Cowboy Heat

by Delilah Devlin

  “Yeah, you positively saw that,” Ben said, which was no help whatsoever.

  “Margot?”

  It took her a minute to realize Clay was waiting for her answer. Maybe because he was now standing right in front of her, blocking her view of the way out.

  “What Ben said,” she said. And felt the slow burn of a blush sweep up her face.

  “So, just to get my facts straight,” Clay said as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “At some point before, during or after your admiration of her footwear, you did actually plan to fuck Margot, right?”

  Margot’s jaw sagged. He didn’t have to be a dick about it.

  He took a step closer, invading her personal space and every one of her senses. Her pheromones began working overtime coping with the high-T atmosphere swirling around her. And the only coherent thought she had was, I want some now. Fortunately, her brain was too slow sending the message to her mouth, so she didn’t say the words out loud.

  “Sweetheart, I could smell your sweet heat from the doorway.”

  What? Forget coherent brain function. Quite possibly her autonomic nervous system just short circuited. She didn’t seem able to breathe.

  “And I want some,” he said.

  “Maggie likes it when you say please, Clay.”

  “Please.”

  The word was barely a whisper across her skin, but it seared her just the same.

  She looked at Clay. Really looked at him. His eyes sparked with lust like thunderbolts across an afternoon sky. And then she looked at Ben, who didn’t seem the least bit upset at the idea of having to share her.

  Share. Her. As in, she hadn’t lost them at all.

  Clay stepped to one side. “Are you in?”

  And she realized Clay no longer blocked the path to the door. He’d made his request, and she could either accept or not. She could leave if she wanted, and they’d let her go.

  “Please, ma’am,” Ben said.

  Margot looked from Clay’s hard, still features to Ben’s puppy dog eyes. What the hell? It was obvious that one him plus one her plus another him was a highly combustible combination. “I’m in,” she said. “As long as I get to keep my shoes on.”

  “She’s trying to get into my pants again,” Ben said.

  Yes, well, he’d already stripped off her jeans and it wasn’t fair. He and Clay had one woman to undress, while she had two men in way too many clothes and not nearly enough skin.

  Clay chuckled. His breath tickled the back of her neck, sending a shiver of need down her spine. “I’ll distract her while you find a solution.”

  Distract her. He’d begun distracting her about a second after she’d caved to his request. About the only reasoned thought she’d had since was more. Sometimes, like a moment ago, she wanted more scrumptious male flesh exposed for her pleasure. She was greedy for another taste, another touch. Of Ben’s smooth, lean muscles and the smattering of fine hair down the center of his chest. Of Clay’s rougher, battle-scarred skin covered in dark fur.

  She bit her lip as the tip of Clay’s tongue traced a path down the side of her neck to her collarbone. She swallowed the guttural sound of longing that threatened to escape, because sometimes, like right now, she wanted to scream.

  The men wanted to explore every square inch of her. And she wanted that too. God, she truly did. But they were so damn slow and the tsunami was building out of control inside her, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.

  “Here, try this,” Ben said.

  She frowned because he was holding up the length of silk scarf she used as a belt.

  “Yep, that’ll do,” Clay said.

  “Do for what?” she asked.

  Ben just grinned. “You’re interfering with my fun, and Clay’s a champion tie-down roper.”

  She fought. “But I want…”

  “Shh, now,” Clay said, pinning her hands behind her back with ease. “It’s our turn to worry about providing what you want.”

  She shook her head, but it was impossible to argue. He threaded the silken tie between her wrists and around her arms in some intricately seductive pattern that left her hands cupped behind her. And then he stepped forward into the small void between them.

  His large, denim-clad erection filled her palms. He stilled behind her, as if waiting to see if she’d accept him. She had to concentrate against the assault to her senses, but somehow she sent the right signals to her fingers, and they squeezed the hard length.

  A soft growl rumbled past his throat. He ground his cock against her, and she sank against him in surrender, his coarse chest hair rasping against the sensitive skin of her back.

