We made love one last time late that evening before I returned to Austin. I completed the assignment a few days after I returned home and mailed Jason a copy of the magazine when it was published two months later.
But the best photographs I’d taken on assignment weren’t the ones in the magazine; they were the photographs I’d taken of Jason rising nude from the stock pond. I made a print of the best one and hung it in my bedroom so that I could see my cowboy Adonis every night before I fell asleep and every morning when I awoke, and I hung the sweat-stained gimme cap next to it.
Now that I’d had a cowboy, no city boy would ever be man enough for me, and I vowed to return to the Bar-B-Dahl Ranch where I knew Jason was awaiting my return.
He’d even promised to take me swimming in the stock pond.
DENIM AND LACE
Robie Madison
Your handsome-as-sin cowboy is staring at you again.”
Luella Jean’s deadpan drawl was barely audible above the raucous noise inside the Hold ’Em Tight Saloon, but Margot Goodwin heard her cousin just fine, thank you, as the band struck up yet another depressing love ’em and lose ’em Country and Western song.
Margot took a slug straight from her beer bottle in the desperate hope it might numb her senses. Which she’d apparently lost the moment she’d stepped onto Texas soil. The offer of a free beer at the bar her cousin worked at wasn’t worth being subjected to a night of torturous tunes about love gone wrong.
“He’s not my cowboy,” she said, because if he liked this music he was definitely not the man for her. Whatever happened to the idea of love gone right?
“Yet,” Luella Jean murmured. “But I think that’s about to change.”
And Margot couldn’t help herself. She stole a glance past her cousin’s shoulder into the mirror behind the bar. She didn’t have to ask which cowboy Luella Jean thought was hers. He was already on his feet, scrubbing his hands across his jeans and, with one last look at his friends, sauntering toward her.
Even Margot, down on men as she was, had to admit he was quite a specimen. Topping six feet, his sandy hair could have used a cut, and he was way too young. Feeling all of her twenty-seven years, she downed another mouthful of beer—a beverage she was fairly certain the boy heading toward her wasn’t legally allowed to imbibe.
“Don’t you have thirsty customers to serve?” she asked when Luella Jean stood there with a front row seat for the coming show.
Her cousin made a pretense of wiping down the bar with the cloth in her hand. “Play nice now, you hear?” she said and was gone.
Margot drew a deep, calming breath. He was going to ask her to dance, and Margot had her answer all planned out. A polite, but firm, no thanks.
She wasn’t prepared for his voice, deep, full of Southern comfort—and confidence. She’d give him that. He held out his hand in invitation. It was large and calloused and without really knowing why, she hesitated.
Uh-huh, like she could fool herself. From his size-extra-big cowboy boots on up, he was a long, lean temptation in denim, pure and simple.
Still, that was no excuse to rob the cradle, even if she did appreciate all those gorgeously sculpted muscles just begging to be caressed beneath the washed-out blue. Then she made the mistake of looking at his face. His eyes were a really warm shade of brown and filled with the certainty she was going to turn him down.
She tipped the beer bottle back for one last drink and from beneath her eyelashes she watched as his gaze slid down her exposed throat to the cluster of silver hearts hanging from a chain around her neck.
The fact he actually smiled, and that he didn’t glance any lower, decided his fate. She plunked the bottle onto the bar and set her hand in his.
What was the harm in indulging in one flirtation-filled dance with a hot, young stud? A tendril of heat skittered along her arm as she allowed him to pull her onto the dance floor.
The song changed to something more up-tempo, and she lost herself in the music and the moves.
The cowboy could dance; she’d give him that, too. Then he swung her out and twirled her around once, twice, three times before tugging her just hard enough that she smacked against his deliciously solid torso when he reeled her in. The muscles in his arm shifted and tightened as he slid it round her waist, crushing her to his chest, surrounding her with his masculine heat. A sizable erection nudged her belly.
