When Dawson didn’t immediately reach up and begin to undo his buttons, Kennedy impatiently grabbed him by the front of his work shirt and pulled him into the room. Ignoring his weak protests, she pushed his back against the closest wall and pressed up against him.
Unlike the other girls who had propositioned him in the past, Kennedy’s body was hard and firm as she pressed it against his. She also didn’t waste any time on sweet words or false promises.
Her rough hands moved firmly to his waist and pulled his shirt out of his pants. Once the fabric was free, she hastily yanked it up over his head.
Momentarily blinded, he cursed, then startled to hear a bark of laughter from Kennedy. Eagerly pulling his shirt off, he looked at her, but his teasing smile fell into an open-mouthed gasp as he spotted her.
With her hands on her hips and an unflinchingly serious expression on her face, she stared back at him, topless. Her shirt was crumpled on the ground between them.
His first thought had been shock at how pale her skin was underneath her t-shirt. The difference in pigments marked by the distinct tan lines around her neck and upper arms fascinated him. Letting his eyes travel over the paler terrain, he took in her small but firm breasts and her muscular waist. His eyes lingered there a moment, until he noticed the silence had stretched out too long.
Glancing up, he met her narrowed gaze. There was something harsh and challenging in her stare, but the way her arms slowly rose to cross over her chest spoke of a mounting vulnerability as well.
Dawson knew he had to speak carefully to relieve her unease, and sugary compliments wouldn’t work on this breed of girl.
Smiling roguishly, he nodded toward her bared skin. “Cute freckles,” he teased.
The tension broke. “Shut up!” she snapped, but her eyes were bright as she shoved him to the ground.
There was a sharp inhale of breath throughout the crowd as the bronco bucked violently. Pulled out of his thoughts, Dawson looked to the ring in alarm, but Kennedy held on. She was determined to finish her ride today, just as she had been determined to do the same last night.
She had reached for her belt buckle, and he had hastily done the same. Kicking off his boots and jeans, he had just managed to bare himself when she dropped onto the ground beside him. They were both already breathing hard as she climbed on top of him and spread her legs.
Without any preamble, Kennedy had then reached down between their bodies and with one rough hand, gripped him tightly to guide his cock inside her opening.
Watching her ride now, Dawson’s mind relived their encounter the night before. As the jumping bronco came down hard on the ground, he remembered his exhilaration as she pushed him down onto the pile of spare horse blankets.
As her legs tightened around her bucking mount, his abdomen ached where her strong thighs had gripped him as she straddled him. The chain around his neck had been her rein as she used her hips and legs to set their rhythm.
It had been a uniquely gratifying experience. Her vagina was tight and hot, but it wasn’t very wet, despite her aggressive interest in their encounter. Her cunt gripped him roughly as he thrust up into her, and the limited lubrication increased the friction to the very edge between pleasure and pain.
She smelled of sweat, rope, and horses. Her body was hard, her hands calloused.
When he reached up and squeezed her breasts, she didn’t gasp or moan as his previous girlfriends had. She cursed obscenely, lips pulled back in a feral smile, and slammed her hips down, grinding hard against him.
He groaned loudly as she mimicked her countless bronco rides, bucking up and down on his hard shaft. Her grip was bruising, and her eyes burned with need. Her tight pussy squeezed him, but gradually moistened; her movements grew more fluid.
Gripping her hips to help her find a less jarring rhythm, he let her sate herself on his cock, more than content to have her use him while he watched her small breasts shiver, the tight, pink nipples too tempting to ignore.
He plucked them with one hand, ignoring the tightening of her jaw and the resumed frenzy of her crashing hips. A light sheen of sweat coated both their bodies. Their breath grew more labored. And then she raised one hand, her back arched, and her movements slowed to a rolling gait as whimpers seeped from her mouth. Her eyes closed, and she appeared lost inside herself.
He’d watched, transfixed, as all her hard edges seemed to melt away with the pleasure causing the sweet convulsions rolling through her hot walls.
