Trouble in Cowboy Boots

by Desiree Holt

  The climax burst upon her with such a sudden ferocity she had no time to prepare herself for it. This was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and she was no stranger to good sex. Or what she’d thought was good sex. A hurricane grabbed her, shaking her and pulling her from her foundation. Tossing her into the air so she whirled and spun, free-falling with nothing to catch her.

  And all the time Wyatt continued to probe her with his tongue and suck her essence, eating her as if she were an epicurean delicacy.

  It could have been a minute or an hour—she had no idea how much time had passed, when Wyatt lifted her, ripped back the covers on the bed and placed her in the center. He bent to lift his jeans, pulled out his wallet and fished a condom from it, rolling it on with practiced efficiency.

  When he moved over her, she could tell from the fine tremors in his body and the way the cords in his neck stood out that his control was about to snap. And despite the fact she’d just had one gigantic orgasm, she desperately wanted him inside her. Now. Right now.

  He nudged her thighs wider apart and pressed the head of his cock to the entrance of her cunt. One roll of his hips and he thrust deep inside her. Emily wrapped her legs around his waist, digging her heels into the small of his back to pull him in even deeper. She moved with him as he pistoned in and out, thrusting up at him as he drove deep inside her.

  If her first orgasm had been unbelievable, when this one broke over her, it consumed every bit of her. She lost all sense of who she was, focused only on the spasms that shook her and the man whose cock was pulsing deep inside her. She was in the tight embrace of a fire, the heat consuming her. The contractions seemed to go forever, shaking every part of her body, and Wyatt shook just as hard with her. The muscles of his back, beneath her hands, were rigid with the intensity of his release. She screamed his name and he swallowed it with his mouth.

  Then it was over, little aftershocks racing through them, then gone. Wyatt fell forward, catching himself on his forearms, dragging air into his lungs. The thunderous beat of his heart rocketed in cadence with hers. She was sure she’d never be able to move again.

  She had no idea how many minutes passed before she found she could breathe at a normal rate and her heart wasn’t going to beat itself out of her chest. Wyatt drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly and eased himself from her body.

  “Right back,” he mumbled.

  In a minute she heard him in her bathroom, no doubt to dispose of the condom. Then he was back, climbing into bed next to her and pulling her against his body and wrapping his arms around her.

  “You’re an unexpected package of dynamite, Miss Emily Proctor,” he murmured against her hair.

  “Mmm,” was all she could manage to respond.

  “I have plans for you,” he whispered, his voice deep and hoarse. “I think you’re a woman who can really enjoy my kind of sex. I can’t wait until tomorrow night.”

  His kind of sex? What does that mean?

  She was too tired to try to puzzle it out. Her eyes closed and in seconds she was deeply asleep.

  What the hell just happened here?

  Wyatt was exhausted, but his brain wouldn’t shut off. Emily had lit his hormones from the moment he’d seen her in the Blue Belle Café, desperate and trying not to look it. A tumble in the sheets had without a doubt appealed to him, as long as she was willing and there weren’t any complications. He’d make sure she understood the ‘rules of engagement’. The kind of sex he liked didn’t appeal to a lot of women so he always tested the waters with great care. With some it worked—others just weren’t interested.

  Okay, well and good.

  But never in his wildest dreams did he expect to be so shaken by the experience. He was one hundred percent blown away. Now he knew what the phrase ‘little death’ meant, when people referred to the ultimate orgasm. For sure, he’d died and gone to heaven with Emily Proctor. He’d see how she felt tomorrow and figure out a way to see if she was interested in the games he liked to play.

  God, he hoped so. The image of Emily tied to his bed, spread wide open for him, panting with lust while he fucked her six ways from Sunday, made his worn-out cock harden. He hadn’t expected that.

  Down, boy!

  He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.

  Chapter Three

  “No, no, no.” Amelia Jacobs’ words were chiding, but her tone was soft and gentle. “Too much mixing and the biscuits come out like skeet targets.”

