Dare to be Dirty (The Dirty Girls Book Club #2)

by Savanna Fox

  “It did.”

  She squeezed his hand. “But still, it must have hurt, the way Miranda abandoned you. What a shocking, horrible thing to do.”

  “Hurt my dad for a while, but he says Betty’s the best thing that ever happened to him. As for me”—he shrugged—“I was a baby, then a toddler. What did I know? I had my dad and grandparents.”

  Could they make up for a mom who’d rejected him? Kim found that hard to believe. That little boy must have been deeply hurt, and the grown-up Ty had to carry some scars from that. “Did you ever hear from her again? Miranda?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you never looked her up? Like on the Internet?”

  “Why? I have a mom.” Ty rose and gathered their empty plates. “Feel like some pie?”

  If Miranda had hurt him, he was either in denial or didn’t want to talk about it with Kim. It wasn’t her business to probe. She and Ty didn’t have that kind of relationship, and never would. For some reason, that thought was painful.

  Eighteen

  Kim shoved herself to her feet, and found another kind of pain. Riding used different muscles than walking or yoga. Hobbling after Ty with their wineglasses, she said, “Pie later, if that’s okay. That Jacuzzi sounds pretty good.”

  He turned. “Sore? Sorry, guess I overdid it.”

  “No, it was wonderful. But I’ve stiffened up and could use a soak.”

  “Go on up. I’ll stick the dishes in the dishwasher then come join you. If that’s okay?”

  She studied him, so handsome with his tousled hair, bronzed skin, a scruff of five-o’clock shadow, bare feet. It was a week since she’d first seen him: the sexy rodeo rider. Now she knew him as the best lover she’d ever had or could imagine; as a hardworking rancher who looked out for his family and even the neighborhood kids; as a guy who cooked a mean trout. As a man who had one mom who butted into his love life because she cared so much, and another who’d run out on him. Her loss.

  Ty was so much. Yes, he was a catch for a certain kind of woman. A woman who wanted a guy who was eye candy, successful, and had an amazing work ethic and great family values—and what woman wouldn’t? But Ty’s woman had to be the opposite of his birth mom; she had to relish being a ranch wife.

  If his dad was anything like Ty, she could understand why Miranda fell for him. But Kim wasn’t Miranda. She couldn’t let herself fall. Forget the Jacuzzi, the sex. She should climb in her car and drive home. Except she’d had half a beer and more than a glass of wine. Hmm. Alcohol affected her. She knew that. Maybe that was why she was feeling mushy about Ty.

  The night she’d met him, she’d had too much to drink and had sex with him. Tonight, she’d again drunk too much, and now she was in danger of getting romantic.

  Okay, she’d analyzed the situation, and now could control it. She and Ty knew their relationship wasn’t about the future, but why not enjoy the present? Her parents wouldn’t approve, but they’d never know. This was all about her and Ty.

  “Kim? You asleep on your feet? I thought only horses did that,” he teased.

  “Sorry. Yes, please join me in the Jacuzzi.” She gave a flirtatious wink. “Help me wash my back.”

  “Nothing against your back, but I have more fun parts in mind.”

  Smiling, she collected her small bag and headed up to Ty’s bedroom. The décor matched the rest of the house: basic, well-made wooden furniture, everything built for comfort, the minimum of fancy touches. It was the house of a busy man who liked things simple and functional. The only art in the bedroom was an excellent oil painting of horses running across a field strewn with wildflowers.

  She liked the bones of Ty’s house, the choices he’d made, but the place cried out for color, more art, and, yes, whimsy.

  She headed for an open door, assuming it led to the bathroom. Inside, she breathed a surprised, “Oh!”

  Now this was a bathroom. There was a big window, uncovered because after all who could see in? Cinnamon-colored ceramic tile floor; light cream walls; a nice big cabinet with sink, mirror, and cupboard space below; and a shower large enough for two. But the highlight was the Jacuzzi, so big she could almost swim in there.

  Every aching muscle cried, “Yes, please! Now!”

