After Penny had dropped her off, Eliza picked up Tyler’s business card from the nightstand. It read, Chase Woodcock, Entertainer, LA Studs. She snorted at his stage name and flipped the card over. On the back he had written his personal phone number and the message, For Eliza. From Tyler. Remember.
As if she would ever forget.
COWBOY DOWNTIME
Cheyenne Blue
He was leaning against the fence watching as she led her mare out of the float.
Mel’s skin prickled into awareness, every nerve fired up by his presence. Ignoring him, she tied Minty to the rail and clomped back up the ramp to get her grooming kit. When she returned, he was standing with one hand on her horse’s neck, his hard-muscled body relaxed and at ease.
Mel grabbed the dandy brush and advanced on her horse.
Jack’s hand dropped, but he didn’t move.
“Excuse me,” she clipped.
His lazy smile stretched wide. “Don’t let me get in your way.”
“Then shift your arse.”
He moved fractionally, but remained close enough that she fancied she could feel the heat emanating from his broad chest.
Mel concentrated on her horse, hissing softly through her teeth, although it was more to soothe her own twitching nerves than for Minty.
“Ready for the game?” Jack asked, seemingly unconcerned by her prickly attitude. “Ready for a thrashing?”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” she flung back, goaded by his words. “We beat you fair and square last time. Guess we had the better attack. What was the score again? Oh yeah, fifteen to twelve.”
Methodically, she worked down Minty’s forelegs, removing the dust of the journey.
“Remains to be seen if you’ll be better this time.”
“I’ll always beat you, Jack Mitchell,” she said. “As long as polocrosse is played on this field, as long as Minty’s in good health, as long as I have hands to hold stick and reins, you haven’t a hope.”
“You always put up a good fight,” he agreed. “Such skillful resistance when a lesser player would fold.”
“I enjoy our battles. I plan to always come out on top.”
He moved closer, into her space, and dipped his head toward her ear. Hot breath puffed on her neck. “Do you like being on top, Mel? I’d let you, y’know. You could be on top and ride me until we were both spent.”
Her eyes closed momentarily in delight. It was so easy to bait him, so easy to taunt and flirt and ensnare him with double entendre until he had to walk away, hobbled by his own hard-on. She’d seen it before, a huge ridge filling his jeans.
“How presumptuous of you to assume you’ll ever get to see me naked.”
He chortled and instantly she realized her mistake.
“Who said anything about naked? I’m talking about polocrosse. But if you want naked, you only have to ask.”
“I’ve never thought of you naked,” she lied. “As for polocrosse, we’ll never know who’ll come out on top if we go one to one, so long as we both play attack.”
In polocrosse, each chukka was played by three players: attack, center and defense. The attack and the opposing defense were the only players allowed in the goal-scoring area, as they jostled for the upper hand, and a chance to snare the ball and shoot for goal or to flick it away to safety.
He put some distance between them, enough that she could see the glitter in his blue eyes. “Which is why I’m playing defense this game. I’ll be playing opposite you.”
Her eyes widened in anticipation. Now this could be interesting. Jack pushing close, leaning in to snare an errant ball. The shoving, the aggression, the sweat. The adrenaline, the arousal. It was all there in a good game of polocrosse, where an eight-minute chukka could feel like forever.
“Bring your best game,” she said, and resumed her work with the dandy brush.
“I will. Want to make this extra interesting? Put some stakes on the outcome?”
“Sure. If I score more than ten goals, it’s your shout in the bar. The entire bar.”
“I was thinking higher than that.” His voice tickled down her spine, low, quiet. Dangerous. “Cowboy downtime.”
Cowboy downtime. Apart from polocrosse, there were few distractions in outback Queensland. Cards. Beer. Sleep. But traditional cowboy downtime usually involved the three Fs: flirting, fighting, fucking. Mel had no doubt as to what Jack had in mind.
“Poker?” she stalled, as her mind raced to come up with an answer. “The only time we played, I left you in your jocks.” A sight she had never forgotten. Jack’s hard chest, golden and hairless, muscled legs, and bright blue underpants stretched tight over his erection.
