Cowboy Lust: Erotic Romance for Women

by Delilah Devlin

  When the lights came up, we quickly disengaged. Huskily, Cade said, “I need to get you home.”

  “The sooner the better,” I said, my voice just as thick.

  We hurried to the valet stand to wait while a pimple-faced young man found and returned with Cade’s truck, and then I pressed myself against Cade during the drive to my house, the palm of my hand resting on his inner thigh, the heel of my hand brushing against the bulge in his Wrangler jeans. We were so focused on one another in the darkness that we didn’t notice the storm clouds that had gathered through the night.

  We barely made it into the house, the door swinging closed behind us but not quite latching, and then Cade had me in his arms again. He cupped my ass cheeks in his hands and pulled me tight as he buried his tongue in my mouth. Our kiss was hard and deep and took my breath away.

  When the kiss finally ended, he pushed me back a step and unfastened the single clasp behind my neck that held up my dress. Fabric slithered down, revealing my unfettered breasts with their constricted areolas and turgid nipples, and then continued past my hips to reveal my red bikini panties. When my dress pooled around my feet, I stepped out of it and toed off my heels.

  I stood before him wearing only pearls and panties.

  Cade sank to his knees in front of me, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of my panties, and drew them down my thighs until they dropped away on their own. He leaned forward, and his warm breath tickled the closely cropped triangle of blond hair at the juncture of my thighs as he buried his face in my crotch. When he snaked his tongue out and licked my swollen lips, I shifted one foot to spread my thighs and open myself to his oral caresses.

  Cade grabbed my buttocks with his big hands, pulled my crotch to his face, and slipped his tongue into my opening. I was hot, wet, and ready, and I moaned with pleasure as he drove his tongue in and out of me. Then he found the tight nub of my clit, sucked it between his lips, and whipped it with his tongue. He licked, he sucked, he licked again, and I began to move my hips forward and back. And then I came hard, banging my pubic bone against his nose as an orgasm swept through me.

  My pussy was still clenching and unclenching as Cade stood, spun me around, and bent me over the back of my couch. I heard his zipper slide down, and then the fat head of his cock pressed against my slick pussy lips. He grabbed my hips and drove forward, sinking himself deep inside me. He drew back and pushed forward again and again, his powerful thrusts causing the couch to jump a fraction of an inch across the living room floor each time he slammed into me.

  He drove his thick cock faster, harder, deeper, until he drove into me one last time and came with a roar. He leaned against me, trapping me against the back of the couch until he caught his breath and his thick shaft quit spasming.

  After Cade pulled away, I made him strip off his clothes, and then I pushed him back on the couch. I bent over him, took his cock in my mouth, and tasted our coupling as I brought it back to life.

  Then I straddled Cade and lowered myself onto him. I grabbed his Stetson from the coffee table and plopped it on my head while I rode my handsome, weather-hardened rancher, my tits bouncing this way and that until he reached up and took them in his big hands.

  My nipples strained against his palms, my pussy clenched and unclenched around his thick shaft, and I spurred him with my heels as if I were riding his quarter horse. I closed my eyes as I rode him long and hard, and he lasted much longer than he had the first time.

  I came, and then I came again, before Cade finally erupted within me. He grabbed my hips and held me still, but he couldn’t still my convulsing pussy as it milked his thick shaft.

  When I caught my breath, I opened my eyes and looked down at him. He wore the same stupid post-coital facial expression I suspected I wore.

  Then I heard something unexpected and looked up. My unlatched front door had swung open. Anyone passing by could have seen what we were doing, and I was glad neither of us had bothered to switch on the lamp. More importantly, though, I could see my front yard and what was causing the noise.

  Rain.

  Glorious rain.

  The drought had ended.

  For Texas and for me.

  I smiled at the handsome rancher between my thighs. He pulled me down against his chest, knocking his Stetson off my head. We lay together on my couch, watching the storm create mud puddles in my yard, breathing in the fresh scent of rain and the tang of our coupling, and letting our pounding hearts do all the talking.