Whoa, there cowboy. Her breath caught. They’d finished their dance, but it seemed he wasn’t willing to let her go just yet.
“I take it you’re happy to see me,” she said, teasing him just a little because she hadn’t pushed away from his embrace. His hold was sturdy and oddly protective given all the electrical impulses zinging between them.
A blush stained his face, but he looked her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”
At that she had to laugh. “Seriously, you’re calling a woman you have a hard-on for ma’am?”
“Yes, ma—” He shut his mouth and nodded.
“Maggie,” she said, which wasn’t exactly a lie, but an old nickname. “Maggie Smith.” And, okay, that last part was a total fabrication.
“Ben,” he said and glanced past her head at his cowboy buddies still sitting around the table before he looked at her again.
For a long moment, he just stood there looking and swaying. Not even bothering to dance anymore, which actually showed some taste since the band was playing another melancholy melody. But beneath her hand, his heart hammered double-time against his rib cage.
She licked her lips, suddenly parched. When his gaze tracked the movement, her heart kicked up a notch.
Uh-huh, like her heart racing at Indianapolis 500 speeds had nothing to do with the lazy path his fingers were making up and down her side, turning her core to molten lava. God, one dance and a few caresses and her panties were already soaked.
“Maggie.”
She blinked up through a decidedly sensual fog and smiled.
If anything the flush deepened along his cheeks. To hide his embarrassment, he bent his head and nuzzled her hair. He swore a soft “Damn it all, anyway,” but then he lifted his head, took another quick glance at his friends and then down at her.
He cleared his throat. “I can’t afford you, but I gotta ask.”
Whoa, cowboy. Margot’s eyebrows shot up. He thought she was hooker?
She tried to grab hold of her common sense, but got a fistful of buttery, soft shirt instead, which maybe explained why she wasn’t so much offended as curious. For details. From a purely academic point of view, of course.
“Just how old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty,” he said, then paused and added, “next month.”
Fact one, he was nineteen. Fact two—
“Just how much can you afford?”
“A hundred bucks,” he said grimacing as though the amount might be a giant insult.
Well, the good news was, if she took the job she could buy that new pair of jeans she had her eye on. Only there was the little matter of fact number three. The small fortune she’d spent acquiring two degrees in mathematics attested to her aptitude with numbers, and frankly something didn’t add up. What horny, nineteen-year-old cowboy, especially a tall, good-looking one, paid for sex?
“And how did you and your friends figure out I was, ah, looking to make a hundred bucks tonight?”
It had to be the shirt. Luella Jean had insisted Margot borrow one of hers, to be authentic and all, but then her cousin didn’t have a size-C cup. A substantial amount of black lace was on display because the damn thing barely buttoned up past her naval.
“Your shoes,” he said. “They’re real—I like them. A lot, but Shane said they meant you were a high class—” He cleared his throat. “He said you were way out of my league and that I couldn’t afford a dance let alone a…a… Shane called them—”
“Fuck-me heels,” she said, catching on real fast, though she wasn’t sure if three inches qualified. She didn’t like to go much high
er. As it was, wearing them she was five-ten to his six-two, which was why he couldn’t hide the fact he turned redder than a tomato when he hesitated over saying the H word or the F word.
But height requirements aside, she had to admit her shoes definitely screamed sex appeal. Cream peep toes, with rhinestones studding the sole that ran up the arch of her foot and the outside length of the heel.
So yeah, she caught on and immediately realized question period was over. She had to tell him the truth. “Ben.”
His face was buried in her hair again. “Yeah.”
“It’s a very nice offer, but I’m not a hooker. My cousin is the bartender, and I just came in for a drink and a visit.”
He groaned. “Jesus, Clay’s gonna kill me.”
He sounded downright miserable and started to pull away, likely mortified his so-called friends had twisted his romantic notions about her fantasy-inducing footwear into something so wrong. He glanced up, looking for his friends, but she’d shuffled them in a semicircle, out of the line of sight of their table.