  That seemed to be the signal Ben needed. He slid to his knees in front of her and she dimly remembered this was the fantasy she’d envisioned. Only in her version he wasn’t still wearing his jeans.

  “She’s soaking wet, Clay,” he said, a finger stroking her slit through her underwear.

  “I know,” she said. “Now do something about it.”

  Clay’s hands slid around her waist, stilling her impatient demands for attention. His fingers skimmed the edge of her panties. “On or off.”

  She whimpered at the needless delay.

  “The lace is pretty,” Ben said. “But I want to taste her.”

  Margot watched, mesmerized as they stripped her bare. And then Ben’s mouth was on her. Hot, hungry. He licked her pussy, eagerly lapping the juices. His tongue delved deeper into her folds, impatiently searching for more.

  She was battered by an erotic storm raging around her, through her. Caught between the one man’s devastatingly wicked tongue-fuck of her bare pussy and the other man’s denim-clad cock dry-fucking her hands.

  “Let go,” a voice rumbled in her ear.

  She hovered on the edge, alternately begging and ordering Ben and Clay to take her the rest of the way. And then her neck arched and she screamed, wanton and uncaring who heard her, giving a keening wail as wildfire blazed across her skin. She thought she heard Ben cry out, but she was too far gone to care.

  It took Margot a moment to realize her arms were free, that she was being held in Clay’s arms, and that he still had his pants on while she was bare-ass naked.

  “Where’s Ben?” she asked, too dazed to look for herself.

  Clay turned and nodded toward the couch.

  “He fell asleep.”

  “But he didn’t. Did he?” She was a little confused about the details.

  “Let’s just say he’s going to have to throw those jeans in the laundry tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere private.”

  She’d thought the trailer was one big room, but she quickly discovered there was a small bedroom behind a curtain. A bedroom with a queen-sized bed taking up most of the space.

  Clay knelt on the edge of the mattress and lowered her reverently onto the bedspread. His hand skimmed the length of her leg to her foot.

  “Permission to lose the shoes,” he said in a tone that didn’t sound as though he was really asking.

  She nodded.

  The heels hit the floor and he crawled up beside her.

  “I take it you’re happy to see me,” she said.

  He laughed. “Yeah,” he said, tracing lazy patterns across her skin. “I’m an old man. I’m going to need a lot more time.”

  She smiled. “Just how old are you?”

  “Thirty,” he said. Paused and added, “next year.”

  “You need to lose the pants,” she said.

  “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

  Less than a minute later a pile of denim joined her shoes on the floor, and they both had her answer.

  ONE-TRACK COWBOY

  Delilah Devlin

  With our horses’ reins tied to tree branches, we stood by their heads soothing them as a helicopter’s blades whipped up dust from above. While the bird lifted the hikers in baskets, one at a time, relief that we’d found the te
enagers alive, if hungry, warred with my disappointment the journey was nearly over.

  Once the second basket was safely aboard, Zane Red Elk looked over his shoulder at me. As always, his stoic expression was impossible to read. “Want me to signal them to send the basket down to pick you up too?” he asked, voice dead even.

  I wondered why he asked. He could simply radio the request; his job was done. If I refused, he’d be stuck getting me back to the park headquarters, two days—and nights—away.

  I hesitated. Was he offering me an option because he felt it was polite or because he hoped I’d stay? Maybe he read the reason for my indecision as easily as he had the tracks the boys’ sneakers left in hard rock and sifting dirt. He lifted the radio and told the helicopter to head back to civilization and the waiting ambulance.

  I stood atop a bare ridge, my face no doubt reflecting every bit of yearning I felt. The emotion hit me squarely in the belly. As hard as the tracker had been on me, I wasn’t ready to leave him.

  The last two days had been a revelation. I’d been working for the park service for three years, and it was the first time I’d been selected to participate in a search for missing hikers. When the boys failed to return to their vehicle and hadn’t talked to relatives in days, we’d feared the worst. A search was organized involving volunteers and members of the park service, local law enforcement and Texas Rangers, and was conducted from the ground and the air.

