by Alison Kent
He prodded her with his cock. “Right here.”
“Your body, yeah, but where’s your head?”
“A second ago it was between your legs.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, holding his gaze.
Why was she letting his distance be an issue when his distance fit perfectly into her plans? Except she hadn’t anticipated the worry tangling her up at seeing his smile stop short of his eyes. She wanted him with her every moment, not halfheartedly fulfilling his side of this ridiculous bargain they’d made.
Though when his prodding became more insistent, and he realigned his hips and wet himself with her moisture, her worry vanished. How could she think of anything but his body driving into hers, filling hers, lifting hers off the cushions with the force of his thrusts? This was all she wanted.
Wasn’t it?
Burying her face in the crook of his neck, she dug her fingers into the balls of his shoulders and held on as he rode her, bucking against him and using her heels on his ass to urge him deeper. He growled at her ear, dropped to his elbows, and threaded his fingers into her hair.
And he talked to her, words that made no sense, dirty words, words that were more noise than anything, that rolled up from his gut with a stirring, stunning vibration. She listened, unable to say anything, barely able to breathe, yet so hindered by her own silence she had to let go.
Panting, whimpering, she twisted beneath him, finding the hard base of his cock and grinding her clit against him, listening all the while and overwhelmed—by the sounds, the sensations, what she knew were going to be huge sweeping complications making a mess of her life.
He pushed his thighs higher, climbed up her body. She kissed his chest, nuzzling his pectorals and searching out his nipple with her teeth. She latched on but didn’t bite, sucking and tonguing instead, and drawing a visceral grunt from his throat.
“You keep that up and I’m going to be done here.”
And suddenly she wanted to make that happen, to give him whatever he needed to lose control. To show him his dating was nothing compared to her sex, that no one could do for him what she could. To make sure he would remember her and think about her the way she’d never forgotten him.
Rocking her hips upward, she drew her knees along his sides, reaching one hand between their bodies. She lingered at her clit, shuddering at the strum of nerves, then slipped lower, fingering herself while he fucked her.
He laughed, a wicked, taunting burst, and then he stopped, biting off a sharp fuck because she’d caught the base of his shaft in the ring of her fingers and squeezed. She held him, released him, slid to his head as he pulled out of her cunt and thumbed the underside seam. This time his fuck came out on a growl, and that’s when she went after his balls.
She cupped and released, rolled his nuts in her palm, then rubbed the extension of his erection that ran to his anus. At that, he leaned to the side to dislodge her, grasping her hand with his. But she knew what she was doing and she guided their fingers to the place where their bodies were joined.
She looked at him, watching the shift in his expression as she touched him, as he touched her, as their hands became as much a part of the act as her pussy and his cock.
Moisture slicked the way for their play. She laced her fingers with his, held his shaft, released it, ran his knuckles through her folds as he slowly moved his hips. Up and down, his cock entering her, pulling out, the ridge of the head caught by their hands, two of their fingers slipping inside to stroke and stir her arousal further.
Through it all she held his gaze, watched sweat pop on his brow, saw the muscles in his jaw jump as he ground down. His nostrils flared. His lashes swept like brushes as he blinked in slow motion.
And finally he asked her, his voice a deep rutting groan, “Is this the sex you wanted?”
She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Her body burned and ached, and she didn’t want to lose this spot when she was so so close to coming. But neither did she want to see that look come back to his eyes, the one he’d finally let go of. The one that frightened her with its distance, when distance was the goal.
So she told him the truth. “I wanted you.”
He barked out a laugh, gave a shake of his head. “If you only knew.”
But that was all he said. He broke their gaze, broke her hold on his hand, tucked his face next to hers and picked up speed, pounding her as if exorcising demons.
She held on because it was all she could do. He drove her up the couch until her head bounced off the arm, and she moved one hand to the floor to brace herself. The other she hooked around his neck, and this time she was the one whispering to him.