  Emily blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. Despite the big apron doubled over and wrapped around her, she was covered with a fine layer of flour. Her hair was escaping from its neat ponytail and she had biscuit dough layered on her arms up to her elbows.

  Amelia had shown up at five-thirty on the dot, a tiny woman of indeterminate age, tan and slender with laughter in her dark eyes, her gray-streaked brown hair twisted back into a braid. She was dressed in worn jeans and a plaid blouse, clothing Emily realized was far more appropriate than linen slacks and silk blouses. As soon as she got paid, she’d need to do some shopping.

  She slowed down her motions with the big wooden spoon, ignoring the puffs of flour that flew up from the bowl.

  I’ll never get the hang of this. What in hell ever made me think I could be a cook?

  Maybe part of her problem was her mind kept drifting to Wyatt. He’d woken her when he slid from her bed at five that morning, kissing her cheek and brushing the hair back from her face.

  “I need to get back to my room before Amelia shows up,” he’d whispered. “I don’t want to start any gossip.”

  Of course, he wouldn’t. God forbid someone should know he finds me attractive.

  She’d managed to rouse herself. “What time is it?”

  “Five o’clock. You’d better get up and shower. Amelia will be here at five-thirty.”

  That had sent her bolt upright in bed. “Five-thirty?”

  “Yup. Up and at ’em. The guys will be wanting their breakfast.”

  Her brain had seemed stuck in one place. “At five-thirty?”

  His chuckle had been soft in the darkness. “We’ve been cutting you slack, Auntie Em. They usually like to eat at seven.”

  “Seven?” She’d thrown a pillow at him. “And don’t call me Auntie Em.”

  He’d laughed again and ducked out of her room.

  Now she looked at the clock on the stove. Six-fifteen. She’d better hurry.

  She looked at the batter in the bowl, then at Amelia.

  “Okay.” The woman nodded. “I think it’s good. Let’s get it in the pans and into the oven.”

  Amelia showed her how much dough to spoon into each biscuit cup. Emily envied the easy way she did it with just a twist of her hand, and did her best to copy her, with less than perfect results.

  Amelia laughed, a tinkling sound. “Don’t worry, Emily. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

  “Yeah, right. Are you planning to come here every morning until I can make something edible?”

  “That will happen before you know it.” Amelia’s tone softened. “But I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

  They stacked the pans in the oven, set the timer then Emily poured coffee for both of them.

  “I can’t ask you to give up your free time for me like that.” She shook her head. “I hope Wyatt’s paying you for your time.”

  Amelia stirred sugar into her coffee. “Wyatt’s been very good to Dan and me. We owe him a lot.” She looked up at Emily, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Besides, I get the feeling Wyatt Cavanaugh thinks of you as a little more than a cook. I’d be really happy to help out any woman who can bring that cowboy to his knees.”

  “Oh.” Flustered, Emily took a swallow of coffee. “You’re wrong about that. He’s just helping me out because I need a job.”

  “Uh-huh. If you say so.”

  Amelia pushed back from the table. “Meanwhile, let’s get the eggs scrambled, the bacon laid out and the pancake batter mixed.”

&n
bsp; “Pancakes?” Emily widened her eyes, horrified. “You mean I have to make pancakes?”

  Amelia laughed again. “It’s not water torture, Emily. Just pancakes.”

  “That’s what you think,” she muttered.

  By seven o’clock, she was ready to slit her throat and bleed all over the kitchen in a bid for sympathy. She felt like a walking ball of dough and there was more flour in her hair than in anything she’d fixed, but breakfast was ready to serve. She wondered where Wyatt was. He hadn’t even popped his head in to check on her. Maybe it was just as well. She didn’t know how to react to him after last night.

  He’d been very clear about not putting her at risk for gossip, but she hadn’t expected him to ignore her completely. The last two mornings, he’d had coffee in the kitchen while she pulled together her pitiful excuses for meals, but today he’d been conspicuously absent.

