A Cowboy's Pride

by Pamela Britton

  But once she got him inside, she worried that he might tip forward, out of his chair, maybe hit his head. Then what? With a sigh of resignation, she headed for his bedroom, switching on the light, stopping near the edge of his bed.

  Now what?

  “Trent?” She slipped past his chair, peered down at him. “Come on, Trent. Time for bed.”

  His head was tilted to the side and, gosh darn it all, he looked so adorable, like a sleeping little boy. Though she told herself not to, she reached out and smoothed his hair, marveling at how soft it was. Then she did something else, something she knew she shouldn’t do, but that she was helpless to stop herself from doing. She slid her hand down the side of his face, her fingers grazing the stubble on his cheek, her nails finding the line of his jaw and the ever-present razor stubble.

  Good Lord, she loved that razor stubble.

  You’re sick, her subconscious pronounced.

  Maybe so, but she still leaned down next to him, still found herself closing the distance between the two of them, her mouth six inches, then four, then three, then two inches away.

  She kissed him.

  She meant it to be a quick peck, a soft joining of their lips that he would never feel, never know about—Eve giving into the temptation of the apple—but once they connected, she found herself tipping her head sideways and then increasing the pressure and then...

  His arms wrapped around her.

  She screeched.

  He pulled her onto his lap. Shocked, Alana froze, their gazes connected.

  “Now, this is my kind of therapy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Her expression was one of mortification. Trent didn’t care. He pulled her toward him, closing the distance between them.

  “No—”

  Oh, yes, he thought right before their lips connected again. Kiss him while she thought he was asleep, would she? Hah. He’d been awake since the moment they’d pulled to a stop outside his cabin.

  He let her know instantly this would be no innocent kiss, either. His mouth pressed against hers, harder and then harder still until, at last, she opened, his tongue instantly sliding inside.

  She moaned, struggled a little bit, but he didn’t let up, so damn thrilled that she found him attractive it was all he could do not to toss her on the bed—not that he could really do that, but still. She tasted good. So damn good.

  He grew hard. She must have felt it because she wiggled, but not in protest. No, she squirmed against him in a way that made him realize she really did want him bad—just as he wanted her.

  Thank You, Lord.

  He swirled his tongue around hers, suckled it, tasting her in a way that could leave no doubt as to what he had in mind, crippled or no.

  She wrenched away. “Trent!”

  “Help me into bed.”

  “No.”

  The bedroom light revealed her startled blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, the crimson of her lips.

  “Alana, if you leave me hanging like this I swear I’ll learn to walk again just so I can chase you around the ranch.”

  Her face softened. “Trent, we can’t.”

  His hand slid between them, finding and then cupping her center. “Oh, yes, we can.”

  She lifted her hips, but the motion had the opposite effect, his fingers pressing against her in such a way that it made her gasp.

  “There,” he pronounced. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  “Then don’t tell me no.”

  “Trent.” His name was a sigh on her lips, a cry of soft pleasure that prompted him to cup her again.

  She didn’t move.

  No. She stayed on his lap, her head tilting backward, long hair spilling down around her shoulders, Trent feeling more potent and more powerful than ever. She wanted him. Wanted him bad. His wheelchair didn’t bother her. Far from it. She used the armrests as a brace for her hands as he continued to stroke her. And he marveled. She wanted him. No doubt about it.

  “Trent,” she moaned again.

  She would climax soon. He wanted that, but he wanted to do more than stroke her, too. He wanted to taste her and thrust himself inside her and watch her face contort as he brought her pleasure, not with his hand, but with that other part of his body, the one that pulsed and throbbed and ached to be set free.

  She found him attractive. He just couldn’t get over it.

  “Alana, shift your weight.” He removed his hand just long enough to help support her. “Here. Lean back against my chest.”

  Their gazes met. She seemed dazed, had to blink a few times before she became aware of what he asked. He wanted her to open for him, to brace herself with a foot on the ground. She did. He wasted no time unsnapping and then unzipping her jeans, nuzzling her hair as he did so. She smelled so good, but she felt even better as his fingers found her slick center.

  Her hips shot up.

  “That’s it,” he whispered in her ear. “Let it go.”

  He stroked. She jerked against him again. He nearly groaned. Every time she moved, she brushed his erection. He delved even deeper, finding her center, dipping his finger inside.

  “Oh,” he heard her mumble. “Oh, oh...”

  He would bring her pleasure, this woman. He might be in a wheelchair. He might not be able to walk...yet—perhaps maybe never—but he could do this. His mouth found her ear. He flicked his tongue inside, swirled it.

  “Trent!”

  She found her release quickly and, holy hell, it was hot to ride along with her. He might be ready to burst himself. He might crave rolling her onto the bed and thrusting himself inside of her, but this was every bit as wild and crazy and exciting as being inside her.

  Slowly, she relaxed, her rear end finding his erection once more and prompting him to gasp.

