by Lola Rebel
Rode Hard, Put Up Wet
Cowboy Romance
♥ Lola Rebel ♥
Published by Heartthrob Publishing
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My Cowboy
Contemporary Western Romance
Amy Faye
Published by Heartthrob Publishing
If you want news about new novel releases, you can sign up for my mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/cmQY05
Here’s a preview of the sexy love story you’re about to read…
Morgan Lowe knows exactly how much of a mistake she's making. Some small voice in the back of her head is telling her how it's all going to be fine. How this is building up a relationship with him.
Not a business relationship, of course. That part of her is lying its ass off. This isn't going to turn into anything. If it does, then whatever it turns into isn't going to be what she came here for.
She'd been wanting a sense of camaraderie. A sense that she was friendly, that she wasn't just a blood-sucking harpy who was out to steal his land. After all, that was what men thought of her, right? Just some kind of bitch.
Instead, she's building up a very different sense. His hands run across her skin, sensitive from the cold. Like little spots of warmth, wherever he touches. This is a mistake, and it's a mistake she's decided to make anyways.
Her lips press against his neck and then her teeth bite down. Philip lets out a little gasp and lowers his weight a little, turning and pressing her back into the wall. She lets go of his neck and takes a deep breath.
She can see the way that his eyes drop to watch her breasts heaving as she breathes. He pulls the thin cotton fabric away from them and looks. She resists the urge to cover them up. She's already resisted it long enough as it is.
She'd never been happy with her body in the past. Why should that be any different now? But something about the way that he looks at her, hungry, needing something that neither of them are entirely prepared to explain to the other—
It makes her feel like a woman, in a way she's never felt before. In a way that makes it feel less like she's at a disadvantage to every man she's ever met.
His head dips and his hot mouth engulfs a dusky nipple. The heat, surrounding her most sensitive parts, makes her head feel fuzzy. She only knows what she feels, and she knows that her hips are pressed against something very hard.
Her hands decide to go on their own little exploratory mission to find out exactly what it is that he's hiding down there. Morgan has a good idea of what she'll find when her fingers undo the button fly.
She wraps those fingers around his hardness, through the paper-thin fabric of his boxers, and it reacts to the touch, jumping and twitching in her hand. She gives it an experimental tug and even through the boxers she can tell that the experiment is a complete success.
When she starts to pull the boxers down, sinking to her knees, it reacts again, twitching almost in a gleeful response to its new-found freedom. The shaft is almost too thick to wrap her hand around.
She might be making another mistake thinking that she could take it all in her mouth, never mind inside her. But she's not going to stop herself now. Not going to be stopped by anything.
She presses her lips against the head, a gentle kiss that almost certainly isn't exactly what he's looking for. The sigh that he lets out tells her that she's on the right track, though. Her mouth opens wide, and she takes him inside.
His hardness fills her mouth, and she's forced to use her tongue as much as she can, because she's not taking it near as deep as some of the women in those videos she's seen.
The way his fingers snake into her hair, pulling just enough to let her know that he probably can't stop himself from doing it, though, says that she's not doing so badly.
She starts to move, and his hands tighten, trying to softly and subtly guide her mouth up and down his shaft. He must be enjoying it. Everything about the way he's acting suggests he does. But even still, she's amazed.
Morgan looks up at him. The look of complete rapture on his face, an inescapable bliss, is surprising. She must be doing something right after all.
His hips rock in to meet her mouth, his cock pressing itself dangerously toward the back of her mouth. The soft moan that escapes his lips stops her from telling him that she can't, though.
Instead, she continues. She ignores whatever reflexes her throat tries to throw at her. She can't overcome them, not with sheer force of will, but she can try to pretend that she doesn't notice it.
Finally he pulls her off. His breaths are coming hard and ragged. "Fuck that was good."
Something inside her, something she can't explain and will deny in the morning, feels a little bit sad that he didn't cum. Her pussy tingles at the thought of him shooting it down her throat, of taking her and making her give him whatever he wants.
"Did you like that?" She shouldn't ask. She can see on his face that he does. His eyes flutter shut at the memory.
"Fuck yes." He reaches down, one of his big, meaty hands wrapping around her arm and lifting her up a little. "Get up."
She gets up, and as soon as she's got her balance, she's being turned around, bent over the counter top. Her trousers slip down easily over her skin, wetness forcing him to peel them off of her.
"I'm going to fuck you," he growls. Morgan presses back against him. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she wants this. Needs it. It's been—God, it's been forever since she had anyone do this to her.
Never like this. Never a raw, primal lust. Never this bad of an idea. Never with a man ten years her elder. As he lines himself up with her slick entrance and pushes inside, she feels herself already starting to clamp down on him, her body tensing up a little and then relaxing.