He hadn’t dared to embrace her, but he’d been satisfied knowing her stress and worry were exhausted away long before they reached a mutual climax. When Kennedy and Dawson did both finally orgasm, they sagged down onto the itchy, coarse blankets, trembling from the exertion and exposed emotions.
Rolling over, Dawson stared into her eyes. She was too tired for pretenses and looked back at him honestly. The raw emotions cut right to his core: fear, anxiety…desire.
Reaching out, he took her hand and squeezed it. “I love you, Kennedy.”
Rolling her eyes, she stretched out on her back and folded her arms under her head. “I don’t want to hear that right now. I just want to relax.”
“What about tomorrow then?” he teased, biting at her earlobe.
Growling, she had rolled over and pinned him again, sliding her hips over his, then coming down to kiss him—not a tender gesture, but a fierce, hot brand. When she lifted her head, her lips turned up in a confident smirk as she promised, “When I win, then you can tell me.”
Watching her now as the final seconds of her round ticked down, he let himself relax. There was such a sharp contrast between the stiff tension and nervous energy that had plagued her the night before and her condition today. She was in the perfect shape to ride; her body was loose, her mind focused, and, regardless of the outcome, her confidence and pride would be restored by her bold performance.
Dawson grinned and began to make his way toward the nearest gate as the crowd began to cheer wildly. He didn’t need to hear the announcer’s declaration to know who had finally won.
THE RANCH HAND
Sedona Fox
The Solt Ranch was a prime piece of Montana real estate. With his health declining as it was, and no sons to take over the cattle business, John Solt all but jumped at the offer presented to him in a letter from a wealthy businessman in Nevada. Forsythe had made his fortune in the California gold rush and was looking for a more sustainable investment. Like any good investor, Forsythe knew that gold veins could run out at any time, but raising cattle would last for generations. John’s only obstacle was his daughter. Headstrong and independent, she wanted nothing to do with the offer.
“Papa, this is our place! You can’t mean to sell it,” Charlene said, anger stiffening her spine. “I can run it just fine on my own, if you’d just give me half a chance.”
“It’s not a woman’s place to control the operations of a ranch,” John said. “It takes a man’s business sense to keep the respect of his employees. Besides, it wouldn’t be a sale outright. The future of our land depends on you, Charlene.”
Something in his tone made her eyes narrow in suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her father cleared his throat, and she saw his dread as he revealed the second part of the offer. “Forsythe is sending a ranch hand ahead of him to determine the worth of the land and of…you,” he said gently. “He wants your hand in marriage. He wishes to settle down and believes that a union with you will help in the transition of ownership with the workers.”
Charlene’s furious eyes burned with unshed tears. “So I’m just another business transaction? Something to be sold like a head of cattle? How can you even consider such a thing? I thought you cared about me.”
“Charlene, my love for you is why I am considering his proposal. I want to be sure you’re taken care of when I pass. His man is arriving tomorrow, and I expect you to be on your best behavior while he’s here. And please, start wearing something feminine. I can’t h
ave you traipsing around in pants and boots, pretending you’re one of my employees.”
“Papa! How can you do this to me?” She tried to hold the tears back. “I don’t want to marry some fat, pompous businessman. He’s probably old, and hideously ugly too. Why else would he send such a ridiculous offer through the mail?”
“Please do this for me.” John spoke with a dejected voice. “You don’t know that Forsythe is all of those things. He could be perfect for you.”
She sighed as a single tear escaped. “Only for you, Papa.”
Charlene escaped to her room and quietly broke down as she rummaged through the cedar chest at the foot of her bed for something her father would consider appropriate. After choosing a deep blue dress, she laid out the undergarments she would be forced to endure the next day: corset, underskirts, and stockings. She hated each item. They constricted her and made her look fragile. Once she had bathed and dressed for bed, she braided her long brown hair and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Charlene had thought that, at barely twenty, she still had time to enjoy her youth. But no longer. Now she would be judged according to her worth as the possession of a man she had never seen.