  Zane was enlisted due to his tracking expertise and his intimate knowledge of the area. When he wasn’t busy with his nearby horse ranch, he led photographers and hunters through the canyon.

  We rode two of his personal horses—Zane on a tall black gelding and me on an even-tempered bay mare. After two days in the saddle, despite the fact I rode often for relaxation, my ass was numb.

  Zane flicked a glance my way, turned off the radio and stowed it in his gear. There’d be no need to keep in contact with the team now that the search was over. We’d head back the way we came. I hoped he’d take his time.

  I wanted time to savor the silence and my growing attraction to the stone-faced Comanche cowboy who’d begun this journey more than a little irritated I’d insisted on accompanying him. I guess he’d thought I wouldn’t be able to keep up. I’d earned his grudging admiration the first time we’d taken our horses down an arroyo and I hadn’t freaked at the steep decline. I’d cemented his respect the first night we’d stopped and set up camp. With a quiet efficiency that matched his, I’d cared for my horse and then set about sweeping away brush and rolling out my sleeping bag, never complaining about the lack of a crackling fire to provide comfort in the darkness.

  For two days, we’d barely spoken, except when he’d paused to point out the signs he’d found—broken branches, boot scuffs, dried puddles where the two young boys urinated against a tree or behind a boulder.

  I trusted his instincts. Not something I did easily. He was so competent and briskly impatient that I’d gone along with his every suggestion, biting my tongue before adding my own two cents. He didn’t need them.

  And now we’d be alone. Miles and miles from civilization. For the first time since I’d begun this journey, anticipation rather than quiet dread thrummed in my chest.

  If he felt it too, he hid it well. He repacked his gear, ran his hands over his horse’s head and flanks, then lifted his hooves to check his shoes. I followed suit, not wanting to earn his disgust if my horse fell lame because I’d been too moon-eyed to see to the mare’s welfare first.

  When I dropped the last hoof to the ground, I straightened. Zane stood closer than I expected. I drew back startled, my eyes widening. His face hovered over mine, so still, his dark eyes watchful, that my breath caught and held. What was he searching for?

  I went with my gut, with my own desire. My lips parted as I let my head fall back. An invitation extended with the lowering of my eyelids. Beneath the sweep of my lashes, I noted the tensing of his jaw, the narrowing of his gaze. He was looking at my mouth.

  And then slowly, he bent closer, his mouth drawing nearer. “We should head back into the canyon and follow the edge of the stream.”

  I drew in a ragged breath. He was so damn close. Just kiss me.

  He moved away, but not before I saw one corner of his firm mouth twitch.

  My face grew hot. Almost as hot as the juncture of my thighs where moisture pooled. Only once before, when he’d checked my seat on his horse and the length of my stirrups before we left the parking lot, had he stood that near. And then, his hand had been on my boot, easing it in and out of my stirrups, adjusting the length a notch. His hand had brushed my calf just above my boot, but I’d assumed it was accidental, because he certainly hadn’t given me any clear sign he was as aware of my body as I was of his.

  From that first moment when he’d arrived in his big Ford pickup with an old dented trailer in tow, I’d been intensely aware of him. I was to lead a ground team up one possible trailhead while another team followed a well-established hiking route. We’d all stood staring at the park map behind the Plexiglas; Zane beside my shoulder as I’d traced the first team’s route with a finger.

  Zane had shaken his head. “Do we even know that was where they planned to go?”

  The trail was popular. “Where would you go?”

  “Straight up the ridge overlooking the canyon.”

  The face of the bare outcropping of rock was a favorite with climbers, but the rugged trail along its edge led into wild back-country. Only skilled hikers, and ones who carried proper gear, including GPS and radios, should ever attempt it.

  The two boys didn’t have the extra gear and carried only sleeping bags and light packs with food for two days. Their parents had thought they intended to sleep in the canyon camping area, but the ranger at the station remembered them standing in front of this very map and asking about trails.