“I wasn’t thinking of cards.”
A hundred blowflies buzzed in her stomach. Here it was: the proposition she’d been angling for, for weeks now. Was she ready to pay up?
Hell, yeah.
She dropped the brush at Minty’s feet, and paced forward, into his space. Grasping his shirt collar she pulled his head down to hers and slanted her mouth firmly over his. Her tongue pushed between his lips for a brief moment, tasting, dancing around his tongue before retreating. Her lips tingled and the taste of him was so overwhelming that it was a moment before she could catch breath enough to form words.
“Then I guess it’s fucking.” She licked her lips, cocked her head and gave him a hard, level stare. “If I score ten goals, you’re mine tonight to do whatever I want with. Less than that, I’m yours. Deal?”
His hand curved possessively around her butt as he pulled her toward him. “Deal. Better buy a sheepskin for your saddle, Mel, ’cause you’ll be sitting tender for a week.”
“Better wear old clothes and bring your mop and bucket,” she retorted. “I’ve got a very dirty house.”
His chuckle drifted back to her as he sauntered off, treating her to the sight of his backside in those tight, tight denims.
The game started at two. Time enough for Mel to gulp a coffee and force down a sausage from the Lions Club barbeque. Jack was bigger than her, as was his mount, but size wasn’t everything—at least not in polocrosse, she acknowledged with an inner chortle. Ten goals was high, but certainly not impossible; she’d scored more than that in the past—but Jack was an unknown quantity playing defense. She finished tacking up Minty with the low-pommeled English saddle and protective boots, mounted and went to join her teammates.
Jack’s team was warming up on the far side of the field, tossing the ball back and forth. Clouds of red dust churned by the horses’ galloping feet hung over the field, but she could still make out Jack, sitting easily on his chestnut mare, shifting his weight as the mare twisted and turned around the field.
Anticipation tingled low in her belly. Regardless of the outcome of the game, tonight would bring an explosive resolution to the long-simmering flirtation between her and Jack. She’d known for a long time they’d end up in bed, with nothing but skin between them. Their flirtation had been drawing closer to the pinnacle, the point where one of them had to give and make the first move. Anticipation prolonged the pleasure, but it was time for the conclusion.
The first chukka was slow. Players alternated chukkas, and as their best attack, Mel played the second, fourth and sixth chukkas. Dan, who played attack in the other section, did well, and at the end of the chukka their team, the Blue Flyers, had a three-to-one lead. But only her goals counted toward their bet.
She knew from the first line up it was going to be difficult. Jack stuck to her like a shadow, and his mare seemed welded to Minty’s shoulder. Every twist and turn, every duck and weave, he was still there. She managed a break and streaked across the field, catching the ball in her net from their center. She was just outside the goal-scoring area, so she flicked it back and positioned herself inside, Jack’s mare mere inches away. Dust hung over them in a pall from the horses’ churning hooves. She dropped her weight to the right, but then pulled Minty hard to the left, and gained enough space to scoop the bounced ball fl
icked to her. Two fast strides and she shot for goal. The ball bulleted through the posts. One down.
Mel ignored Jack as they cantered back to the center. The game moved quickly. Two, three goals, then Jack’s team scored one. One minute to go. She snared the ball, Minty wheeled, and Mel leaned forward urging her on. Jack was on her off side and his stick banged up against hers. Dislodged from the net, the ball spilled to the ground, but before Jack could scoop it up, Minty dropped her hindquarters and propped. Mel retrieved the ball and before Jack could stop his forward charge, she’d swung around and shot for goal. Four goals.
The chukka ended and she drew as deep a breath as she could over the pounding of her heart. Four out of ten. Not as many as she’d hoped. Jack urged his mare up alongside her.
“Worried, Mel?” His deep voice caressed her ears. “Wondering what you’ll have to do tonight? How many times I’ll take you?”
She peeled away from him, back to her teammates. “No,” she shot back over her shoulder. “I’m going to win.”
At the start of the sixth and final chukka, the game hung in the balance. Scores were tied. She took to the field to the cheers of her teammates and applause from the smattering of spectators lining the rail. For a moment she let herself soak up the atmosphere she loved: heat, dust and the dry and drooping landscape of outback Queensland. Horse sweat and leather.