After a restless night, Charlene dressed and met her father for breakfast. She had taken great care with her appearance to please him, even arranging her hair into a loose bun at the crown of her head and held in place with a carved bone comb. As for the ranch hand and his employer, she couldn’t care less what they thought of her. She was already planning to sneak away at every opportunity to perform her usual ranch chores. If the new ranch hand caught her in the act, all the better.
Then perhaps he would take word back to Forsythe that the woman he sought was uncontrollable and boyish. As it was, she felt short of breath from the corset and was unable to eat much. She wanted nothing more than to take a pair of shears to the torturous garment.
“You look beautiful this morning,” John said, smiling his approval. “Thank you. I know how much you detest wearing such things.”
“Only for you, Papa,” she muttered once more, not daring to look at his face for fear she would burst into tears again.
The arrival of Forsythe’s man caused a stir among the workers as he rode past the corrals. John and Charlene stood on the porch awaiting his arrival, the rattling of Charlene’s nerves adding to the suffocation of her clothing. As he approached, she could see that his horse carried not only its rider, but several dusty saddlebags and a coiled rope hanging down the right flank. The rider himself was attired in well-worn leather chaps covering his denims, a light brown bib shirt, and a darker brown oilskin coat. His tan pinchfront cowboy hat shadowed his eyes and obscured his expression.
He brought the steed to a halt, dismounted, and walked up the steps to greet her father. Charlene took in the sight of him: a regular ranch hand type. When he removed his leather gloves, she saw calluses on his palms—this man worked hard. The muscular build that filled out his clothing also spoke to years of hard labor. What astonished Charlene, though, was his height. Her father was taller than most at five foot ten, but this man made him look small—he was at least six foot three.
Removing his hat and stuffing the gloves inside, he held out a hand to John. “Morning, Mr. Solt. Name’s Jesse Broadwell, Mr. Forsythe’s head ranch hand.”
His deep voice had a slight drawl, and its timbre sent a strange chill down Charlene’s spine.
“Morning, Mr. Broadwell. This is my daughter, Charlene.”
Turning to face her, the ranch hand showed her the most disarming smile. “Ma’am,” he said with a nod. “Please, you can both just call me Jesse.”
He hadn’t looked away from her as he spoke the last part, and Charlene couldn’t help but stare. Deep down she knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help herself. Jesse’s blonde hair was just long enough that it fell into his startling blue eyes. His skin was a golden tan, and his smile revealed the most charming laugh lines she had ever seen. The stubble on his face gave him a rugged appearance, but it didn’t take away from his youthful looks. She would have guessed he couldn’t be more than twenty-eight.
“Would you care for some breakfast, Jesse?” John asked, apparently oblivious to Charlene’s lack of manners.
Jesse finally broke their gaze and looked back to the man addressing him. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like to start familiarizing myself with the operations here. Mr. Forsythe will arrive in a week’s time wanting a full report, so it’s best I begin as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” John said with a smile. But Charlene could hear a hint of sadness. Only one week and the fate of his ranch and his daughter’s future would be decided.
John and Charlene, along with some of the senior ranch hands, spent the morning giving Jesse a tour of the ranch. Charlene stole glances when she was certain he wasn’t looking. But he caught her a time or two, and she would have sworn he’d been watching her too in those moments. She blushed then, but not from embarrassment. There was a heat in his gaze that made her imagine being pressed up against his bare chest, his lips trailing down her throat to the edge of her corset.
At lunch time, he chose to eat with the workers and get to know them and their duties. It was for the best, as far as Charlene was concerned. She couldn’t bear the distraction of trying to share a meal with Jesse. He spent the rest of the day getting into the routine of the ranch, even working through dinner.
