Outback Cowboy

by Lexxie Couper

  Dylan didn’t miss the bitterness in her voice. He tried to imagine growing up without his family. When his dad had died of a massive heartache while rounding up strays in the far western paddock, Dylan’s whole life had turned upside down, but he and Hunter had drawn strength from each other and love from their mum. What must it be like to not have that sense of security?

  He gave Monet a slow smile, wanting to take away the sorrow he saw in her eyes. Wanting to make her laugh again. He loved her laugh. Just as much as he loved her.

  “Mum’s great,” he said. “And Hunter’s not that bad either, if you ignore his smelly feet. I swear I’ve had to throw him into the cattle dip more than once just so I could take a breath of fresh air.”

  Her eyebrows pulled into a frown. “What the hell is a cattle dip?”

  He laughed, pulling at the waistband of his jeans as he straightened in his chair. After their meal of roast lamb, baked potatoes, pumpkin, steamed green beans and carrots—all smothered in rich brown gravy—he was lucky he could even move. If he were truthful with himself, he’d say he’d eaten so much so he didn’t have to think about his situation. About the damn word home. And yet here he was, talking about it.

  “A cattle dip is a long trough-like concrete tank filled with a chemical solution that the cattle walk through to keep them protected from ticks.”

  Monet’s frown deepened. “And you threw your brother in this?”

  Dylan grinned. “Yep. Often. Especially after he’d gotten all dolled up for a night on the town. He’d come out of his room stinking of aftershave and, before he knew it, I’d crash tackle him, drag him outta the house kicking and screaming and throw him in.” He scratched at his whiskers, enjoying the stunned disbelief on Monet’s face. “Of course, Hunter being roughly the same size as me meant I pretty much always ended up in the drink with him. He’s a strong bloody bastard after all, but it was worth it.”

  She shook her head. “You do actually like your brother, don’t you?”

  Dylan couldn’t stop his laughter. “Bloody oath.” A recent memory of Hunter declaring he wasn’t responsible for filling Dylan’s boots with cow manure—even as he washed his hands clean of the incriminating evidence—came to Dylan, bringing with it a sudden jolt of homesickness. He missed his twin. A lot. This was the first time they’d been more than a few thousand kilometers apart and Dylan hadn’t realized just how lost he felt without Hunter. Was it because he usually shared his happiest moments with his brother, and Hunter wasn’t here in New York to share his happiness now?

  He let out a soft grunt. “Yeah, I love my brother. But I wouldn’t be caught dead telling him that.” He pointed a finger and gave her a stern look. “And if you tell him, I’ll flat out deny it.”

  Monet laughed. “In that case, what should I say you told me about him?”

  “Tell him I said he was as ugly as a hatful of arseholes.”

  Monet’s eyebrows shot up. “As ugly as what?”

  He grinned.

  “Wait, didn’t you say you were twins? Identical twins?”

  Dylan reached for the bottle of beer he’d been slowly drinking throughout the night. “Yeah, but I’m the good-looking one.”

  Monet shook her head again. “Okay, I cry uncle. I don’t think I’ll ever grasp the way you Aussies talk.”

  Dylan raised the bottle to his lips and dropped her a wink. “No worries, love,” he said. “You’ll get the hang of it. Give us another month or so…”

  He trailed away, the realization of what he’d just uttered robbing him of the ability to finish the sentence. A month or so. Not a day or even a week, but a month.

  A thick lump settled in his throat and he lowered the bottle, knowing if he took a mouthful he’d have fuck-all chance of swallowing it.

  A month or so.

  Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he’d obviously made up his mind he and Monet were still going to be in each other’s company. But where?

  A tight vice clamped around his chest and he stared at the woman opposite him. The American artist who should have been just a friend he’d made through Annie.

  He drew a breath. There wasn’t a fucking hope in hell Monet could ever be just a friend. Not anymore. Not after she’d made him feel so…so… Bloody hell. So damn complete.

  He placed his beer on the coffee table, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, studying her. “Monet—” he began.

