The dimples on either side of Dylan’s lips flashed. “Good on ya, mate.”
Kerrie’s immaculately waxed eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I have no idea what you just said but it gave me chills. Chills!” He turned back to Monet. “Mon cher, if you don’t take this man home right now and ride him silly, I will.”
Monet opened her mouth to tell Kerrie—one of her favorite gallery curators, and one of New York’s most flamboyant—that she wasn’t riding Dylan anywhere, but was stopped by the Australian’s deep, completely relaxed laugh.
“I like that idea. Got any spurs? They wouldn’t let me bring mine through Customs.”
Struggling to hide the unsettling affect Dylan and Kerrie’s tête-à-tête was having on her libido, Monet wrapped her fingers around Dylan’s biceps and gave a little tug. “Come on, cowboy. Time to leave.”
Swinging his gaze to her face, he tapped his fingers to the brim of his hat and, in a flawless American drawl, said, “Yes ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think I prefer the ‘g’day love’.”
He laughed and, with a wink at Kerrie, willingly let her lead him from the gallery.
* * * *
He should have flown straight back home. The second he made eye-contact with Monet Carmichael—no, change that, the second he saw Monet Carmichael—in her snug black leather pants, with her wild tumble of dark hair and her tiny waist, kissable lips, cheeky smile and full, round breasts, he should have climbed into a taxi and got his arse back to Australia. Instead, he’d let his dick do the thinking.
Stupid dick.
It had taken all of about five seconds of sitting in the taxi beside Monet, the silence stretching between them as they headed for her apartment, to know his trouble wasn’t Phillip “I’m a Wanker” Montinari. It was his own libido.
Twenty minutes of chatting later, during which he answered her casual questions about Australia and Farpoint and God knows what else—truth be known his brain wasn’t really paying attention to anything except the memory of their kiss back in the gallery—they finally pulled to a halt outside Monet’s building.
Two minutes after that, with Tommy Taberknackle’s curious stare following him through the door like a bush fly that wouldn’t leave him alone, Dylan found himself riding the lift with Monet to her apartment.
Her apartment. The one right next to Annie’s. The apartment he was meant to be sleeping in tonight.
Dylan fought the urge to shuffle his feet. Neither he nor Monet had raised the issue of that kiss, as if by ignoring their shameful behavior, it hadn’t happened. That was stupid, of course. It had happened. He still had the semi hard-on to prove it. His balls throbbed with unmet need.
And yet here they were, pretending otherwise.
Pretending they were just acquaintances with a mutual friend.
A tense silence stretched between them as the lift slowly rose, tugging on Dylan’s churning stomach.
Bloody hell, he felt nervous. Like the time he and Hunter got caught by their dad when they were ten, sneaking a peek at a Playboy owned by one of Farpoint Creek’s hired hands. Their father’s reaction had been simple. He hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, studying them with those piercing blue eyes of his before walking away. The next morning, Dylan and Hunter found themselves with the task of rounding up all the breeding heifers due to be serviced. On foot. Without the aid of any of Farpoint’s working dogs or jackaroos.
It was a lesson both Dylan and Hunter got straight away. Sex is a fact of life and comes with a whole lot of hard work. Both had remembered that lesson and, while he and Hunter had certainly had their fair share of sexual partners by the time they were in their thirties, they’d each taken something different from the childhood lesson.
For Dylan, it was don’t get caught with your pants down unless you’re prepared for sweat, shit and a whole lot of pain.
For Hunter, it was don’t get caught. Period.
Is that why you’re nervous now, Dylan? You’ve been caught with your pants down? In the metaphorical sense? Here for one woman and kissing another in front of a crowd?
No, he was nervous because he didn’t know what to say to Monet. What to do when they crossed the threshold into her apartment and the door closed behind them. Because try as he might, and for Annie’s sake, he was trying bloody hard, he couldn’t forget how amazing Monet felt in his arms.
The soft chime of the lift told him they’d stopped, as did the sudden clunk of the twin doors sliding apart.