  She turned the bronze tap, adjusted the temperature, then took a jar from the marble surround and tossed granules into the tub. A fresh, invigorating scent filled the steamy air, reminding her of their ride through the trees.

  Candles would be nice. In the bedroom, she found plain white ones that had never been lit, alongside a souvenir ashtray from the Calgary Stampede and a package of matches. She stuck a candle to the ashtray and set it, lit, on the edge of the bath, then turned out the light.

  Wincing at sore muscles, she pulled off her clothes. Reminded of her outdoor striptease, the wince turned into a grin. She slid into the warm, silky water with a moan of sheer pleasure.

  Music came on in the bedroom. Not country but jazz, a female singer with a sultry voice. Norah Jones. Ty came into the bathroom and studied her. A slow smile spread over his face. “Oh yeah.”

  “You’re not playing country music.”

  “Cowboys are allowed to be versatile.”

  “I’ve noticed that.” She flicked a few water drops at him. “Want to be versatile in here with me?”

  He shucked his clothes. The sight of his cock swelling sent a surge of neediness through her own body.

  “How are your aches and pains?” He urged her forward, settling in behind her.

  “Better every moment.” She leaned back against him, feeling the pressure of his growing erection against her bottom.

  He turned on a switch and Jacuzzi jets blasted water against her, then immediately he turned the force down. “Sorry, it was set for me. Is this okay?”

  “It feels wonderful. And not just the water.” She wriggled her butt against his erection.

  He thrust gently against her and reached one big hand around to toy with her breast and tease the nipple.

  She was sleepy, yet the tingly fresh scent energized her. Her body was tired and achy, yet Ty, naked, fondling her breast stimulated and aroused her. Then his hand dropped lower, went between her legs. He brushed her clit, making her moan, then did it again. Nice, very nice, but not what she had in mind. “I want you inside me. Slow and lazy, not fast and hard.”

  “I can do that.”

  They both rose partially so he could dry and sheathe himself. He slid into her from behind, easing her down to sit on his lap, her thighs lapping his as they settled back into the tub.

  She purred with satisfaction.

  One of his arms came around her waist, steadying her as he pumped slowly, so slowly, sliding in and out of her the tiniest bit.

  It made the sensations more focused, more intense. She was more aware of her body, of his, not just the insistent drive to orgasm she felt when he pumped hard. She tightened her internal muscles around him, felt him pulse in response.

  His free hand toyed with her nipple again, creating a sweet ache that fed the throb of arousal between her legs.

  She leaned back to rest her head against Ty’s strong chest. The uncovered window was black, hiding the vast, foreign world outside. The only world that counted was this intimate one where candlelight flickered and Ty moved sensually inside her. To enhance the sensations, she closed her eyes.

  Now there was only the tingly scent in the air, the silky warmth of the water, the gentle swirl from the Jacuzzi jets. The tensile strength of Ty’s body under and inside her, the soft rasp of his breath, her own occasional moan of pleasure. They were in a warm, wet, pulsing, golden cocoon of eroticism.

  She shifted her butt ever so slightly, tightened her muscles, changed the angle.

  He didn’t keep up a steady rhythm. Instead, he moved, moved again until her body quivered, then he stopped, resting inside her, until she was on the verge of begging him to please, please move again. Then, he did it.

  “Your achy muscles feel better?” His
voice was a husky rumble close to her ear.

  “Muscles? I have muscles?” she murmured. “I’m melting. Inside and out.” Except for the tight, achy need that was building.

  “Touch yourself.”

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Too tempted to resist, she slid her hand down between her legs. Her clit was swollen, and touching it was bliss.

  She opened her eyes and looked down. Her body was slim, the untanned parts pale. Ty’s strong legs were pale too, down to midthigh, and brown below that. Sometimes he must wear shorts rather than jeans. His cock thrust into her, thick and utterly male, brushing her hand. Her finger, so small and delicate in comparison, pressed her clit.

  Inside her, tension built. “I’m going to come,” she whispered. And then she did, crying, “Oh, Ty!” as waves of release throbbed through her.