  I couldn’t predict the fate of Texas, but I knew then that it would be a long, long time before this transplanted Yankee ever experienced another drought.

  ROPED

  Charlene Teglia

  “If I hear ‘Blue Christmas’ one more time, I’m going postal.”

  Regan Morris was too used to talking in court, so she sounded clear and firm and rational when she said it, instead of sounding the way she felt.

  She felt like a toddler on the verge of a meltdown, overstimulated by holiday hype and holiday expectations. A small child who lost it at Christmas got a hug. Attorneys were supposed to act like grownups. And she was trying, but inside was a five-year-old who really wanted a hug and no more reminders of how many other people felt blue, too.

  “I thought misery loved company,” Nancy said. She kept cutting out gingerbread men, unconcerned by Regan’s postal potential.

  “Misery doesn’t want miserable company,” Regan said, not having to work to match her feelings to her definite tone this time. “Misery would rather be on the other side of the window, where all the happy, pretty people are, instead of stuck out in the cold with the miserable crowd.”

  “I’m happy. And pretty,” Nancy said. Her serene assurance wasn’t misplaced. Nancy was gorgeous, even standing in her kitchen in an old pair of Wranglers that had long since frayed at the bottom. The jeans were topped by a stretchy red velvet holiday sweater with fuzzy white trim that should have looked ridiculous, but instead made her look like an elf imported from France to give the North Pole some sophistication. Wisps of dark hair had escaped her sleek updo, but on Nancy, it looked sexy and deliberate instead of messy.

  “Of course you are,” Regan said, instantly contrite. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant.” Nancy straightened and set down her cookie cutter. “I know what the problem is. You want to be Cinderella. You want to go to the ball. And instead, you’re stuck here with me in the kitchen. It’s wrong. You should go to the ball.”

  “Was there a lot of rum in the rum balls?” Regan asked.

  “Yes, but that isn’t the point.” Nancy was focused on something other than pastry now, and from long experience Regan knew that didn’t bode well. Whatever Nancy focused on got done. “You’re blue because you’re single and it’s the holidays, and staying with me and my husband and our two-point-five kids isn’t helping. So your fairy godmother is going to send you to the ball.”

  Regan was fairly sure even Nancy couldn’t produce a formal dance in the wilds of Wyoming, so she helped herself to another treat. “I’m testing these for quality assurance,” she murmured. And also for possible anesthetic properties.

  “Better make that your last.” Nancy finished the tray of gingerbread men with speed and precision, popped them into the oven, and set the timer. “I can get you dressed and lend you a coach, but you’ll have to drive yourself.”

  Regan laughed.

  “No, really. There’s a big party at one of the neighboring ranches. I’ll tell them you’re coming. One more guest won’t be a problem. There are never enough single women out here. You can take the Caddy; I never use it.”

  The Cadillac was a gas-guzzling monster. It was also not built for navigating gravel roads, let alone icy, snow-covered gravel roads. “I’m starting to think you’re serious about this.”

  “I am. Remember when you didn’t go to the senior prom? You were too busy studying and working at your part-time job, saving for college. I didn’t know h
ow to be a fairy godmother then, so I’m making up for it now.”

  Regan’s jaw dropped. “The prom? You think my adult life was in any way affected by not going to the prom?”

  “Maybe. I went; you didn’t. We had different priorities. Your priorities aren’t making you very happy right now, so why not change them?” Nancy dragged her into the walk-in master closet and started rummaging through garment bags. “No. No. Maybe. No…oh, yes.”

  Regan peered at the chosen dress through the clear plastic cover. “No.”

  “Trust me.” Nancy freed the dress and shook it out. About a million miles of green taffeta filled the space between them. “It’s one of those dresses you have to see worn to get the effect.”

  “It looks like a prom dress,” Regan pointed out.

