by Anna Jeffrey
“You would ask.” I laughed. “I’ve never been able to describe my business. And even if I try, half the people I tell about it don’t believe I could be making a legitimate living.”
He looked at me, roll and butter knife suspended, his eyelids narrowed. “Oh, yeah? Try me.”
“Well…I’m not a Realtor. I’m an event planner. And a part-time bartender and sometimes model. I help Drake Lockhart out occasionally when he has something special going on.”
“Every bit of that calls for more conversation. How does somebody get to be doing all of those jobs at one time?”
“Total accident.” I cut into my steak and tasted it. “Yum. This is cooked to perfection.”
“You were about to tell me about what you do.”
For some reason, I did want him to know a little about me, but only surface information. I sipped my wine. “Okay, I’ll give you the short version. When I got out of college, I couldn’t afford to sit and do nothing while I sent out resumes and waited for Corporate America to open its arms to me. I had a part-time idiot job with an energy company. I had hoped for an internship or something to develop there, but I must not have known the right people.
“Anyway, one of the big wigs needed to have a cocktail party. He was a widower and without a wife, he didn’t know where to begin. He was whining and angsting about it all over the office. So one day when I was helping him find something in the filing cabinet, he said, ‘If you’d put this party together for me, Miranda, I’d pay you a couple hundred bucks.’
“I guess he thought that because I was young and just out of college, I knew all about partying. He was joking, but he had no idea how precious that amount of money was to me at that time. So I joked back with him. I said, ‘Mr. Burrows, the way things are right now, I’d do almost anything for two hundred dollars.’”
Tack was watching me intently. “So what happened?”
“He said, ‘Go for it, little lady. Let me know what you need.’ So I did.”
Tack smiled and shoved a bite of steak into his mouth.
“Where I come from,” I continued, “cocktail parties are something you see in old movies. I watched a couple, got some ideas. In college, research was something I was good at, so I spent the better part of a weekend digging out information online and at the library and on Monday morning, I presented Mr. Burrows with a plan. He liked it, so he arranged for space. I subcontracted with caterers and liquor wholesalers and organized a cocktail party for three hundred people. And to my amazement, it was a huge success. Mr. Burrows got compliments from all directions. And there you have it. A star was born.”
I sipped my wine again. “Anyway, after that, I put my name out as a small event planner. That was a few years ago. Now I have a company I call Gala and I’m busier than I ever thought I’d be. I’m starting to move up to bigger and more specialized events. The whole thing is a total accident.”
He laughed. Not a belly laugh, but more than a chuckle. “That’s great. See? I knew you were more than just a pretty face. And these events are where you tend bar?”
“No, no. If it’s something where we serve liquor, I hire someone for that. I work as a bartender myself a few weeknights in a neighborhood cocktail lounge near where I live. It has nothing to do with Gala.”
“Why? You said your business is successful.”
“The money I make there has a designated place to go. It’s money I don’t want to take out of my business….So what about you?...No, wait, let me guess. You’ve got an Aggie class ring, so I’m guessing you were in ROTC. And then you joined the army?”
He smiled. “That’s what a lot of West Texas boys do, you know.”
“Were you overseas?”
“Two deployments.”
He said no more and I chose to leave that topic alone. Many of the vets I knew didn’t want to discuss their military service.
“So you live alone in Midland? In a house or an apartment?”
“An old ranch house. Built in the twenties.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit. I see ‘cowboy’ plastered across your forehead. And if you hang out with Drake Lockhart and his brothers, you’re bound to be a cowboy.”
“Come on, now. What’s wrong with cowboys?”
“Not a thing. I’m just saying you have the look. Do you have cows and everything?”
“A few.”
“Do you look after them yourself?”
His head shook. “Don’t have time. My dad’s there. And we’ve got a man who lives on the place and helps him take care of things. An older gentleman who’s a longtime friend. He pretty much has no family of his own, so he’s adopted us. As for my horses, they’re usually at the track with my trainer.”