  Zane and I took the harder route. The one he said two boys who liked to look for trouble would go. By the end of day one, we’d found signs.

  Zane bent over his saddle, peering at the dusty trail. “Two hikers.”

  “We don’t know it’s our boys.”

  “It’s two men. Wide strides. Light steps. They don’t weigh much. And they’re heading straight up. They haven’t stopped to eat. There’s no trash. My guess is they wanted to make the first bluff and camp there for the night to watch the sunset.”

  On horseback, we’d made the bluff before noon. The boys’ campsite was evident from the trash they’d only half buried. Ramen bags. Energy bar wrappers.

  Zane and I hadn’t stopped until we’d found their second campsite. One they’d taken even less time to clean up, because it was obvious they were already scared. They’d traveled in nearly a circle before bedding down, footsteps crossing their own paths.

  With darkness falling, we’d stopped to rest the horses and rolled out our sleeping bags. The Army MRE bags we carried had provided a hot meal with a huge number of calories. I hadn’t wanted to finish mine, but he’d pushed the crackers and peanut butter at me, silently insisting I eat everything. I’d guessed he didn’t want me lagging from lack of energy or complaining of hunger.

  We’d lain on the dirt, three feet between our bags, beneath a starry sky. And although my body was tired and aching, I’d been too aware of his proximity to fall asleep quickly. I kept remembering how he’d looked that day, straw cowboy hat atop his dark hair, his long black braid swaying between his shoulders. He wore a light chambray, long-sleeved shirt over a dark tee. His jeans were Wranglers that hugged his hard ass and thick thighs. Zane was tall, and from the light scruff of beard on his jaw, not full-blooded Native American, although his sharp, wide cheekbones and tawny skin bespoke the majority of his heritage.

  Even now, my horse needing barely a nudge to follow Zane happily down a ravine, my gaze rested on his tall, lean frame. Without the dreadful urgency that had filled me while we’d searched, my thoughts were now consumed by my partner.

  I didn’t know a thing abo
ut his personal life. He didn’t wear a ring, but what did that signify? And what had that “moment” back there on the ridgeline been about? Was he mocking me because he knew I was attracted? Or was he interested too?

  And if he wanted me, was it because I was the only female for miles in this wilderness? I hoped like hell not. I hadn’t been with a man in a long while, and I didn’t think I could handle something as shallow as a convenience fuck.

  If fucking was even something on his mind, I couldn’t tell. He didn’t glance back. Not once. If he was interested in me, wouldn’t he be as curious as me and slyly watchful?

  We followed a dry creek bed with a gradual decline toward the river bisecting the park. As it was early summer, the water was still high against the banks. Inviting. My horse was certainly eager. I let her have her head, and she trotted toward the edge of the water. I dismounted, dropped her reins and let her step into the water, her head ducking to snuffle and drink.

  The chink of metal and dull thud of leather hitting the ground sparked my interest, and I came around my horse, watching as Zane tossed his saddle beside the packs already on the ground.

  “I take it we’ll be here for a while.”

  “We’ve pushed the horses hard.”

  He didn’t give any more of an explanation, but I read the challenge in his gaze. I nodded slowly and turned back to my horse, following his example to relieve my mare of her burden.

  When I loosened the cinch around her abdomen, the saddle lifted away unexpectedly. Zane hadn’t helped me with my gear since we’d started. Now the simple action turned me on more than a hot glance might have. His body was tight. His movements a little less graceful than usual. When he set down the saddle and straightened, I could see why. The bulge that lay trapped against his thigh was unmistakable.

  My mouth went dry. “Think the water’s cold?” I asked, inanely. The water was certainly cooler than the air. But, I needed to say something other than: “I hope that erection’s for me.”

  I did my best to keep my gaze on his face, but couldn’t help flitting down to check out his impressive hard-on. I felt as gauche as a teenager.