She doubted he was listening, or that he processed the words if he heard them. And that was okay. The words were as much for herself. It’s going to be okay. Everything’s fine. This is good. We’re good. We’re so, so good.
Then she stopped, gasped, held her breath and let her orgasm build in a crushing mindless rush. She knew he came with her. He lifted his head, straining, and the hot sticky spill of his semen sent her over the edge. Her head spun endlessly. Darkness rose up to devour her.
No man had ever given her this. No man had ever come close. She feared looking too closely at why Dax Campbell was able to take her this high, but she feared even more discovering why he’d willingly made the journey with her.
SEVENTEEN
DARCY WAS STANDING on her tiptoes on the kitchen counter, reaching into the back corner of one of the overstuffed cupboards’ top shelves, when a knock sounded on the back door. Since when did anyone paying a visit to the ranch knock without sticking their head in the door and hollering?
She wasn’t about to get down and answer it, and risk knocking the stacks of china at her feet to the floor. She was fairly sure she had a complete—and unused—place setting for eight, and from the look of the pattern and the stamp on the bottom, one that might fetch a pretty penny from a collector.
“Come in,” she called over her shoulder, looking for chips or cracks or scraped paint on the sugar bowl she held and finding none. Nice. Real nice.
The door opened, the creaking screen followed. “It’s me, Josh.”
Aw, hell. Not now. She caught the cupboard’s door to keep from tumbling, her heart pounding as she glanced to the maze she’d created with the dishes—and which she now had to step out of without looking like a lumbering cow.
“You need some help?”
Yes, please sweep me up in your arms and carry me away. Snort.
“No, I’m fine.” She backed up on the balls of her feet to the counter’s edge, held the cupboard’s center brace for balance, and moved first one foot then the other to the chair she’d used as a stool. Only after she was safely in the seat did she turn to face him, brushing her hair from her eyes and wishing she’d put on more makeup than lip balm and a quick swipe of mascara.
He looked good. He always looked good. Tall and rangy and comfortable in his skin, his jeans laundered and creased, his boots shined, his yoked shirt—this one long-sleeved and khaki—starched to a crisp. She wondered what he’d look like dirty, all messed up and sweaty and wrinkled after a day on horseback riding herd.
Then she wondered what he’d look like naked. “See? No broken bones, no broken dishes.”
He gave a single nod. “You haven’t made it to the floor yet.”
Ah, that. She hopped down, saying a tiny prayer of thanks when she landed gracefully, and adding a flair of a curtsy for fun. “Better?”
He took off his hat, hooked it on the back of a chair. “I can breathe now, yeah.”
Something wild and inappropriate fluttered at the base of her throat, and she told herself it meant nothing, the flutter, his words, but couldn’t shake the lie. “What are you doing here?”
He held up her key ring, the one she’d last seen on her desk at work before The Campbell’s words had sent her walking. “I brought your car.”
Of course, she thought, and swallowed. It ha
d been five days since she’d last seen him. Could she be anymore ridiculously self-centered, taking advantage of his generosity and losing track of time? “I’m sorry. I can’t believe you had to come after your truck.”
“I didn’t come after my truck.”
“Oh?”
“I came to see you.”
Oh. Well. She wasn’t sure what to think about that. Josh Lasko had never sought her out before. And though he’d caused her a lot of breathing trouble, she wondered if this was a first for him. If slamming into him in front of Nathan’s had set something in motion, like atoms colliding, or dominoes falling.
Silly thoughts. Silly woman. “Would you like something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee?”
“You don’t have to wait on me, Darcy,” he said, his hands at his hips. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“I’m not waiting on you, and you’re not interrupting.” She’d lived with Patricia Campbell too long not to play the hostess, even in a house that wasn’t her own. And it gave her something to do besides avoid his too-sharp gaze. “I’ve been at this awhile and could use a break myself.”
“I’d take a cup of joe, then, if it’s not any trouble.”