“Cutting horses?”
“Racehorses.”
Did he say racehorses? Ohmigod. I had never known anyone who owned even one racehorse. “Racehorses? You have real racehorses?”
“Uh-huh. I’ve got a mare that’s been a big winner, but it’s time to take her off the track. The Weatherford horse is a good stud with an impressive record. He and my Rosie will give me strong, fast babies.”
It dawned on me how close he lived to Ruidoso, New Mexico, where some of the great quarter horse races occurred. “Hah. You want Rosie to give up racing and have babies? Aren’t you the chauvinist.”
He smiled. “That’s what you do with good horses.”
Digging for a hint that he might come back to Fort Worth, I said, “You liked that Weatherford horse, then?”
He nodded. “I’m pleased. He’s what his owner represented.”
He got to his feet and walked over to the bedside table, picked up his wallet and brought it back. He opened it and showed me a snapshot of a shiny red roan that just looked like a champion. I craned my neck to see if he had pictures of women or kids, but I saw none. “She’s beautiful.”
“Your hair makes me think of her. Pretty. I like that red color.”
He liked my hair because the color made him think of his horse? Most of the men I knew liked blue. At times I had wondered if blue was the only color they were able to see. What did it say about him that he liked rusty red?
He looked up at me and showered me with a sweet smile, his pride in the horse bald-faced. “Her name’s Dashing Ruby Rose. Her granddaddy is Dash for Cash.”
I knew little about horses’ names, but I did know that competitive horses often had long names based on breeding history. I tilted my head and smiled. “Ah. That just sounds like she’s as fast as she is beautiful. So horse racing is how you make your living?”
He shook his head. “I’d get awful hungry if I depended on my horses. They’re a hobby.”
And probably every bit as expensive as cutting horses.
“I make my living in the oil business,” he added.
“Oh, I see,” I said, as if he had revealed something I hadn’t already figured out.
“I’m one of those folks the environmentalist movement hates. In the old days, I would’ve been called a wildcatter, but we’ve got fancier words now and some science for backup.”
Every Texas native, especially a West Texas native, knew what a wildcatter was. Gutsy mavericks who drilled for oil on speculation, threw money around like some Arab sheik loose in Las Vegas and thought nothing of making a fortune or losing one all in the course of a day.
I saw a new layer of Tack Tackett. He was a rogue and a gambler. And he would soon be the owner of a twelve-million-dollar condo in Skyline. He was obviously filthy rich. If he had no wife, a guy as sexy and good-looking as he was, and rich to boot, was bound to have a harem following him around.
I didn’t want that likelihood to affect my good time. I wanted to hear him talk more about himself. “Does the science eliminate the gamble?”
“Only to a degree. There’s always risk when you dig a hole in the ground. I’m a geologist. I think I know what’s underneath me, but I can never be sure until I drill.”
We had finished our meal and emp
tied the wine bottle. I was feeling floaty and relaxed. He looked at me intently, “I hope you didn’t mean it when you said you couldn’t stay the night.”
I had meant it when I said it, but now, even if I wanted to do the fifteen-mile freeway drive to my condo, I wasn’t so sure I should. The wine had put me in an alcohol buzz. Beyond that, I was enjoying myself immensely. Still, I said, “I have to be at Drake’s open house again tomorrow. I really should go.”
“Ma’am, you’re breaking my heart.”
I cocked my head and give him a flirty smile. “Why do I think your heart is too tough to break?”
“You’re wrong about that. I’m a cream puff.”
He rose, rounded the table and offered me his hand. “I want you to stay. That first go-round took the edge off. I can last longer now.”
What could I say to that? So much for my leaving. No good reason to refuse him came to me. Without a word, I took his hand and stood. He led me over to the bed and opened the covers, then slid the robe off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Without pause, I crawled between the sheets. He peeled off his shirt and jeans and followed.