She slid her hand up his chest and curled her fingers around the back of his neck. “Did I say you could move?”
He stilled, and for a tiny moment she wondered if she’d read him wrong.
“No, ma’am—Maggie.”
“I take it Clay isn’t one of your friends at the table.”
He shook his head. “I met them on the circuit.”
In other words, they weren’t his friends at all.
“So you put down a hundred dollars,” she said, stood on her tiptoes and pulled his head down. “And what were you hoping I would do for that kind of money, Ben?”
He shuddered. His hand slipped down to cup her ass, and he notched his denim-clad cock hard against her pussy. His breath hitched. Or maybe it was hers, she couldn’t be sure.
“Anything I could get,” he whispered in that low Southern drawl of his. “Just as long as you wear those shoes.”
“And how much did Shane bet?”
He flinched, but he learned fast and didn’t pull away. He didn’t immediately answer either.
“How much, Ben?” She dropped her voice, making it clear it was a command.
“Ten bucks, which I won ’cause you danced with me, but that means I lost ninety.”
And finally the numbers added up to an equation she didn’t like at all. Shane was quite the scam artist.
“I don’t think so,” she said softly.
“But you’re not a—”
“Is that a ‘no thank you, ma’am’ to allowing me to have my way with you?” she asked, giving him a steady stare to make the invitation as clear as she could.
“No. I mean, yes ma’am, Maggie,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Please.”
He might be young and naïve, but he was legal, willing and he loved her shoes. Besides, she was now all hot and bothered by erotic images of him kneeling in front of her—minus all that denim.
For the second time that night, heat scorched her nerve endings. All Ben did was settle his hand along the small of her back to usher her into his sleeper trailer. But she was well aware the neat, intimate space was a window into his life as a cowboy on the rodeo circuit, while she’d revealed almost nothing about her own.
They’d left the saloon in her vehicle—her cousin’s truck, actually—and she’d insisted they go to his place, because that way she had an exit strategy, because she still wasn’t quite sure what she’d signed up for.
Against her hair, he whispered her name—or at least the one she’d given him. The word cascaded over her, drenching her skin with sinful expectations. His. Definitely hers.
She sucked in a breath, caught her bottom lip between her teeth to bite back a moan, but it did no good. He nipped her earlobe, like a playful cub, only there was no mistaking his intent when his huge, hard erection pressed firmly against her backside.
It wasn’t easy, but she did step away from all that delectable male heat and turned to face him. Business before pleasure. She reached for the roll of bills tucked into her cleavage. It had seemed like the kind of place a hooker would stash her cash. Shane and his friends hadn’t been too happy seeing it disappear inside so inaccessible a place.
“Ma’am, Maggie, don’t.”
They both knew it was his money, so she didn’t bother debating the issue. She had a pretty good idea why he’d stopped her. The atmosphere inside the tiny living space was redolent with arousal. His. Definitely hers.
A turbulent storm threatened to swamp her with sensual stimulation. She’d never had trouble asking for what she wanted—or giving as good as she got. But she hadn’t had much—well, any—experience with the whole dominatrix scenario.
The only things she knew for certain were that Ben got as excited as a puppy when she took charge, and that the mere thought of dominating the handsome young man elicited an erotic excitement she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
She took a quick glance around, spotted a slim slab of countertop and took a step toward it. A second later, she hoisted herself onto her perch, ready to fulfil his fantasy—if she could.
Crooking a finger, she signaled that he should come closer. She judged the distance between them with precision, stuck her leg out, and planted the sole of her peep toe along the solid length of his shaft. “That’s far enough.”
Ben’s gaze dropped to her foot. His breathing turned shallow—short, desperate pants of air that echoed around the compact room.
She pulled the bills from her bra and fanned them out for him to see. “You want your money back, you have to earn it.”
He traced the path of rhinestones trailing down the heel with his index finger and gave her a lazy, wicked smile. “Yes, ma’—”
The door of the trailer crashed open.