  “What?” She turned to face him, grinding into him once more. “Did I hurt you?”

  Her hair was mussed, wild, her eyes soft and satiated, and it turned him on.

  “I’m just a little—”

  He tried to wiggle in his chair.

  She must have felt it then, her mouth forming an O before her eyelids lowered in a way that made him throb all over again.

  “You have driven me nuts since the moment we first met,” she admitted.

  “Ditto.”

  “But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit to being wildly attracted to you ever since you got off that bus.”

  “Good to know.”

  She smirked.

  “Maybe we can do something about this crazy attraction,” he said softly.

  “Maybe we can.”

  * * *

  SHE TOLD HIM TO CLIMB on to the bed because, God help her, she wanted him naked. He wasted no time in doing exactly that, and she helped him undress, all but ripping the buttons off his black shirt. Brazen, lascivious, wanton, she thought, kneeling on the bed, still fully clothed, but completely turned on by him.

  What are you doing? her subconscious asked yet again.

  Something I shouldn’t be doing. Something naughty. Something so wicked, she knew if Cabe found out, he might just fire her. But she would take that risk because tonight she didn’t care. Tonight, she wanted to be free. Tonight she wanted to indulge herself in a way she’d never done before.

  “You’re driving me crazy, looking at me like that.”

  He leaned against the headboard. Still no overt use of his legs, but that would come...in time.

  “If I wasn’t so damned messed up, I’d flip you on your back and do things that would make your first orgasm feel like child’s play,” he said as he shrugged out of his shirt, tugging it out of the waist of his jeans and exposing the abs of steel that always made her mouth water.

 
“But you’re not in charge, are you?”

  It gave her a thrilling sense of power to know that, too. She’d never been the kinky kind. Jeez, the last time she’d had sex with Braden she’d—

  No.

  She would not think about that. Braden was in her past. Tonight was all about Trent.

  “Jeans next,” she ordered, marveling at how merely thinking the word orgasm made her throb all over again. The man was like a sex drug. One whiff and she turned into a nymphomaniac.

  “I’ll need help.”

  She shifted, reaching him as he started to slide the fabric over his hips, revealing boxers beneath, blue ones, the bulge beneath them all too obvious. With a quick tug, she had them halfway down his legs, wincing inwardly when she spotted the scars. She found herself leaning forward and brushing them with her lips. One by one she kissed them, pulling the jeans slowly down, revealing the rest of his legs. She had to pause for a moment. His boots were in the way. She tugged them off, and then his socks, and then, finally, his jeans, leaning back when she was done.

  Damn.

  He might have scars up and down his legs, but they were overshadowed by the magnificence of his upper body. Months of pulling himself in and out of his chair, cars, his bed, had given him the shoulders of a swimmer, the biceps of a weight lifter and the abs of an underwear model. He had chest hair, but not a lot, just enough to make her want to run her fingers through the light brown whorls. Instead she crawled on her knees to his side, reached for the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down.

  “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Can you feel anything?”

  “All the way to the tops of my thighs.”

  She met his gaze, and she admitted she’d never felt so innately feminine in her life, not ever. Not even with Braden.

  “Good.” She bent and captured him with her mouth before she could think better of it.

  “Holy...” The rest of his words turned into a gasp as she wrapped her lips around him.

  “I would hate for you to miss out feeling this,” she said before taking him in her mouth again.

  “Oh, jeez.”

  She wanted to please him so badly that she glided down the length of him as far as she could go, then drew her lips back up again.

  He hissed.

  She did it again, then again, over and over again until she could feel his hips quiver, and his legs, too. Yes, even his legs. She paused for a moment, glanced up at him, but he was too far gone to notice anything. She held him completely in her thrall, her mouth causing his hands to clench the covers beneath him, the muscles across his abdomen rippling with each gasp of pleasure. She knew he was close, wondered if she should take him all the way, but she liked the control.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  His eyes sprang open. “What?”

  “I said, not yet.” She slid off the bed, slowly lowering the jeans over her hips with a zigzag motion of her hips—stripperlike—but she didn’t care. She enjoyed how his eyes burned. How he breathed raggedly. How his hands flexed and then unflexed, as if he wanted to reach out and grab her, but he couldn’t. She slowly peeled her top off next, sashaying side to side, then hooking her thumbs through her panties and doing the same thing. By the time she finished the heat in his eyes had gone from white-hot to molten lava.

  “You’re going to kill me.”

  She smiled, telling him without words her whole intention. Here was a man who’d been through hell and back—she was about to show him a piece of heaven.

  “I don’t suppose you have a condom?” she asked, settling on the bed and enjoying the way his eyes ran over her body. She should be mortified and yet for some reason she wasn’t. For some reason she liked the way his eyes lingered on her breasts.

  What had gotten into her?

  “I, ah, I wasn’t exactly expecting something like this to happen.”