  “It’s tradition here in America,” she cut him off, her gaze falling to the empty dishes strewn across the table separating them, “to share what we’re thankful for.” She picked up her wineglass, stared at the contents and then raised her gaze to his. “I’m thankful for you, Dylan Sullivan. You’ve made me laugh more times in the last five days than I think I have in a month.”

  Her confession wrapped around his soul. His heart. He stared at her. Wanted her. It was a predicament he had no solution for—she was a New York artist and he was an Australian cowboy. And despite being from completely different worlds, he wanted her. Loved her.

  It was as simple as that.

  “You know what I’m thankful for, Monet?”

  She shook her head, her gaze never leaving his face.

  He gave her a slow smile. “I’m thankful Annie and I got our wires crossed. I’m thankful she went to Australia and I came here. I’m thankful Qantas lost my luggage and took so bloody long to find it and I’m thankful I finally pulled my finger out and called my brother.”

  Monet’s chest rose and fell on a shaky breath. “Because?”

  Dylan straightened to his feet, rounded the coffee table and, with a gentle tug on her hand, drew Monet up to stand before him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, chest to chest. “Because it means I can do this.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. “And this,” he murmured, a heartbeat before he slid his arms around her back and under her knees, scooped her off her feet and carried her to her bedroom.

  He had no fucking clue what was going to happen after tonight, but he knew one thing beyond doubt. He was deeply in love with Monet Carmichael, and right now, he was going to make love to her.

  The way he’d wanted to the moment he’d first laid eyes on her five days ago.

  Chapter 9

  She should have stopped him from lowering her to her bed and undoing her fly with sure fingers. Stopped him from stretching on top of her and kissing her senseless.

  She should’ve stopped him from exploring her mouth and lips with his tongue as his hand ran over her flesh to cup her sex, his fingertips stroking the seam of her pussy with gentle pressure.

  Yes, Monet should have done all those things.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she planted her feet on the bed and shoved her ass off the mattress so she could wriggle her jeans over her hips, all the while continuing to kiss Dylan with a hungry greed she should be embarrassed by.

  But she wasn’t. Because she couldn’t fight this anymore. And if Dylan’s hands on her body and his tongue in her mouth were anything to go by, neither could he.

  Annie…

  Her best friend’s name whispered through her mind. She moaned, part in guilt, part because Dylan’s fingers dipped into her sex and stroked the throbbing button of her clit.

  Annie. You can’t do this to Annie.

  Fresh guilt rolled through her, threading through the sheer pleasure of Dylan’s fingers in her pussy. Tainting it. She moaned again, this time from misery, and pressed her hands to Dylan’s chest, giving him a shove.

  “We,” she panted against his lips, “we can’t, Dylan. Can’t do this to Annie.”

  He lifted his head, and for a split-second Monet’s breath caught in her throat at the raw desire in his green eyes. And then the corner of his mouth curled into a slow smile and her breath left her on a shaky whimper of utter want.

  “Apparently Annie and my brother,” he murmured, teasing her clit with gentle pressure, “are doing their bit for foreign affairs.”

  Monet gazed up
into Dylan’s eyes, heart thumping a little harder at the way he’d stressed the word affairs. “Do you mean…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. What if she’d misunderstood?

  Dylan gave her one slow nod. “I do, and they are. Which means I can do this…” He slipped one finger, then another into her sex. Deep into her sex. And wriggled them. “Without feeling like I’m a deceiving bastard.”

  She hissed, arching her spine as ribbons of pleasure unfurled through her body.

  “And this.” He lowered his head to explore the base of her throat with his lips.

  “And this,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand from her wet pussy to inch her shirt over her belly, her rib cage, until he’d exposed her breasts to the room and captured her tight nipple with his teeth.

  He nipped the pebbled tip of flesh, sucked on it through the silk of her bra and then nipped it again. Monet gasped, the squirming tension in her core escalating quickly. She pressed her thighs together, the ache inside her—the need for Dylan to finally fill her with his cock—almost overwhelming. There was no guilt anymore. No fear of being traitorous to her best friend. No self-doubt or disgust. With Annie and Dylan’s brother doing their own for the U.S.-Australia relationship, there was no reason for Monet to hold back on her desire for Dylan. Her response to Dylan.