  He kept moving, slowly, inevitably, and that insistent slide of his cock inside her prolonged the pulsing near-ache of her climax. “Your turn.” She clasped the base of his shaft in her fingers, pumping him in time with his thrusts.

  His pace increased, his breathing rasped faster, then with a groan, he too exploded.

  When his last spasms finally ended, Kim relaxed back against him. “I may never move again.”

  A kiss landed in her hair. “Can’t have you turning into a prune. And speaking of fruit, are you ready for blackberry pie?”

  She was ready to fall asleep on him, right here in the bath. But that pie had looked yummy. “I never turn down dessert. But didn’t you say last night that you’re not into dessert?”

  “I make an exception for anything homemade with fruit in it.”

  “Good exception.” Steadying herself against both edges of the tub, she managed to get to her feet. Dripping, she reached for one of the nutmeg brown towels on a rack. The thing was huge, a bath sheet not a towel.

  Ty released the drain plug, and rose to follow her.

  After they dried off, she chose leggings, a tee, and a thong from her overnight bag and got dressed. He pulled on sweatpants, nothing else, and hand in hand they went down to the kitchen. The lights seemed awfully bright as she plunked down at the table.

  He held up the pie, its golden brown lattice top streaked with blackberry juice. “Warmed up, with vanilla ice cream?”

  “Yum.”

  The pieces he cut were generous. After putting them in the microwave, he said, “Coffee, tea, milk?”

  She shook her head. “No thanks, just water.”

  He poured her a glass, and one of milk for himself, then put the heated pie on the table along with a carton of ice cream. Sitting across from each other, they served themselves ice cream and dug in.

  Ty’s gorgeous naked torso was distracting—at least until she took her first bite of warm pie with melting ice cream. “Mmm. Your mother’s a great cook. Does she grow the blackberries in her garden?”

  “You don’t know about blackberries, do you? They grow wild, like weeds. The kids who ride here pick pails full and bring them to us. Mom freezes them and makes jam, syrup. Gives some back to the kids.”

  “She’s an amazing woman.” Kim savored another bite, along with the view across the table. “She does all the old-fashioned female stuff plus raises animals and helps run the business. And she was a terrific mother.”

  “All of that.”

  She remembered what they’d been talking about when Betty Ronan had driven up. “You never did describe your perfect woman.”

  A flicker of something she couldn’t read touched his eyes then was gone. “Someone who loves this kind of life, loves horses and wants to help me with them, loves kids and wants to have two or three. Someone who’s, you know, not pretentious. Just natural, fun. Smart.”

  “Loyal,” she added, thinking of his birth mother.

  “For sure.”

  “That sounds like a good fit for you.” Why should she feel a twinge of jealousy? She wanted Ty to find his perfect wife and live a wonderful life. Just like she wanted to find her own perfect husband. Her eyelids drooped from tiredness, but she was too curious to let this subject go. “What’s wrong with all the women you’ve met?”

  “I’ve dated some nice women. On the rodeo circuit and here. But nothing’s clicked.”

  “What’s the longest you’ve gone out with someone?”

  He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw. “Uh, about a year, I guess. Not long after I bought this place. A woman who runs a therapeutic riding school for kids.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s for children with disabilities. Horses and riding help them in all sorts of ways. Physical strength and coordination, confidence, communication skills, and so on.”

  “Like art therapy. That’s terrific. What was wrong with her?”

  “Not a damned thing. I really liked her, but it didn’t go further than that. But I saw that for her, well . . .”

  “She was falling for you,” she guessed, “and you didn’t want to hurt her?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s weird how someone can look perfect on paper, but that doesn’t mean the emotions will be there.” And someone could look all wrong on paper, and yet you found yourself not just lusting after his sexy body, but beginning to care for him.

  “Personal experience? That guy Henry?”

  His words jolted her away from her silly romantic daydream. “Henry?” Perfect on paper, that was what she’d said. “Right. He’s smart, successful, a good son. Considerate, nice-looking.” She sighed. “I thought I loved him. Or maybe I figured I was supposed to love him. And he was a tie to home, and I was homesick.”