If she had to fly to Indonesia and pick the beans herself, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all. She gestured for him to sit. “Not a bit. I’ll put on a pot. Won’t be but a few.”
The chair scraped over the dried-out linoleum when he pulled it from beneath the table, creaked when he settled into it, creaked again when he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
He squeezed the knuckle of his pinky with the thumb and index finger of his other hand. “How’re you liking ranch life? Gotta be a big adjustment after living up on the hill all these years.”
Where to begin? She’d had to sweep spiderwebs from the corners of the bedroom she’d claimed before she could use it. She’d had to mop the hardwood floor, soap the iron bed frame, wash the linens, and air the quilt on the backyard clothesline. She’d had to pull down the curtains, clean those as well as the window behind, and get Dax to install a ceiling fan.
And that was just to have a place to sleep, forget dealing with the scary dark depths of the closet for the clothes she’d had Marta, the Campbell family housekeeper, bring her. Or the bureau she’d emptied of old newspapers and tools that belonged in the barn and enough single socks to make fifty-plus mismatched pairs. Then the bathroom, ugh; it had taken twice as long. So, yeah. The adjustment had been huge.
“Honestly? I’m loving it,” she said, rinsing the leftover coffee from the morning’s pot and pouring fresh water into the machine. “I haven’t been still for a minute, and I ache from all the bending and lifting. But I can lie in bed at night and see the stars through glass I polished with a whole lot of my own elbow grease.”
She glanced at him then, almost wished she hadn’t. He was still, leaning forward the way he’d been when she’d last looked, but unmoving now, his hands, his eyes, even his chest all still as he waited to breathe. She didn’t know what he was waiting for, what he was thinking, what he saw when he looked at her, but dear God, the way he looked at her.
Her hands shook, and a flush blossomed between her breasts, tightening her nipples and rising up her neck to her face. She knew she looked like disheveled crap—which would thankfully explain away her blush—but his eyes told another story. And every fantasy she’d ever had of him ran on a movie reel loop through her mind.
Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Probably not the best idea to talk to Josh about lying in bed, about seeing stars. At least not to this Josh who seemed so full of purpose, so single-minded and focused.
Finally, he dropped his head, then straightened, sitting back in the chair and stretching out his long legs. He crossed them at the ankle, crossed his arms over his chest. “Not a lot of call for physical activity as an attorney, I reckon.”
Coffee. Filter. Mugs. Those were the things she needed to concentrate on. Not his eyes. Not his body. Not his big brass belt buckle that lay flat against his stomach. About the not-so-flat zippered fly beneath.
She measured the ground beans, spilling less than a quarter teaspoon on the counter, which she counted a success. “As sore as I am, it’s obvious I could’ve used a lot more. Maybe if I’d filed my own paperwork and shelved my own books, instead of waiting for The Campbell to realize I needed a clerk.”
“You been in touch with him?”
She shook her head, punched the button to start the pot brewing then reached into the cupboard for mugs. “He hasn’t been in touch with me either. I guess one of us will give in sooner or later.”
“Hardheaded bunch?”
A smile pulled at her mouth, and she turned, leaning against the counter as the coffeemaker gurgled and steamed. “The Campbell is. I suppose Dax and I inherited some of that. Or had it nurtured into us, as I’m not sure that’s a trait instilled by nature.”
“Is he handling your cases? Your father?”
“I dropped an email to Greg and asked him to take care of things for now. He hasn’t been back in touch except to say he’d let me know if he had any questions.”
“That’s good, yes?”
“Yeah. It’s good.” Or not. It could mean she was easily expendable, which she’d already decided was the case. She’d just yet to put it into words. It was hard enough thinking it after spending the last decade of her life trying to be the son her father had always wanted.
She looked out the window over the sink, watching a cloud of dust rise in the distance from the direction Dax and the others had headed this morning, three cowboys on horseback looking like this was the only place they’d ever truly belonged. She was thrilled her brother was back, thrilled he’d done what he’d wanted with his life and was happy.