  And by the way Dylan was suckling her taut nipple, he wasn’t holding back anymore either.

  He kneaded her breasts with sure, strong fingers, the calloused texture of his hands scratching on the silk of her bra. It was a minute detail, a tiny sensory recognition in an ocean of stimulation and pleasure. She could hear the roughness of his palms catching the material every time he raked his hands over her breasts and it aroused her even more. That his hands were roughened by a life of hard manual work, that his fingers were calloused from roping cattle and riding horses… The sheer masculinity of his touch sent waves of raw need through her and she succumbed. Willingly let herself get lost in every sensation.

  “Oh yes, Dylan,” she murmured, fisting her hands in his hair. “That feels so good.”

  In response, he drew harder on her nipple, laving its tip as he did so, soaking her bra. She closed her eyes and pushed her hips high, her pussy pulsing with urgent demand.

  His hands rasped over her skin, down to her hip. They dipped beneath the waistline of her panties and cupped her ass. Her heart rate quickened, tripping over a beat when the tips of his fingertips brushed the clenching ring of her anus.

  A soft gasp escaped her and Dylan lifted his head, his green gaze an inferno of desire. “I won’t touch you there if you don’t want me to, love.”

  The low words stroked over Monet like a caress. She shivered. There were many things she’d done in her sex life. She wasn’t a prude, but her ass had always been off-limits. There were other parts of her body that enjoyed being touched, sucked, licked and fucked, thank you very much. Other orifices. But when Dylan’s fingers feathered over her puckered hole…

  Another shiver rippled through her and she shifted in his cupping hands. Heat filled her cheeks and she caught her bottom lip with her teeth. “I…I’m not…”

  Dylan shook his head. “Shhh. When, if, you’re ready, you tell me. Otherwise it’s a no-go zone. Promise.”

  I’m ready.

  The words almost slipped from her lips. There wasn’t a molecule in her body that didn’t trust Dylan. That didn’t want to go with him to whatever plane of pleasure he took her to.

  She studied his face, her pulse wild in her throat, her mouth dry, her pussy a hot throb, and nodded. “When I’m ready,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.

  Dylan’s nostrils flared. “Until then, there’s always this.” He smoothed one hand between her thighs and dipped two fingers into her folds.

  Shards of wicked sensation sank into Monet’s very center. She whimpered, lifting one leg to hook it around Dylan’s back. Deeper. She wanted his fingers deeper.

  No, that wasn’t right. She wanted all of him. Now.

  “Dylan,” she murmured, sliding her heel up his back as she tried to draw his cock closer to her sex. “Inside me. I want…” His fingers wriggled within her heat and she released a shaky moan. “Please fuck me. I can’t wait…any longer.”

  “Yes you can.” His lips grazed the cleft between her breasts, up her throat to her earlobe. “I want you so fucking much, love, but I’m not rushing.” His lips nipped at her earlobe. “I’m going to take this slow. Make you come over and over again. With my fingers…” He stroked her g-spot with two purposeful swipes and, as if to prove his point, liquid heat unfurled through her cunt. “With my mouth, my tongue.”

  He nibbled on her neck, each gentle bite sending fresh moisture to her pussy.

  “Oh God.” She couldn’t stop her moan.

  He explored her neck with his lips, all the while seeking the sweet spot within her sex time and again with his fingers. Just when she didn’t think she could survive much longer, when the orgasm building in her core threatened to detonate, he withdrew his hand and eased down her body.

  Dylan stripped her jeans and panties completely off with excruciating slowness before, with a low groan, he captured her clit with his mouth.

  She cried out, the abrupt change in stimulation providing a wicked jolt of electric sensations. He continued to work her body that way, building her climax to an exquisite crest with his mouth and then swapping to his fingers, letting her orgasm ebb to a thrumming need before returning to her pussy, her clit, with his mouth and tongue again. Over and over, layering pleasure upon pleasure. Building tension upon unbearable tension until even the slight kiss of his breath fanning her inner thighs was enough to almost make her scream with release.