  “What happened?” He’d finished his pie and went to cut another slice, muscles rippling and flexing. This was not a man who had to worry about calorie intake.

  “We got into a habit, doing and saying the same old stuff. There was no spark, no excitement.” No, she wouldn’t discuss their ho-hum sex life with Ty. “He’s very conventional. I do believe in traditional values, but I’m more experimental.”

  “He’s too much like your parents.” He sat down again with his pie.

  “Maybe. He did encourage me to go into the family business.”

  “Was he worried you couldn’t make a living from art?”

  “It was more about duty and loyalty. A good Chinese kid does what their parents want.”

  “A person has to think for themselves.”

  “Tell that to my parents.” She tried to capture the last smears of blackberry syrup and melted ice cream. If she’d been alone, she’d have picked up the plate and licked it. “It’s a cultural difference. I know most Westerners don’t get it.”

  “Hmm. Want more pie?”

  She groaned. “It’s so good, but I’m full and I’m sleepy. Maybe for breakfast?”

  “Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “See, this is the effect you have on me,” she teased back.

  He rubbed his index finger gently over her top lip, held it up to reveal a smear of ice cream, then stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked it. “Do I have any other effect on you?”

  Despite her exhaustion, desire rippled through her. She caught his hand and brought it down to her plate, rubbed his finger in the remaining smears, then brought his finger to her own mouth. “One or two.” She sucked his finger in between her lips and swirled her tongue around it. “Take me to bed, Ty.”

  * * *

  The next night, Sunday, Kim went to bed early, worn out in many delicious ways.

  When she’d left the ranch after sex and a breakfast of blackberry pie and coffee, eager to get to work on her winged umbrella idea, Ty had asked when they’d get together again. She’d said, “I’ll give you a call.” She wanted to be with him but her brain said she needed to spend time away from his seductive influence, and decide whether this was a good idea.

  Lust, casual sex, it was all so unlike her. She wouldn’t be dumb like his birth mom and blow the whole thing out of proportion. A romance between her and Ty wasn’t someth
ing either of them would consider. Besides, she had UmbrellaWings—that was the name she’d decided on—to work on, which she did all day, growing more excited every minute. Maybe the smartest move would be to concentrate on work and forget about the cowboy.

  When Kim dropped into bed at nine, she stretched achy muscles and thought enviously of Ty’s Jacuzzi. Of Ty in that Jacuzzi with her . . . No, she couldn’t daydream. She needed to finish the second third of Ride Her, Cowboy.

  Nineteen

  Propped up on pillows, Kim studied the half-naked cowboy on the cover and remembered the waitress asking Ty if he was a cover model. Giggling, she opened the book.

  Another evening on the range, sitting around a campfire. The days had a sameness. The same men were driving the same cattle across lonely, spectacular country, then gathering by the fire to eat and drink. Yet Marty’s journalist brain was attuned to the details.

  Len, the cowboy who turned out gourmet fare over the fire, was the oldest of the bunch. Though he never complained, he hobbled when he climbed off his horse at the end of the day. She’d asked him if he was okay and he’d said, “Old bones, Marty. We’re none of us as young as we used to be. Just glad I can still be doin’ this.”

  She also noticed when Dirk told Len to stop hogging the frying pan and let him cook them all Sloppy Joes. He hadn’t said a word about the older man’s frailty; he let him keep his dignity.

  The food Dirk produced tasted just fine too, with a bite of spicy pepper that had them all reaching for their beer. It seemed Dirk was competent at pretty much everything.

  Though he was the boss and a natural-born leader, he worked harder than any of the others—and none of them were slackers. Dirk saw everything and dealt with it: a steer with a mind of its own, a horse that developed a limp, a journalist who had fallen behind as she changed lenses on her camera. When a calf cut its legs on rocks, he roped it and brought it down, then tended to the cuts, his hands deft and gentle.