  No. Of course not. Most women ignored men in wheelchairs, but how in the heck someone could ignore Trent Anderson, even in a wheelchair, was beyond her.

  “But there’s nothing to worry about,” he added. “I mean, I was fully checked out in the hospital and I—”

  “Shh.” She’d reached his side, her finger gently swiping his lips. “I trust you.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She was about to tell him she’d never stopped taking the pill after Braden’s death when he suddenly jerked her to him, all thoughts of Braden fading away as he forced her to straddle him. Their centers grazed one another’s.

  She gasped.

  He cupped her butt, pushing her along the length of him, Alana’s center so primed for his entry, she moaned at the feel of him against her.

  “Like that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she hissed. “Oh, yes.”

  He guided her along the length of him again. She grew impatient. When she tried to move, he wouldn’t let her.

  “Uh-uh-uh.” Their gazes met, his filled with amusement and heat and determination. “Not yet.”

  “Who’s trying to kill who, here?” she groaned.

  “That’s the point.” He gently pushed a strand of hair off her face. “Tit for tat.”

  He gripped her tighter, only allowing her to move mere inches. Sadist. Oh, but how good it felt, and how deliciously sinful. How exquisitely enthralling to feel him there, close, yet not as close as she wanted. She tipped her head back and moaned. He pressed into her, but only a bit, and only enough that when he withdrew, it was nearly painful.

  “Don’t do that.”

  He froze.

  “No.” She shot him a glare. “I meant stop torturing me.”

  He smiled, and it was such a wickedly teasing grin that she almost—almost—smiled in response.

  “Is this what you want?”

  He found her center again, plunging deeper.

  “Yes,” she cried.

  He withdrew, only to thrust even deeper.

  “Yes, Trent. Yes,” she moaned, so completely lost in the feel of him inside of her that she tipped forward, her head resting against his shoulder. “That’s what I want.”

  Deeper and deeper he went, and higher and higher she climbed, losing herself to everything but the feel of him inside of her, and to something else, too. Something magical and special that made her want to hold him to her, tight, forever.

  “Alana!”

  His cry was one of release, and it was all she needed to follow him down the same magical, amazing road, one that caused her to cry out his name yet again. He crushed her against him, his big arms wrapping around her midsection so tightly that she lost her breath for a second. He wanted to do more, she could tell. If he had strength in his legs he would have wrapped them around her, maybe flipped her on her back. Instead he held her tight, the scent of him—cedar and cinnamon—filling her nose, his heart lub-lubbing beneath her ear, fast at first and then slowing down in time with her own.

  “Thank you.”

  She lifted her head, looked into his beautiful eyes, the glow in them akin to that of a man who’d been hungry for so long that he couldn’t believe he’d finally been allowed to feast.

  Still, she asked, “For what?”

  “For being you.”

  She smiled softly. “And here I thought I drove you crazy.”

  “You do drive me crazy.” His thumb grazed her cheek gently. “But I needed this right now.”

  She wanted to ask him if he felt her leg against his own, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment, so instead she said, “You might rethink that tomorrow.” She rested her head against his chest again. “I plan on working you into a sweat.”

  His chest rumbled against her ear. She realized an instant later that he laughed. “As long as we work up a sweat doing t
his, I won’t mind at all.”

  She peered up at him again. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  His face grew serious. “I know.”

  She moved her foot, brushing it across his calf, hoping to see a spark of recognition. She saw nothing.

  “It’s not going to be fun,” she said.

  There was limited light in the room, the lamp to his left casting a shadow over his face. Perhaps that was why his eyes appeared to grow dark for a moment.

  “I know.”

  She hoped so because she was determined to help him learn to walk again, and to help him admit that he could feel something, anything, even if it was nothing more than pressure on his legs.

  And if you get your wish, what then? What if he goes back to rodeo? What will you do then?

  She wouldn’t think about that right now. It was easier to distract herself by rolling off him to snuggle next to his chest. His arms were still beneath her, his body turned so that he was half bent over her.

  “How about you?” he asked softly. “Are you ready for what I have planned for you tonight?”

  “I am,” she said.

  And she was.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She snuck away in the wee hours of the morning. She knew she shouldn’t, knew that Trent might be offended when he woke up alone, but she did it anyway, dressing quickly, slipping from his cabin and into her truck before he woke up.

  Coward.

  Good Lord, it was crazy how he’d made her feel.

  Gingerly, she started the truck. The sun had just come up over the horizon, creating a pale glow in the sky. Behind her, the tires kicked up a tiny plume of dust, but Trent didn’t burst out of his cabin, blanket thrown over his midsection, wheelchair skidding to a halt in the middle of the road.

  Whew. Made it.

  And later? What then?

  She would cross that bridge when she came to it, she told herself firmly. Maybe all he’d wanted was a one-night stand, like she had, because there was no way they could ever repeat what happened last night. She was his therapist, for goodness’ sake. She should have never, ever crossed the line between therapist and patient.