But it would be a whole lot easier to celebrate if his getting his way hadn’t ruined things for her. Except that wasn’t what had happened, and it was time she acknowledged that fact. The truth was she hadn’t been strong enough not to ruin them for herself.
Forgiving the girl she’d been at sixteen wasn’t hard. She’d been too young to understand what she was doing, but by twenty-five, walking across the UT stage to accept her law school diploma, she’d been all too aware.
Now here she was, six years later, hating that she’d spent a decade of her life working to take her rightful place in the family, when it had never been hers to claim.
Swallowing the lump of emotion sitting in her throat like dry bread, she poured coffee into both mugs then carried them to the table, setting Josh’s—black, because she remembered—in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching forward and pulling the mug closer, his hand skimming over hers as she let go to fetch the carton of milk from the fridge, sweetener packets from the pantry.
She joined him at the table, though she sat on the other side, her fingers trembling from his touch, his warmth, his calluses and rough skin, imagining it touching more than her hand. She poured her milk, stirred sweetener into her drink, then waited until his mug was at his mouth, and asked, “So who’s minding the store?”
“Dad,” he said after swallowing. “Made it clear he doesn’t care about doctor’s orders. He can sit behind the counter at the store just as easily as he can sit in the recliner in front of the TV. And he’s damn tired of TV.” He looked down, staring into the mug he held between his hands. A lazy grin lifted the edges of his mouth, cut dimples into his cheeks, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “’Course, he didn’t use those exact words.”
“I can imagine,” she said, lifting her coffee to sip. She was, unfortunately, well acquainted with Henry Lasko’s vocabulary. But knowing the father didn’t for a moment diminish what she felt for the son—though what she felt was too complicated to explore when he had come to see her and she was still hung up on that.
At the sound of another vehicle arriving, she frowned, canting her head. Another car, the low thrumming engine sporty and foreign and not belonging to anyone on the ranch. Ah, the dust cloud she
’d seen earlier.
Her stomach clenched. Unless someone had lost their way or the boys had a visitor, she could hazard a guess as to who was behind the wheel. And if she was right, well, Josh was wrong. This wasn’t a good thing at all.
“Excuse me a sec.” She went to the window over the sink, took a deep breath, watched the black Audi skid to a stop next to her car. Nope. Not a good thing at all.
Deciding to get the bad news over with, she headed for the back door. Shading her eyes with one hand, the nails of the other biting into her palm, she stood on the porch and watched her second guest of the day exit his car and approach. “Greg? What are you doing here?”
Her coworker wore dark sunglasses, dark suit pants, a dark tie flung over the shoulder of his crisp white shirt. His shoes, once dark, were now covered with the dry dirt that served as the ranch house yard.
“Darcy.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Josh.”
“Greg,” Josh said from behind her. Strange how having him there made what was to come easier to face.
Greg shoved his hands in his pockets, looked off toward the corral. Even from this distance, Darcy could see the tic in his jaw as he obviously chewed on the words he’d come to say. Something made her want to let him off the hook. This wasn’t his battle, and he didn’t deserve the shitty end of the deal.
“It’s okay, Greg. Just say it.”
He turned back, left his sunglasses on. “I cleaned out your desk. I’ve got a box in the car with your personal things. Wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do with it.”
So simple. A decade of her life reduced to a box that fit in a sports car’s front seat.
She glanced at Josh. “Is my car unlocked?” He nodded, and she looked at Greg again. “Just put it in my car.”
He slung his key ring around on one finger and palmed the keys as he circled his car to the passenger side. She watched the transfer of the box, hugging herself tightly, seeing a nearly laughable symbolism in the opening and closing of the doors.
That done, Greg returned to his car, hesitating before climbing inside, finally removing his sunglasses and looking up, his eyes a brighter blue than Dax’s. “I’m really sorry this happened.”