  “Go wash up,” Amelia said. “They’ll be trooping in here any minute.”

  “But—”

  “The table’s set and the platters are warming. Go on. You’ll feel better.”

  What she felt like as she sluiced water over her hands and face was a bad papier-mâché project, but she repaired the damage as best she could, fixed her ponytail and braved the kitchen again. She stepped into the room just as the back door opened and the sound of noisy voices preceded the ranch hands into the house.

  Hardy Wolf was first through the door, as usual, trouble dancing in his eyes and a grin that split his face.

  “Why, Auntie Em! Is that real food I smell today?”

  Hardy couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or three but Emily wanted to tell him he wouldn’t get any older if he didn’t shut up. He’d started that Auntie Em business the first day and she was ready to take his head off. The only thing that kept her from biting back was her tenuous position there and her desperate need to keep the job.

  “The real food’s for everyone else,” she smiled sweetly. “I took care to burn yours extra crisp.”

  “Aw, come on, Auntie Em.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “Really? You took extra pains with mine?”

  “Hey, Hardy,” one of the other hands called. “Shut up and let’s see if today’s food looks as good as it smells.

  Amelia had somehow managed to disappear, so Emily extricated herself from the young cowboy and began pulling platters from the warming oven and carrying them to the long table. The hands ate in two shifts and Amelia had shown her how to portion out the food, keeping a second batch warm.

  “Hay, Charlie, catch.” Hardy took a biscuit and tossed it to the man across from him.

  The biscuit, lighter and fluffier than Emily had expected, broke apart in the man’s hands. He and Hardy just stared at the crumbling biscuit.

  “Holy shit,” the older man said at last. “Where did these biscuits come from? Did the boss make a run to the Blue Belle like we been askin’ him to?”

  Emily’s stomach flip-flopped. Was that what they’d been doing? Begging Wyatt to bring food out to the ranch? She wondered again why he’d put up with her even for three days. Then she remembered the night before, heat warmed her cheeks and her pussy throbbed. Men would do a lot of things for sex. She’d learned that a long time ago.

  Only…they hadn’t had sex until last night. Had he been working up to it? Ready to toss her back out on the highway if she said no, regardless of his ethical protestations?

  “Hey, Auntie Em,” someone called. “How about some coffee?”

  She shook herself back to reality and got busy serving. It seemed like no time before every bit of food was devoured, the men had shuffled out, giving her a strange look, and she got ready for the second shift. Everything had stayed warm in the oven without drying out, just as Amelia had told her it would. She was just putting clean plates on the table when she heard a sound behind her.

  “Looks like you’ve got the hang of this thing.”

  The deep voice sent shivers skittering along her spine and the pulse in her cunt stepped up its beat. If she didn’t get hold of herself, she was liable to come just standing there in the kitchen. She drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly and turned around.

  “Good morning, Wyatt.”

  If possible, he looked better than he had the night before. Worn jeans clung to his long legs and a plaid work shirt was open partway to his belt, exposing the fine dark-gold hair she’d enjoyed running her fingers through last night. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his sun-streaked honey-brown hair, then stamped the dust from his boots before coming farther into the room.

  “I take it Amelia showed up all right?” he asked, a grin teasing at his mouth.

  “You know she did.” Emily opened the oven and took out a platter of pancakes. “God knows I’ve never made a pancake in my life.”

  She set the platter on a hot pad and was about to take out the bacon when Wyatt wrapped his fingers around her arm and turned her toward him.

  He chuckled. “You look cute with flour on your nose.”

  Damn! I thought I got it all.

  She reached up and swiped at the tip of her nose.

  Wyatt grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers. “Leave it. I kind of like it.”

  “I feel like took a bath in the stuff,” she muttered.

  He tilted her head up and brushed his lips against her. “I’d like to strip your clothes off right now and fuck you senseless on that big table.”