Dylan’s heart smashed into his throat. He drove his nails into his palms.
Walk into her flat, ask to use the phone and call home. That’s what you’re going to do. Walk in, call Hunter, ask him about Annie, talk to Annie and then take a shower. And once you’re under the water, take matters into your own hands and flog the shit out of your dick until all these traitorous, wrong thoughts about Monet are gone. That’s what you’re going to—
“Dylan? Are you going down again?”
He blinked at Monet’s question, and before he could stop it, an image of him burying his face between her long thighs filled his head. His cock pulsed in his jeans, more than happy with the idea of going down on her.
“Dylan?”
She stood outside the lift, holding the doors apart with one hand, wearing an expression he’d call apprehensive.
Stay in the lift, Sullivan. Say “see ya later, Monet”, hit the down button and get your arse back to Farpoint.
“Monet,” he began, blood roaring in his ears. “I…”
“I’ll make us a cup of coffee and you can have a shower while I call the airline,” she said. “See if I can locate your luggage for you.”
He should have stuck to his guns. He should have said, “No, I’ll get a hotel room.” But he didn’t. With a nod, his chest so tight he could barely draw breath, he stepped from the lift.
What are you doing, Sullivan?
He didn’t have an answer. Not one he wanted to consider, anyway. He followed Monet down the hall, past a row of doors that, like the buildings outside, highlighted the fact he was a fish out of water. Behind every door was a different home. A different family. All living side by side with their neighbors, almost in each other’s hip pockets. So close you’d be able to hear them shout at the telly while watching the latest cricket match. The closest neighbors Dylan had back home were a thousand kilometers away, six hundred and twenty-one miles as the crow flies. You could have the whole of this apartment complex come watch the backyard game of cricket and his neighbors still wouldn’t hear the shouts and cheers.
Every step he took closer to Monet’s door drove it home. He was somewhere he wasn’t meant to be. What the hell was he doing? Even if things had worked out with Annie, he was an Australian bloody grazier. Not a city boy. He was meant to be rounding up cattle, not punching out art collectors. He shouldn’t have come. This was lunacy. Lunacy.
“This is it.” Monet stopped at a door at the end of the hallway. Dylan drew in a shaky breath, staring hard at the gold metal number screwed onto what looked like polished oak—42D.
“And that’s Annie’s home just there.”
Monet pointed behind Dylan and he turned, a thick lump forming in his throat at the sight of the closed door opposite Monet’s.
41D. Annie’s home. The apartment he was meant to be sleeping in tonight.
The sound of a lock releasing, followed by the soft clunk of a door opening, turned him back to Monet. She had crossed the threshold into her home and was standing a few feet inside, watching him.
It’s now or never, Dylan. Are you going to tempt fate? Or run?
He stepped into Monet’s apartment.
An unreadable tension pulled at her features. She took a quick breath and then turned away from him, crossing the simply decorated room. “The bathroom is through there,” she threw over her shoulder, waving a hand toward a corridor that disappeared behind a state-of-the-art kitchen. “There are clean towels hanging on the racks and new soap in the cup
board under the basin. I’m sorry I can’t help you with clothes. You’ll just have to—”
She stopped talking, as if what she was about to say next refused to leave her throat.
Go naked?
Dylan ground his teeth at his mental completion of her sentence. A shower was definitely in order. A cold one. Icy in fact.
Shucking out of his beat-up denim jacket, he placed it over the back of the closest armchair and headed for the bathroom. “Thanks for this,” he said, trying not to watch Monet’s path through her apartment. “Won’t be long.”
He had to get a grip. Hell, if nothing else, he had to clear his head. Apart from the quick nap he’d had on the flight from Sydney to LA, he hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours. Perhaps that was the explanation for his bloody disgusting behavior?
Bullshit. And you know it. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’re attracted to Monet. The kiss was just the tip of the iceberg.
So what the hell did he do about it?
Chapter 4
Growing up in the drought-prone Outback, where water was scarce and every drop precious even on a cattle station the size of Farpoint Creek, had taught Dylan a lot of things. At this point, however, only two mattered—how to shower quickly and how to jerk off quickly.