Margot jumped. She hit the edge of the counter on the way down, and with a total lack of grace and poise, would have fallen flat on her butt if Ben hadn’t caught her. She clung to him and blinked, trying to take in the dark, hulking presence filling the small doorway.
“What the—” a voice boomed.
“Hi, Clay,” Ben said.
Clay took a step forward.
Margot’s jaw dropped. Six feet of stunningly virile male stomped closer. Wide shoulders filled out a plain black T-shirt to perfection. A pair of jeans accentuated lean hips and sinewy thighs, proving there wasn’t an ounce of anything except muscle on this man’s well-built frame. His slightly battered face suggested he’d honed his powerful body by taking life head on.
And this moment was no exception. His gaze was a brazen strip search down the length of her body. And she was a fool if she thought she could hide her reaction. Already mildly aroused, her breasts ached, the tips jutting against the thin layers of lace and cotton. The folds of her pussy quivered with the need to be filled by a hard, hot length of cock. She wouldn’t have been surprised if his nostrils had flared to catch her scent, so dark and feral was the glance he gave her.
“I couldn’t find you at the saloon, but I heard quite a story from Shane.” He was talking to Ben, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Made me wonder if you’d been kicked by one too many bucking broncos, boy. I promised your mama I’d look out for you.”
Ben’s arms tightened around her. “I haven’t been kicked by any broncos.”
Ben’s belligerent tone was halfhearted. And she guessed he was thinking, if not for her, it had been a close call. The skeptical look on Clay’s face suggested he could guess how close without being told any details.
“Yet,” Clay said with a certainty about the hand life dealt a man on the rodeo circuit. “So that wad of money in the lady’s hand belongs to…”
“It’s mine,” Ben said at the same time she said, “His.”
She straightened away from Ben and put the pile of bills on the counter. She recognized a lose ’em situation when she saw one.
“Well, thanks Ben—” she said at the same time Clay said, “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Ben?”
>
Her gaze shot to Clay.
“She says her name’s Maggie Smith,” Ben said surprising the hell out of her, because his tone said he didn’t believe her.
She promptly closed her gaping mouth, but not before she caught Clay suppressing a grin. She glanced up at Ben who shrugged as if his observation was no big deal. “I figured you were being safe and that it was a—”
“Nickname,” she said. “Well, the Maggie part is. My name’s Margot.”
“Hi Margot, I’m Clay,” Clay said, drawing her attention again.
“I figured that out,” she said and wondered what was going on with all the introductions when she was about to leave. “Well, I’d better be—”
“And once you, ah, settled with Shane,” Clay said talking right over her. “You brought Margot home because…”
As expected, Ben blushed and refused to meet Clay’s eyes.
Margot wrinkled her nose. “I believe it’s my fuck-me shoes that, ah, got me the invite,” she said because Clay seemed to expect an answer.
His gaze dropped to her feet. One brow arched. “Aren’t they a little short?”
“They’ve got rhinestones, Clay,” Ben said, then pressed his lips together.
She obligingly twisted her ankle to show off the sparkles on the sole and heel.
“I see that,” Clay said. “So what? You planned to make love to the woman’s shoes?”
His voice was a mix of gentle teasing and curiosity, and she got the distinct impression Ben and Clay had been down this road before.
Ben didn’t seem to mind. Although blushing, he wore that wicked sexy smile of his again. “She has to be wearing them,” he said. “And we were—”
“Yeah, I got an eyeful of just what you were doing when I walked in the door.”
Ben’s unrepentant grin widened.
“Um, excuse me,” she said. “I’m standing right here, and we weren’t doing anything.” Much.
Big mistake inserting herself into the conversation.
Clay sauntered towards her. “So I’m totally misinformed, even though I’m positive I saw your fuck-me shoe planted on Ben’s cock.”
Cowboy Heat Page 12