Her inattention cost her, and her team was swiftly down two goals. “Get yer arse in gear, Mel!” yelled Dan from the railings, and she focused tight, caught the ball just inside the goal-scoring area. Two strides and she shot for goal. Seven down. Three to go.
The next couple of minutes passed in a blur. She scored again, and with a minute to go scored a lucky goal that just rolled through.
Her team was winning, but that wasn’t what mattered to Mel. One more goal and a minute to do it. She gritted her teeth. Jack caught the ball, but she came up tight on his off shoulder and her stick crashed into his, freeing the ball. She scrambled for it, and scooped it up. Minty flattened her ears, her neck and shoulders wet with sweat, and galloped toward goal. Mel twisted, trying to get a clear shot, but Jack was with her, his mare matching every twist and turn with uncanny ability. There were seconds to go.
Mel raised the net, but Jack’s mare dropped her shoulder and the horses crashed together. Off balance, Minty stumbled. Mel sat still, letting her regain her footing, but Jack was close, his thigh pushing into her own, their stirrup irons slamming together. Dust blinded her, as Jack’s mare shoved Minty around, away from goal. Jack reached behind, trying to block her shot, but there was no need. His mare continued to shove, and Minty was forced off.
The game ended before the throw in could be taken. He came up alongside and grinned at her from under his helmet. “Good effort, darling. Nine goals. But not good enough. You’re mine.”
She shivered at his words, at the low, caressing tone, and at the way his eyes swept up her body to settle on her face. She pushed a sweaty tendril of her from her cheek. “A bet’s a bet, Jack. I won’t renege.”
Turning, she headed for her float and set about unsaddling Minty and hosing her down to a chorus of shouted commiserations and good-natured insults from her teammates. When Minty was settled with a hay net, Mel went over to the makeshift counter that served as a bar on game days. She accepted a cold tinnie, but passed up on food; her churning stomach wouldn’t allow her to eat. She knew the second Jack arrived to join the gathering. His broad-shouldered body drew her gaze as he took a beer and joined his teammates in a toast.
The beer lay sour in her stomach. Mel tipped it onto the brown grass and continued to circulate with an empty tinnie in her hand, pasting a fake smile on her face, wondering when Jack would come to claim her.
It was an hour later, when people were starting to drift away, back to stations and communities that were a couple of hours’ drive away, that Jack approached her group, and his hand slid around Mel’s waist.
“Time to go.”
His arm lay hot around her waist, each fingerprint scorching her through her shirt. Sliding from his grasp, she said her farewells. Jack loped along at her side and the air between them crackled with tension.
“Where are we going?” she asked, more to break the silence than from a need to know. “I have to take Minty home first.”
“My place. Minty can come along. There’s a stall for her, or you can turn her out in the paddock with the others.”
“You were that confident you’d win?” She knew she sounded petulant, but his casual assumption annoyed her.
They reached her float, where Minty lipped at fallen strands of hay.
Jack grabbed her arm and pushed her so they were hidden from passersby. The slats of the float pressed hard against her spine. Jack’s hands palmed her hips, and he pushed his lower body against her.
His bulk loomed, but his touch was gentle as he tucked an errant curl of hair behind her ear. “Not confidence, Mel. Just cautious optimism. I was hoping.”
His voice was low, smooth and almost tender, different from his normal bantering tone. He moved closer, and the sudden tightness in her chest made her breathe in shallow pants.
His lips moved closer, hovered over her own. “A little something on account…”
And then he was kissing her, and she knew she was lost. His lips teased, tormented, fine lips, surprisingly soft, surprisingly gentle. Her pulse thundered in her ears and her breasts were suddenly uncomfortable, hard and aching, as they pushed against his chest. His kiss went on, past the point where she had breath of her own, past the point where she knew where she ended and he began. She was liquid heat and light, weak with wanting him.
He drew away slowly, returned to taste her once more and then withdrew again. When she opened her eyes his face filled her vision. He was smiling.