The second he stepped under Monet’s showerhead, the cold water striking his bare flesh like a hundred icy needles, he reached for his balls. He cupped them, rolling their weight in his palm, his eyes closing as the ensuing sensation began to spread through his lower body. He moved his fingers to his semi-rigid erection, wrapping them around his girth. A hot spasm claimed his cock and the organ grew thicker, harder in his grip. He rested his forehead against the cold tiles, increased his pressure on his dick, trying to picture Annie in his mind.
Trying. Trying.
Failing.
Monet filled his head. The warm sound of her laughter, the husky sound of her voice, the exotic sound of her accent. The feel of her lips against his as she’d kissed him in the gallery, her breasts against his chest. He bit back a groan, disgust tainting the base pleasure radiating through him. And yet, it didn’t stop him. He choked his dick and pumped harder, succumbing to the memory of Monet in his arms.
“Fuck.” He ground his teeth, allowing his mind to tell him it was her hand pleasuring him. Her thumb rolling over the sensitive knot of flesh beneath his bulbous cockhead, slicking his pre-come over his wet flesh. He pressed his forehead harder to the tiled wall, eyes shut tight, jaw bunched, fucked his dick with his hand and let himself believe it was Monet’s.
The deception was far too easy to believe.
Disgust shot through him again. Disgust and guilt. What would he say to Annie when he spoke to her next? How would he ever look at her knowing how much lust he felt for her best friend?
Who the fuck are you kidding? If this is the way you feel about Monet, you know what you thought you had with Annie isn’t real. If Annie really was your soul mate, there’s not a hope in bloody hell you’d be jerking off to the thought of another woman.
The truth was harsh, and yet it didn’t abate the raw pleasure building in his body. With every punishing pump of his cock the thought of Monet grew stronger until, with a choked-back roar, he came, his seed spurting from his distended cock in thick white wads, splashing against the tiles.
Dylan let out a ragged gasp, watching his release swirl the wrong way down the drain at his feet.
And still he felt strained. Charged with adrenaline. Like the time he’d tried rodeo riding at nineteen. Hunter had challenged him to a ride-off at the Wagga Wagga rodeo and he’d ended up on the back of the meanest bull on the Australian circuit. He’d never felt so bloody scared and so damn alive as he had during those insane six seconds. Until now.
Lifting his face to the cold shower stream, Dylan let go of his spent cock and bit back a strangled groan. Fuck. What did he do now?
Tell Monet? Annie? Shit, ring his brother and ask Hunter for advice?
With a muttered curse, he snapped off the water. He had to call home. That was the first thing. He had to make contact with someone there. If nothing else, hear an Australian bloody accent. Maybe then he’d get back some control.
The towel he snatched from the rail was soft and thick and fluffy, nothing like the towels he usually dried himself with. It smelled like jasmine and roses and, as he scruffed it against his face, he found himself wondering if Monet’s pussy smelled the same.
For fuck’s sake, Dylan. Stop it.
He refused to look at himself as he shoved the damp towel into the laundry basket next to the bath. Nor did he check out his reflection as he raked his fingers through his hair, trying to comb the wet strands into some semblance of order. Realizing he had no clean underwear, he shoved his legs into his jeans, jerked up his fly and then folded his boxers into a square before shoving them in his back pocket. He’d deal with them later.
After you confess everything to Annie on the phone? Or after you tell Monet you want to bury yourself in her sweet pussy and fuck her until you both—
Dylan yanked open the door and strode out of the bathroom before the intoxicating thought could take hold of his body and flood his cock with fresh, rigid heat.
“Monet?” Her name came out a rasping growl.
She was nowhere to be seen.