  “Wyatt!” She could tell from the heat scorching her cheeks that she was blushing furiously. She ducked away from him. “The rest of the men will be coming in any second.”

  “You’re right.” He moved to the counter and filled a mug with coffee. “I meant what I said last night about not embarrassing you. Putting you in an uncomfortable position. But damn, it’s hard to keep my hands off you.”

  She could feel him watching her as she carried the rest of the food to the table.

  “We need to get you some jeans, cowgirl,” he teased. “Those fancy Las Vegas clothes won’t last very long around here.”

  Emily brushed her hands on her apron. “I figured when I got paid I’d ask you if someone could run me into town to get some.” She frowned. “Is there actually a place in that town to buy them?”

  “Boland’s Feed Store. They keep a section of work clothes in there.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Work clothes?”

  “Don’t worry. They’ve got some of the brands you’re familiar with. I was thinking I’d run you into town later this afternoon. We could pick up takeout for the men at Dub’s Bar-B-Cue so you didn’t have to stress about dinner.”

  “Amelia taught me how to make beef stew this morning,” she said, raising her chin a little. “Tomorrow we’re learning fried chicken.”

  Wyatt threw back his head and laughed.

  “That I’ve gotta see.”

  Emily slapped him with a dishtowel. “You just wait, Wyatt Cavanaugh. I’m going to learn this if it kills me.”

  He lowered his voice. “I’ve got other things I’d rather you learn. We’ll talk about them tonight.” He carried his mug to the table. “I think the rest of the men are here.”

  “Holy shit, Auntie Em!” John McDaniels, one of the older hands, was staring at the table. “Did the food fairy pay us a visit?”

  “Just shut up and eat, John,” Wyatt said good-naturedly. “Stand there too long and someone else will get your share.”

  Again Emily kept the coffee mugs filled, the maple syrup warmed and plenty of butter and preserves on the table. She did her best to ignore their comments and not be offended at their suspicious attitude about who really prepared the food. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t earned their disbelief. But at last every bite was gone and they’d left to go back to work.

  Emily cleared the dishes from the table and stacked them in the dishwasher. She was scrubbing the pans when warm hands slid around her waist and a hot mouth brushed her neck beneath her ponytail.

  “I think this is where we start
ed last night.” Wyatt’s voice was heavy with desire. But then he moved away from her. “I assume you’ve got lunch under control. Be ready about three o’clock and we’ll run into town. Maybe give you a chance to see your friends.” Then his lips were back, this time at her ear. “And after dinner, I think we’ll find out just exactly what you’re up for, Emily Proctor.”

  Then he was gone, leaving her with soapy water, dirty pans, unsteady legs and a throbbing inside her like the insistent beat of a jungle drum.

  * * * *

  Emily figured if she ignored the sacks of grain stacked along the wall, the abundance of ranch and farm equipment and the fact that she had to change behind wooden crates of instruments, buying jeans at the feed store wasn’t that much different from buying them anyplace else. And Wyatt was right—they had two of the brands she was familiar with.

  Something to write in my diary about. If I ever decide to keep a diary.

  She would have been satisfied with one pair, nursing them along until she got her first paycheck, but Wyatt checked her size, then pulled three more pairs from a stack and gave her a gentle nudge toward a small section with T-shirts.

  “Nothing fancy,” he agreed, “but serviceable for the ranch.”

  “But I can’t afford all of this,” she protested, trying to put things back.

  “Call it a bonus for this morning’s breakfast.” He sighed. “Listen, Em. Your Vegas clothes are fine if you get into Austin or San Antonio but for Mesa Blanco and the Lazy Aces, you need to wear what everyone else does. Do us both a favor, pick out the T-shirts you like and let’s get out of here.”

  She sorted through the shirts while Wyatt placed a feed order with Avery Boland. The cattle fed on hay, he’d told her, but he supplemented it with special natural mixtures that the hands drove out to big feeding tubs in the pastures. He’d also explained that he ordered special feed for the horses to keep them fit and healthy.