He took me into his arms and I lost myself again in his luscious kisses. We rolled over the king-size mattress flesh to flesh, sensuously touching and teasing, with him promising filthy things he intended to do to me and me mewing and cooing my acquiescence. Everything about him excited me—his naughty words, the way he touched with gentle, but knowing hands and fingers, the way he gave and took pleasure.
I could think of nothing I wanted more than to please him. I licked his nipples, savored the salty taste of his warm skin on my tongue. When I sucked them, he groaned softly. I crawled on top of him and edged between his legs.
“What are you doing?”
“Close your eyes.”
I assumed he did as I moved my open mouth down, tracing his happy trail with my tongue. I had only heard from Ashley and read on the Internet how to do what I was about to. I let my instincts lead me. His thick, hard cock almost reached his navel. “No wonder I felt so full when you were inside me,” I murmured, and brushed my lips over the wide head of him. He was almost hot and felt like velvet against my tongue.
“Mmm…” His hips lifted, giving me his manhood.
I swirled my tongue around him, then fit the tip into his little slit and gingerly sucked the head of him. On a groan, he flexed his hips. “Jesus, Miranda…”
I looked up. He was propped on his elbows watching me, his jaw tightly clenched. Our gazes met. Even as dark as his eyes were, I saw the blatant lust in them.
I had read that the backside of a man’s erection was the most sensitive. I licked my way down the backside to the root. His scent filled my nostrils and the crisp black pelt that covered his groin tickled my nose. I closed my hand around the thick shaft and moved my mouth on down to his scrotum.
“Miranda…,” he said raggedly. His thighs opened wider and his fingers tangled into my hair.
I took one testicle into my mouth. His erection jerked in my hand. “Miranda,” he gasped. “Fuck!...Be careful, baby…”
I wallowed his testicle in my mouth, carefully sucked. His grip on my hair tightened to the point of pain. “Shit,” he blurted.
Undeterred, I moved to the other testicle.
His legs and arms shifted restlessly and swear words hissed from his mouth. Finally I licked my way up the back of his shaft again. Closing my hand around the hot velvety thing, I slid my lips over the crest of him. As I sucked, I moved my hand up and down in a steady rhythm.
“Fuck!” A rumble rolled out of his chest and his penis thrust forward, filling my mouth all the way to my throat.
My mouth wasn’t large enough to take all of him. I clamped down and pulled back to the tip, then slid down again, taking him into my throat and sucking hard. His fingers dug into my shoulder like vises, his hips moved with my rhythm. “Fuck….Aw, God….”
The pressure of his fist in my hair hurt my scalp, but I didn’t stop. I loved hearing him grunting and hissing and cussing. The whole process was hot and so was I, my own passion spurred by his.
All at once, his hips jerked up. A growl tore from his throat. “Jesus God!...Miranda! Stop! I’m gonna come….”
He gripped my shoulders and quickly pulled himself out of my mouth, his breath huffing, his black eyes boring into mine. “Where did you learn to do that like that?”
“Nowhere. I’ve never done it before.”
His eyes held mine. “You’re amazing.”
That couldn’t have been the best BJ he had ever had. Someone experienced would surely have done it better.
He reached across me and fumbled for a condom on the bedside table and sheathed himself, then quickly crawled over me. “When I come, I want to be inside you.”
He slid his arm underneath me and flipped me onto my stomach. Stunned, I yelped into the bed covers.
His arm slid under my belly, lifted me and set me on my knees, thrusting my bottom in the air and gluing my face against the mattress. “Spread your legs some more,” he ordered gruffly, kneeing my thighs apart.
I blindly obeyed.
His hands smoothed over my bottom, molding and shaping each half. “God, I love your ass.”
His fingers glided down to my sex, stroking and separating as if he were exploring. My already trembly knees weakened and I whimpered his name. Two fingers slipped inside me and began to furiously work in and out, stroking BOB’s place, chasing away every rational thought. Then his tongue, unbelievably hard, speared into me in fast stabs. His arms came around my thighs and his fingers found my clitoris. The minute he touched me I was ready again and for a fleeting second, I wondered if I could take him again. Every part of my sex felt swollen and even more sensitized from his earlier attention.