When she could trust her voice she said, “And that’s just a kiss. What will happen when we fuck?”
He grinned in delight at her words. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”
“What, ‘fuck’?”
“No. For you to admit that we will.”
She hooted. “I never thought you’d want to do otherwise with your bet. Are you going to tell me you want to spend the night knitting tea cozies?”
“You’ll find out very soon what I want to do. But now we head home.”
She followed him along dirt roads, through open range where cattle grazed, past dams ablaze with pink and gray galahs and flocks of sulphur-crested cockatoos. The sun hung low in the west, its clear light spilling over the flat landscape. They reached Bundawalla Station and Jack drew to a halt at the yards. The next twenty minutes were spent seeing to the horses.
Mel lingered, watching Minty roll in the dust. The heat of the day was fading to a comfortable warmth and the early stars were out. Cicadas filled the night with sound.
When she turned from the railing, Jack took her hand without a word, and led her toward the manager’s house. The wide wraparound verandah of the old Queenslander was worn smooth, but swept clean. There was a couch on the side facing north, and a blind pulled half down to deflect the heat.
“Beer?”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “We both know what we’re here for, and it isn’t beer.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m without courtesy.”
She turned to face him, and her fingers drifted to the waist of his dusty jeans. Her blood thrummed, pulsing in heated beats, energizing her. “I’m more interested in seeing what else you can do.”
His thumb brushed briefly over her lips and then traced a lazy path down her neck to where her pulse skittered. “I don’t think you’ll have any complaints.” His fingers pushed into the neck of her shirt, spreading over her collarbone, drumming lightly. “You’re overdressed.”
She took the hint, and her fingers moved to the buttons of her shirt.
But he grasped them, stilled the movement. “No, darling. This will be my pleasure.” He slipped the buttons, so slowly, so carefully th
at his fingertips didn’t graze her skin. When the shirt hung loose, he pushed it from her shoulders, and as his fingers trailed down her back she felt the catch of her bra loosen.
His eyes were dark and mysterious in the starlight. She toed off her boots, and then his fingers were at the waist of her jeans, unsnapping, unzipping, pushing them down over her hips with her panties. The dreamy lethargy of earlier was gone, and she tore at his clothes, fired up with lust and the need to feel him. The drumming in her head was a heated urgency, it pounded like the blood in her veins, it burned like the feel of his fingertips on her skin.
She bent and kicked her jeans away, impatient as they tangled and bunched. Jack threw his shirt down and discarded his own clothes, so that they lay in a tangled heap on the timber. “Can’t wait, Mel, not anymore.”
“Then don’t,” she replied, and pressed her naked body against his, skin to skin for the first time, chest to breast, thigh to thigh, his cock rising hard and proud between them.
He twitched at something hanging on the back of the couch. A sleeping bag, she realized, as he broke away from her to throw it to the floor, spreading it over their clothes. He drew her down, down to the soft cotton on sun-warmed timber, and his mouth was on hers and his body over hers.
She thrilled with the feel of him, with the urgency of it all, and the overwhelming need to feel him inside her. His cock bumped her thigh, and she raised her legs, cradled him with her hips, urging him on.
“Can’t wait,” he gasped again. “Foreplay—”
“We’ve been foreplaying all day,” she said. “I want you now.” Impatience surged within her. She didn’t want subtle or delicate, or long and slow; she wanted fast and hard; she wanted to be filled, to know his solidity within her. She wanted to be fucked.
He changed the angle of his body, and his cock nudged her folds. She canted her hips toward him and he slid inside with one smooth movement. Mel arched her back, clenched down. The feeling of fullness, the fat slide of him inside was enough to send frissons of pleasure deep into her belly.
She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensation as he started to advance and retreat. His hips were solid between her thighs. She dug her fingers into his buttocks, urging him on. His face pressed against the crook of her neck, his breath hot and urgent on her skin. She wanted his finger on her clit because it wasn’t enough with him inside her. And then he raised up on his hands, and suddenly it was enough, and he was hot and hard, moving hard and fast, and spirals of light danced behind her closed eyelids.
Cowboy Heat Page 4