  “It’s Dior. From my modeling days. You couldn’t afford this for prom.”

  “I couldn’t afford it now.” Regan took the dress gingerly. “I have law school debt on top of college debt. Plus a mortgage. I don’t buy Dior gowns.”

  “Which is why you need a fairy godmother. Look, matching shoes!” Nancy fished one out of the bottom of the garment bag and waved it in triumph.

  “I’ll never be able to walk in those,” Regan said.

  “They’re not for walking. They’re for dancing. Let some hot cowboy help you balance, and you’ll be fine. Come on, get changed.”

  Two hours later, Regan decided Nancy’s plan had merit. The shoes were going to cripple her if she didn’t get them off by midnight, but the cowboy two-stepping her cheerfully toward the mistletoe was happy to keep her upright. And since he was used to wrestling steers, a too-thin, overworked attorney wasn’t going to strain his muscles.

  “My turn,” a low voice said in her ear as a hand reached from behind her to tap her partner.

  The voice was familiar. Regan froze as a man stepped into view. A man forever burned into her memory—one she hadn’t expected to see here, now. He was older, harder, with a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile, a face framed by black hair in need of a trim and dominated by eyes that resembled a winter sky with a storm approaching.

  Travis or Tate or whatever his name was surrendered her with the same cheer he’d tried to seduce her with and moved on to the next possibility. The man who replaced him wasn’t going to go away nearly as easily.

  “Regan.”

  “Jonas.”

  They began to dance. Regan had no idea what to say. It took all her concentration not to lose an ankle to the shoes while the man who was damn well not Prince Charming held her close and led her around the room with practiced ease.

  When the silence got to her, she broke it with, “It’s been a long time.”

  “Has it? Seems like yesterday I woke up in that hotel room with no idea if I was going to be a father at eighteen, or if I’d ever hear from you again if I was.”

  Regan stumbled. “Damn these shoes.”

  “I hope they hurt.”

  That was a bit much. Regan pulled herself together, which was difficult to do with one shoe half off. The Dior helped her dignity. She hoped. “This is not the place for this conversation.”

  The gathering storm lit wintry blue eyes. “You’re so right.” Without another word, he swept her off her feet and carried her away from the safety of the crowd.

  “Where are you taking me?” Regan asked, trying to sound unconcerned. She debated stopping him, but really, if he was determined to make a scene, it was better to do it in private, and it wasn’t like he was going to hurt her. Embarrass her, disturb her, maybe. Hurting a woman, however, wasn’t in Jonas’s repertoire.

  She felt less certain on that point when he didn’t answer. Even less sure when he shut her in a distant bedroom, produced a length of rope from the closet, and set her on the bed.

  “Whoa, cowboy.” Regan started to roll away, but he caught her in a firm grip and started winding rope around her wrists with a speed that proved he deserved all his calf-roping wins. “Bondage? Really? What happened to hello?”

  “Hello, Regan.” Jonas continued his work without pausing, making knots and securing the rope to the headboard. “This is my way of making sure you don’t run off before I’m finished with you.”

  “I didn’t run off the last time,” Regan said, exasperated. “You’re a heavy sleeper.”

  “Not that heavy.” Jonas took her shoes and, after a quick glance around the room, opened the window and threw them into a snowbank.

  “Hey!”

  “Can’t run off in the snow barefoot,” Jonas said, crossing muscular arms over his broad chest as he stared down at her.

  “Those weren’t mine,” Regan moaned. “They were Nancy’s. They didn’t come from Payless.”

  “Nancy? That friend of yours who went off to become a supermodel before marrying the cowboy next door?”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t miss them.”

  That was probably true. Regan switched to a topic that might actually get her somewhere. “What are you doing here, Jonas?”

  “It’s my ranch.” He didn’t miss the surprise in her eyes. “Nancy didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” Regan had assumed he’d left forever when he’d gone away to achieve whatever it was the town bad boy was destined for. The vague vision made her realize she hadn’t thought much about an adult Jonas; he’d stayed eighteen in her memory, the dangerous boy all the girls wanted, an impossible dream for a bookish, flat-chested girl.