Her eyes go wide. He pulls back out a ways and then pushes in again. Somehow, though it seems impossible, he goes in deeper this time.
He rocks his hips back once again, and with the third thrust he pulls himself in, using her hips like a handle, until he slams all the way home. His balls slap against her in a way she never realized would feel as hot as it does.
"Fuck me," she says. She's not sure why she says it, not sure if any of this is a good idea. The idea that she shouldn't be doing it only makes her want to keep going more. The need overtaking her senses keeps her on the edge of orgasm, always threatening to go over the edge once more.
He does what she asks. He pulls out and then slams himself home once more, his body moving in perfect time, filling her up to the breaking point. She's close. She feels as if she's been close the entire time, every thrust threatening to send her over the edge.
But something holds her back. Something that she can't name, something she can't explain. Something that she wants very badly to go away. When his hand comes down hard on her round ass, unleashing a resounding clapping sound, and then he thrusts in again, it's like the veil has been lifted.
Her entire body goes tight, her fingers scrabbling on the counter top. for grip that she can't find. Her body is moving on its own, now, her pussy squeezing to drain out every last drop of his essence.
And when he explodes inside her, the mistakes are complete, and she falls deeper and deeper into the orgasm, down to depths that she didn't know could exist, but now that she's got them, she's not giving them up for anything.
Chapter One
Philip Callahan swallows down his morning coffee, looking out at the morning sunrise. He shouldn't have indulged by letting himself sleep in. It's too hard already to get the work done that the day has in store for him.
He tries not to look over his shoulder at the thought of his wife. He doesn't succeed. He can't see the little hill that she always loved to sit on through the house, and he can't see the little tree that he planted beside her.
But that doesn't mean that he doesn't know what he's looking at. Too many hours in the day, and too much time to feel sorry for himself.
Time that he could have spent fixing the fence, time that he could have been writing his damn congressman to stop sending their guys around trying to buy up the ranch.
He takes a deep breath. The boys will be there soon, and he'd better be at work when they get to the ranch, or they might think he's getting old.
The big stallion's broken a hole in the fence again. He's an ornery son of a bitch, and he likes to smash things. But he's got good racing blood in him, if anyone could get him reined in.
It was a project that he'd thought about, when the yearling had first shown some talent for running. The breeding was all there, but that doesn't always mean anything. It's a risk you take, raising horses.
The risk had paid off. The big, ornery, black-haired stallion was every bit the racing champ that you would want him to be. He could outrun damn near anything. Then again, so could any of them.
But once Sara had died, it didn't seem that important any more. It was hard to want to hurt for the work when everything already hurt so bad to start with.
So even though he should have done the breaking already, should have sold the stallion off to a proper owner, now he was letting a champion horse in its prime years lie around and waste away and turn into nothing.
Philip pulled the frown off his face. He didn't have time to be angry. There was work to do, and the boys would notice right away. He heard the sound of their truck pulling up as he shifted a stack of fence-ties onto his shoulder.
He'd make an impressive figure with that hundred-pound bundle on his shoulder alone there in the morning light, when they pulled up. Not such an old man, now, huh?
Philip wasn't that old, but when you're nineteen and full of dumb ideas, a man closer to his forties than his thirties must seem pretty damn old to be doing this kind of work.
What other work is he really qualified for, though? That's what he thought. None at all. Just running the ranch. It's about the only thing that he knows how to do. Even the damn computer was still too new for anything he needed to do with it.
The truck pulls up and the boys pile out. Three brothers, and it spares gas having them all driving together. Long as he doesn't need them running more than two errands at once, in which case it's a big damn hassle, but there's no way around that.
The boys scurry up and scoop the pile off his shoulder. All that in spite of him having carried it fifty yards from the barn, the damn idiots.
"You three take your sweet time getting here, or what?" It's supposed to come off like a joke, but Philip is unhappy to hear the very real annoyance in his voice that's overtaken his twisted-up mood.
The eldest puts on an apologetic face that's as deep and convincing as a puddle. "We're sorry, boss, it's just… when you're so young, time doesn't have any meaning at all, you know?"
"Exactly. That's the problem with you young people. No clocks."
"You see? So, y'see, if we could just get a raise, we could all buy a clock—"
Philip manages to maintain a straight face for a minute before letting out a snort. "Yeah, sure. Raises for everyone. What's a clock these days?"
There's almost a hopeful look in their eyes. Philip rolls his eyes. "The Black's busted up the fence. After that, back to the other'n."
He gestures vaguely off in the distance. He doesn't need to be specific. Some federal bull-shit says they need a fence for their grazing area, even though the property for miles around is his as much as anyone's.
Fine. Fence. Whatever. The boys can get busy digging posts and he can come around with stretchers between 'em after. Gives him more time to deal with the horses anyhow.
