her mind wander when surely she should have been focusing on something suitably stepmothery instead.

  “I’ve always wanted to do real decorations,” Becca continued, a dreamy sort of note in her voice. “On the front of the house and maybe the barn too. Wouldn’t that be pretty?”