  Her impossible dream continued to stare down at her, but Regan was used to courtroom tactics and refused to let it intimidate her. She attempted to settle into a comfortable position, although her bound wrists didn’t allow much room to maneuver. “Okay. You wanted to talk. Talk.”

  “Am I a father, Regan?”

  That was straight to the point. “No. I was on the pill.”

  “You were a virgin.”

  Like it had somehow slipped her mind. “Thank you,” Regan said, her voice as dry as the winter air. “I went on the pill at sixteen anyway. Fifty percent of pregnancies in this country are unplanned. I didn’t want to become a statistic.”

  He continued to stare, and she knew the picture she made in the dress, sprawled across the mattress in a cloud of green fabric that brought out the green flecks in her brown eyes and created the illusion of cleavage.

  “You didn’t become a statistic.”

  “No. Is that all?”

  He scowled at her. “Christ, Regan. I knew you your whole life. One day you suddenly decide to ride me like a wild bull, the next you disappear.”

  “I didn’t disappear. I went to school. You went off on the rodeo rounds.” And they hadn’t exactly known each other. Known of each other, yes. But they’d been from different worlds, and she’d understood that perfectly well.

  “You didn’t tell me where. You didn’t leave a number. Nancy was never in the same country for more than five minutes so I couldn’t ask her.”

  Regan’s brows rose. “You wanted to know where I was?”

  “Yes, I wanted,” Jonas growled. His eyes took on a different gleam. “I still want.” He started toward her.

  “I thought you wanted to talk,” Regan reminded him warily. Talking she could cope with.

  “Talking is overrated.”

  When his lips found hers, Regan decided it was a valid point. Why waste lips like those on anything but tasting, testing, sinking into them with all her pent-up frustration and dissatisfaction ?

  So she did, and he kissed her back with all the heated frenzy she remembered from that long-ago night when she’d thrown caution to the wind and given herself one unforgettable going-away present.

  There was a difference, though, the evidence of time and experience tempering the kiss into something stronger, bolder, and more seductive than memory.

  She laughed a little against his mouth.

  He pulled back. “What?”

  “You’ve gotten better at this.”

  “So have you.”
By his narrowed eyes and the deepening tone of his voice, that didn’t seem to be a happy thought for him.

  Irrationally, that pleased her. “Let’s see what else you’re better at.” She waved her bound hands, then stretched them above her head. “I’m at your mercy.”

  “I don’t have any.” Jonas set out to prove his words with action, kissing her into mindless heat before nipping her lower lip, grazing the curve of her neck with the edge of his teeth, and lifting her enough to undo the zipper holding up the dress so the sleeveless bodice slid away without resistance. Cool air tightened her bared nipples into stiff peaks before Jonas covered one with the rough palm of his hand and the other with his wicked mouth.

  Regan let out a choked moan as he used hands, mouth, and teeth to send enough heat rippling through her body to melt the snow outside. She arched up, trying to get more of his exquisite torture, while longing for those hands to move under her skirt and between her legs where she could feel herself growing slick and ready. But she couldn’t use her hands to urge his down, and the knowledge that she really was at his mercy created an erotic tension that heightened every touch, every kiss.

  Jonas raised his head and moved back to push the yards of fabric up to her waist so she was bare above and below it, except for the scrap of a thong she wore. He hooked his fingers into it and tore it away, then looked down at her, a half smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “Why, Regan, you wax now.”

  Unreasonably, that made her blush. “Everybody does,” she mumbled.

  “Not everybody gets the full Brazilian.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “No? Then how do you know what it’s called?”

  “You said it yourself—I’ve gotten better at this. I haven’t spent the past ten years living like a monk.” He tilted his head to one side just a bit, considering her. “I wonder if I remembered to lock the door.”