"You got it," they say.
The fence is important work. It must be done, or they'll face a fine at least as expensive as the new truck he bought last year, when the old one finally breathed its last breath. You always end up regretting it when you try to fuss with the government regulations, right or wrong.
But it's not the most important work. It's just necessary and needs to get done sooner than later.
The important work is making sure that the horses are in good spirits, making sure that you don't run into any trouble with them.
There's a fine line to be walked there, and it's hard to say which needs to get done first, but it's not hard to say which is more responsible for making him money.
You have good horses, you keep them trained, you make sure they're healthy, you make sure they've got good food to eat… all those things mean you get paid more. Every time you feed the horses, you might as well think of it as carrying a bag of feed straight into your bank account.
A fence, on the other hand? Nobody's gonna pay him for a god damn fence, no matter how good a job the boys do. It's just a reality of the ranch whether he likes it or not.
Philip takes a deep breath. He should have gotten rid of that Black a year ago. If he'd been picked up by a solid racing team, he wouldn't be here to kick down the damn fence.
But Philip had gotten funny about it after Sara, and when the time came to sell… well, he just hadn't done it. And now that he's thinking about it, he can't just keep ignoring it. The horse isn't as young as he should be, and he's not trained worth a God damn.
But he's going to get sold before all that money and time getting him here in the first place goes down the drain.
Chapter Two
Morgan Lowe settles back into her seat. She shouldn't be reading email. She should be making another call, another one that will be ignored. Just like the last seven.
After all, she'd said that she was going to do it after Brad—it's hard not to sneer at even the thought of his name—had gotten that damn condescending attitude about it.
So she owned the place. So what? She didn't know the first thing about real-estate. She didn't know the first thing about building and running a factory.
Never mind, of course, that she'd been instrumental in every single one that the company had built before her father had passed on. Never mind that she'd been on every build site, spoken to every contractor.
Not even her father could have said that before he passed on. But her father had been the boss, and the boys respected her father. Why couldn't she just get them to see that she wasn't some—ugh.
And of course, not being able to even get in touch with the Callahan ranch…
Maybe they wouldn't make a deal. Maybe they'd been ducking her calls on purpose. They hear a female voice on the other end of the line, maybe they assume that they're just getting a call from some secretary.
Then again, she'd made herself very clear. There wasn't any disrespect going on. She was giving the entire case her full attention. Now if only they would at least think about listening to her proposal, she might be able to get everyone some money.
Morgan takes a deep breath. If she can't reach them on the phone, then there's only one answer. It's dangerous to leave her seat, though. If she leaves, it's like she's abdicating the throne.
Brad—and if not Brad, then Pete or Jake or any one of those boys outside—will pull some 'cat's away, mice will play' shit and by the time she gets back, they'll all be worked up that she ain't in charge any more.
The choice isn't a hard one, of course. She knows what needs doing, and what needs doing is that she has to go out to the Callahan ranch. Like it or not, that's the reality.
They may not respect her for any number of reasons. She knows of two, and they're visible when she looks down, pressing her shirt out in tw
o pleasant-looking bumps. But there may be others that she's less aware of.
The one thing they're going to have to respect is when she tells them that the guy who was never gonna sell, Phil Callahan, had just talked to her, when he'd never been willing to talk to her father.
If she could come back with a hand-shake and a deal? She may as well be the damn messiah of Lowe Industrial. They'll have to respect her, then.
She pushes herself out of the chair and takes a deep breath. If it's a risk—and she can't think it's not—to leave the boys alone, it's one that will pay off in the end.
Because she won't ever be able to reach Callahan by phone. Her father had tried for six months, until he'd gotten sick. Now she'd been trying for a month and a half, and it wasn't getting anywhere.
The phones there obviously didn't work, and if they did, then they obviously weren't answering them. So what do you do when the phone is out?
You go there in person, you put on a polite-but-firm smile, and you make damn sure that you don't leave without either cutting a deal or getting thrown out on your ass.
Morgan opens the door.
"Oh, hey, boss." Brad's got his feet up. He's supposed to be out, watching the crews, or at least making sure the property's staying on track.
"What are you doing inside?" She tries to make herself sound intimidating, but she just sounds throaty and hoarse, like she's been smoking for most of her life. She has to cough at the end, because of the phlegm that built up as she did it.
If she's just going to sound like it either way, what was the point of avoiding cigarettes all these years?
"Well, I figured—"
"You figured, what? I won't come and check on you?"
Brad's jaw cocks off to the side the way it does when he's pissed off. Frankly, though, Morgan doesn't give a god damn if he's pissed off, if he's not going to do his job.
"And what do you think, exactly, makes you the expert on this?"