John insisted that Charlene take food to Jesse’s quarters, despite her objections. When he said he was fatigued and would be retiring to bed; she conceded out of concern for his health rather than for Jesse’s appetite. She wanted so badly to get out of her uncomfortable clothes and check on things with the employees—she knew they would divulge any worthy gossip about the new arrival. Instead, she did as she was told and walked to the outbuilding that served as guest quarters with a basket of food in her hands.
The door was partially open, and she could see him in the lamplight. His back was to her, and he stood in front of the wash basin shaving away a day’s worth of stubble. He wore no shirt or boots, only a pair of clean denims. She watched as the defined muscles in his shoulders and back rippled with each movement he made with the straight razor.
After a moment he stopped, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. Rinsing his face, Jesse turned, wiping the water away with a towel, damp strands of hair falling across his forehead.
Suddenly, her corset felt incredibly tight, and she was short of breath. Dear Lord, Charlene thought, no man has any right to look that good. Her eyes traveled the length of his chest to the waist of his trousers, which hung on his hips at a much too tempting level. His chest had the same golden tan as his face—he must have worked without a shirt quite often. She could picture him performing the strenuous tasks of the ranch, a gleam of perspiration enhancing each swell of muscle.
Heat crept into her face, and she started feeling lightheaded. “I…I brought you dinner,” she breathed out. Why did the air seem so thin? It was getting harder and harder for her to drag it into her lungs. She took a few steps forward, setting the basket on the table.
Jesse shut the door and closed the distance between them. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine…I just…” The room seemed to dim in front of Charlene’s eyes. “Damn corset…I can’t…” She wanted to say she couldn’t breathe, but she wasn’t sure the words had actually escaped her lips before everything went dark. She swore she could feel strong arms wrap around her, preventing her from hitting the floor.
Jesse carried Charlene to the guest bed and gently laid her down. He made quick work of unbuttoning the front of her dress and grabbed his boot knife from the side table, slicing the corset’s lacing on both sides. He never understood why women tortured themselves with such a restricting garment and had seen too many suffer the consequences of the fashion. This woman had seemed uncomfortable from the moment they met, and he wondered if she nor
mally adopted more practical clothing. The healthy sun glow of her skin told him she didn’t spend her days doing needlepoint in the shade.
Now that the corset had been loosened, her breathing came easier. Jesse couldn’t help but place his hand on her cheek as he watched her. He tried to tell himself it was to make sure some kind of fever wasn’t causing her distress. Suddenly, he found himself brushing her bottom lip with his thumb. Her skin was like silk, and he wondered if her hair was just as soft. The space where her full lips parted was like an invitation to kiss her, but he held himself back as her eyelids fluttered, slowly opening to reveal her rich brown eyes.
“How are you feeling, Miss Solt?”
“Charley,” she whispered. Was she delirious? Her eyes did still seem a bit glazed. Or was she mistaking him for someone else? That thought disturbed him.
“Everyone calls me Charley,” she continued. “Except for Papa.” Her gaze flickered around the room and back to him, and she seemed more aware of her situation. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Jesse told her, a slight smirk picking up the corner of his mouth. “Why you women insist on wearing corsets is a mystery to me.”
Glancing down at herself, Charlene’s gaze caught on the open front of her dress and the tattered laces of her corset. The realization of what had happened began to set in, and she sat up quickly, trying to cover herself. The movement placed her face mere inches from his. God, he smelled good. Like leather and soap.
“You should probably take it easy for a few more minutes,” he said. The amusement vanished from his face and his voice sounded just a little deeper.
As he spoke, he moved even closer, and she could feel his warm breath on her lips. Charlene felt short of breath again and closed her eyes. This time she knew it wasn’t the corset.
Jesse’s mouth pressed against hers, gently at first. As her lips parted, he slid his tongue inside and heat instantly swept through her, settling low in her body. She ran her hands along his chest, so hard and masculine, sculpted from years of wrestling livestock to the ground. It made her think of him wrestling her to the ground, the two of them struggling for dominance as their skin touched, sparking even more passion between them.
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