The plush head of him pressed against my opening and he filled me with one hard push. I didn’t know he could go any deeper than he had earlier, but I felt him in a place no one had ever been before him. A gruff sound came out of my throat.
He pulled out slowly, teasing me and leaving me empty and desperate. My sex contracted, wanting him. “Don’t tease me,” I whimpered.
He came back inside me just as slowly as he had left. My vaginal muscles grabbed onto to him and clutched him. Pleasure swept through every part of me.
He began to fuck me in a steady rhythm, slowly at first, but soon his thrusts became faster, harder and deeper, each one brushing BOB’s place and pushing me higher on the bed. My clitoris screamed for relief. I began to huff and pant. I tried to raise my upper body, but his hand slid up my spine to the center of my back and held me in place. I had never felt so possessed, so owned. That need and that tightening inside my belly demanded to be sated again.
It went on and on, with me pleading and gasping against the mattress and him rutting into me like an animal.
“Tack, please,” I huffed out. “I have to come.”
His arm slid around my belly, his fingers found my clitoris. One touch and ecstasy wracked me from head to toe and my sex convulsed wildly. I came with an orgasm that shook me so profoundly I bit down on a mouthful of the bed covers to keep from screaming.
“Fuck!” he barked out and drove deeply into me one more time. His body went rigid for a few beats, then he slumped over me. Seconds later, he eased to my side. “You okay?”
“I think so,” I said weakly. I carefully straightened my legs and eased down against the bed, grateful I didn’t have to get up and walk. The smell of him, of me, of sex, surrounded me and I kept my face turned away from him as I tried to gather myself.
He grasped my shoulder and turned me back to him, and held me against his chest. I wanted this closeness, needed it. I hugged him tightly until our heartbeats gradually slowed.
“Jesus, Miranda. That knocked my socks off.”
All I knew was that if he hadn’t owned me before we arrived at the Hilton, he owned me now. I had never felt so gloriously fucked. “And you aren’t even wearing socks.”
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“This is no time to be a smartass.” He kissed me again, long and tenderly, his palm holding my face captive, his tongue filling my mouth with slow sensual strokes. When we parted, he looked at me with an intense expression I couldn’t read. “You need to rest. Let’s get some sleep.”
I needed sleep all right. I was spent. He surely was, too. We drifted away, locked in an embrace. “You know something?” I mumbled sleepily. “It’s a good thing we’re both in good shape.
Chapter 8
My mental clock that never failed me woke me before daylight. I could see almost nothing but the digital clock on the bedside table glowing 5:00 a.m. in red letters. We hadn’t called for a steward to remove the table. The comingled smells of sex and grilled steak lingered in the air, making me hungry for two different things.
You’ve got to be kidding, my inner voice chided. You won’t be able to walk if you fuck him again.
That much I knew.
I also knew I had to get home. I should have left here before now. My sight began to adjust to the gray light. I eased to a sitting position, placed my feet on the floor and carefully stood. I was sore everywhere. Even my scalp. He’d had a death grip on my hair while I had made love to his beautiful cock.
I gathered my clothing from the end of the other bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. The shower tempted me, but waiting until I got to my own trappings at home would be easier. What I really needed was a bath so I could immerse my overused parts for a long restorative soak.
I stared at Tack’s toothbrush, debating if I should use it. Why not? His tongue had been inside my vagina; his penis had been in my mouth. Sharing a toothbrush seemed like a small thing.
Before leaving the bathroom, I paused and considered morning after etiquette. Should I wake him and say good-bye? It hit me suddenly that I might never see him again and a burn rushed to my eyes.
Stop it, stop it, stop it. You knew what this was from the beginning.
I banished the would-be tears with a deep sniff. I needed to leave now. Truthfully, I didn’t want to be distracted by him anyway.