  And all the while, she begged for more. Begged for fulfillment. Pleaded with him to bury himself to the root in her cunt and fuck her.

  She’d never used such words before, but the raw want Dylan had awoken, the utter craving for his turgid cock and the completion it would bring pushed her there. She scraped at his shoulders with her nails, a distant part of her mind recognizing he was still fully dressed.

  It didn’t detract from the rapture claiming her. He had reduced her to a being of pure want. A creature who existed for one reason only—to be pleasured by him. When he hauled her roughly to his face, her knees draped over his shoulders, his tongue lapping and rolling over her clit, it was all she could do not to drown in elemental need. She fisted her hands in the duvet, stared blankly at the ceiling of her bedroom and hung on, just hung on until, toes curling, a keening sound tearing from her throat, her climax smashed into her. Pummeled her. Made her cry out and buck against his face.

  He lashed at her sodden pussy and swollen clit with his tongue, blunt nails digging into her hips. She closed her eyes, wordless pleas of mercy falling from her parted lips, her breath shallow and rapid.

  He gave it to her. A reprieve from the mastery of his touch.

  A brief reprieve.

  Before the throbbing pulses of her orgasm could begin to fade, he slid up her body and covered her with his weight, his thumb on her clit, his flesh on hers.

  Flesh. Skin on skin. At some point he’d removed his shirt and Monet’s mind detonated with the velvet perfection of his warmth sliding over her. His chest was finely dusted with hair, the strands tickling her nipples through the thin barrier of her bra.

  “Do you have any fucking clue how good you feel against my body?” The question left him on a growl, his lips working the sensitive area of her collarbone, her shoulder.

  She laughed out a ragged breath, shoving her hips upward into his incredibly talented hand. “Do you have any fucking clue how good your fingers feel on my cunt?”

  Her cheeks flooded with heat at the vulgar word. Dylan’s cock nudged her inner thigh. She could tell by the way he groaned he liked the sound of it passing her lips.

  He thrust into her with three fingers, wriggling them within her tight feminine walls. “I’ve had your fingers wrapped around my cock, remember?�
�� His grin was carnal, hungry. “I know exactly how good it feels.”

  “D-Dylan,” she gasped, the mounting pressure in the pit of her belly telling her she was going to come again. Soon. “I want…my…”

  Dylan’s jaw bunched. “Want what, Monnie?”

  The request wouldn’t leave her. But nor would the ache in her core.

  He thumbed her clit, one long leg entwining with hers, his cock a thick pole in his jeans, and it was only then she noticed the tiny beads of perspiration forming at his temple. How strained must he be, to still be in control? The realization only made her unspoken desire burn hotter.

  “What do you want, Monet?”

  She gazed up at him, blood roaring in her ears, her pussy throbbing, her breasts heavy, her anus contracting. “I-I want…I want you to fuck my ass with your tongue. Please?”

  The plea burst from her in a gushing tumble of words, the last lost to the mattress when Dylan flipped her onto her belly, hauled her hips off the bed and ran his tongue over her anus.

  New pleasure speared through her. Pleasure Monet had never experienced before. Forbidden. Wanton. Debauched.

  She moaned, loving every sinful lick of rapture claiming her body as Dylan swiped his tongue over her back passage. She buried her face in the duvet, her hands bunching the soft material. Dylan’s tongue laved her anus in hungry swipes, each time pressing with firmer strokes. She whimpered, the very core of her sex twisting and contracting. Her pussy dripped; she could feel her juices slicking her flesh. How could a tongue on her ass make her so…so…aroused? How could Dylan licking her hole feel so good?

  Was it the salacious contact? The man responsible for it? Or both?

  With a low groan against her flesh, Dylan smoothed one hand up her leg, over her inner thigh and dipped a finger into her pussy, all the while wriggling the tip of his tongue against her anus.

  “Oh fuck!” Monet cried into the duvet. “Fuck, that feels…”

  He stabbed at her hole again, his fingers inside her in perfect harmony with the thrusts of his tongue. Tight ribbons of pleasure whipped through her, threading together, turning into thick fingers of sensation she could barely fathom.