He stood motionless for a moment, looking around the apartment. It was one big open space, separated into areas by furniture. Directly in front of him sat a long, armless plum-red leather chaise facing two white metal-framed armchairs. A low glass coffee table sat between them, covered in art magazines and a few sketchbooks with various drawings of naked people doing the kinds of things Dylan wanted to do to Monet. He also spotted a collection of black sticks he suspected were charcoal. There was a bowl of green apples half covered in more sketches of naked people, two of whom looked like the amorous lovers of FWB.
His cock jerked in his jeans, stimulated by what he saw.
Lifting his attention from the arousing sketches, he made his way beyond the chairs into what appeared to be Monet’s studio, a large space that took up the majority of the apartment. Various tables and desks framed the area, a paint-splattered easel stood in one corner. A pedestal was positioned in the center, on which sat something wrapped in plastic and roughly the size of a kangaroo. Placed a few feet from the pedestal and its plastic-wrapped sculpture was a paisley sofa that looked as if it was as old as Methuselah and just as well loved.
It was a space designed for creation and he had no difficulty seeing Monet in it. A smile pulled at his lips as he moved around the room. He enjoyed being in her space. It was the first time he’d felt comfortable since stepping onto the plane back in Sydney. No, even before that. Since climbing into the family helicopter back at Farpoint Creek to make the five-hour flight to Sydney International Airport, Hunter piloting the thing even as he continued to give Dylan an ear-bashing about the ridiculous nature of his trip.
The thought of his twin brother hit Dylan with something he hadn’t expected. Homesickness. Perhaps it was the alien environment. He stopped at the massive windows that comprised the east-facing wall of Monet’s apartment, his gaze moving over the bright lights of New York. His watch told him it was ten p.m. That meant it was two p.m. tomorrow back home. If he called now, would he get Hunter?
And if you do? What are you going to say?
Pulling his stare from the alien nightscape, he looked for a phone. The sounds of sirens, car horns and constant traffic wafting up from the streets below was nothing like the silence of Farpoint at night, a silence broken only by the occasional song of crickets and frogs in the nearby billabong. It only furthered Dylan’s sense of being out of whack.
In the wrong place, wanting the wrong woman, in the wrong time. You shoulda stayed home.
Spying what he was after, he crossed to the paisley sofa and picked up a paint-and clay-splattered cordless phone. It only took him two goes to correctly recall the prefix needed for dialing Australia
from the U.S. and then, as he stood staring out the window, the dial tone clicked and a familiar woman’s voice said, “Hello. Farpoint Creek.”
Monet didn’t mean to eavesdrop. She’d sequestered herself away in her bedroom, as far from her bathroom as possible, and called Annie’s cell over and over again so she didn’t have to hear the shower running. If she heard the shower running she knew exactly what would happen. Her thoroughly visual mind would present her with thoroughly detailed images of Dylan, thoroughly naked and wet, separated from her by only a few feet of floor space and one bathroom door.
It hadn’t helped. For one, Annie hadn’t answered a single time, damn it. For another, Monet’s mind had done exactly what she hadn’t wanted it to and by the fourth unsuccessful attempt to call her best friend, images of Dylan—stripped of his clothes but not his rugged cowboy sexiness—filled her head.
She’d sat on her bed, wishing to God Annie would answer her phone as she stared fixedly at the wall, trying desperately to not think about the naked man in her shower.
Now, standing at her bedroom door, watching Dylan Sullivan talk quietly on the landline phone in the middle of her studio, she realized she was in trouble. Big trouble.
She was sexually attracted to Annie’s cowboy. A lot.
His deep voice stroked her senses, the words too low for her to understand but not low enough she couldn’t discern his Australian accent. She loved the way he sounded. She loved the way her name sounded on his lips. She could happily sit and listen to him recite the alphabet and by the time he reached Z, which he would no doubt pronounce as zed, she would be so turned on, all it would take was one single flick of her clit and she’d come.
God, she was pathetic. And a coward. If nothing else, she still hadn’t addressed the kiss back in the gallery. She had to assure Dylan it wouldn’t happen again. She remembered how hesitant he’d been to step out of the elevator. As if he were worried she was going to jump his bones the second he was in her apartment.
Outback Cowboy Page 4
