The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  “I know where Slipping Rock Ranch is. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Fine with me.” He replaced the hat on his head and tipped the brim low over his eyes. “And, honey, I know you’re having a tough morning, but watch your speed on my property. Wouldn’t want you to spook the horses.” With another wave at Charlene, he left.

  “Cowboys, ugh,” she muttered. Still, her eyes tracked the swish of his tight jeans out the door and into the driver’s seat of a run-down truck across the lot. Her rule book might forbid her from getting too close to cowboys, but it didn’t say a thing about looking.

  Kellan hadn’t meant to boldly flirt with a member of the notorious Sorentino family at the Quick Stand. All he’d wanted was for the pretty girl at the counter to move along and stop disturbing the peace. He had a low tolerance for people airing their messy lives in public and the Sorentino family had the worst reputation in town for staging scenes wherever they went. He’d spoken up in an effort to run damage control for Charlene before a catfight erupted in the middle of her morning rush, but the minute he got up close and personal with Amy Sorentino, he changed his tune.

  He’d heard plenty of talk about Amy. Nothing flattering. Nothing that hinted at her beauty or vivacity. Nothing that captured Kellan’s interest the way the actual woman had with a toss of her hair and a few terse words. Not to mention that heart-shaped ass and the fire in her eyes as she gave him the once-over. She rubbed him the right way straight out of the gate.

  Not that he was looking for a relationship with a woman with a screwed-up family and a penchant for public commotions. Once upon a time, he’d belonged to a dysfunctional family. He knew better than to let history repeat itself.

  When she pulled up in front of his house, driving too fast like he knew she would be, he was waiting for her on the porch. From that angle, he was treated to a perfect view of her legs stretching from the car to the ground one at a time. She froze at the base of the porch stairs and fiddled with her car keys.

  He hooked his thumb toward his front door. “Come on in. We can discuss your business proposition over coffee.”

  She took a step back and mumbled something that sounded like “rule number one.”

  “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

  “I said it’s a beautiful day. Let’s talk outside.”

  He kicked away from the wall, intrigued. Maybe he read her body language wrong at the Quick Stand. “Okay. How about you have a seat on the porch? I’ll bring out the coffee.”

  Her mouth screwed up as she eyed the porch suspiciously. “Fine. I can handle that. No problem.”

  She perched on the edge of a wicker chair, wringing her hands. Maybe she’d heard talk about his no-nonsense business ethic and was nervous about entering into a negotiation with him. “One more thing,” he found himself saying without giving it much forethought, “I grow celery. I give most of it away, but there’s three bunches in my fridge right now. You’re welcome to it if you want.”

  “That would be . . . Thank you.” Her hands stopped fidgeting, which he took as a positive sign.

  “Okay. Good. I’ll get the celery and coffee and be right back.”

  Bracing his side against the door frame, he tugged a work boot off and there was no mistaking her long hiss of an exhale. Interesting. When he started in on the second boot, he watched from the corner of his eye as her fingers smoothed over her skirt and locked on her bare knee.

  Note to self—the lady’s got a thing for boots.

  “Rule number one,” she said in a bare whisper.

  “What? Something about a rule?”

  “Huh? Me? I didn’t say anything.” She jumped to her feet, color staining her cheeks.

  Kellan stifled the urge to brush his thumb over her pink-laced freckles. In the spirit of discovering what else turned the skittish Miss Sorentino on, he lifted his work hat from its peg by the door and dropped it on his head.

  Amy’s eyes turned dark. She bit her bottom lip.

  That look alone was worth feeling like an idiot by putting on a hat to go indoors. Working hard to keep a triumphant smile off his face, Kellan swaggered into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. He busied himself at the coffeemaker until a long shadow materialized on the tile floor. Amy had moved into the doorway.

  He glanced at her. “You want onions too?”

  “Celery should be enough to get me by.”

  Her throaty voice was turning him all kinds of hard. He felt her eyes on his ass and gave her a real good look as he bent into the open refrigerator, pretending to search for the celery that lay in plain sight on the bottom shelf.

  “You want all three bunches?”

  “Yes, I’ll take it all.”

  The room went darker. The door clicked shut. Well, well, well . . . He rose, celery in hand. Maybe his instincts were right after all.

  “Oh, that’s a relief.” Amy’s voice was shrill, excited.

  Kellan turned to see her peering into his living room. “A relief?”

  “You’re married. I mean . . . that’s wonderful. I didn’t know because you’re not wearing a ring.”

  He set the celery on the counter. “Why would you think I’m married?”

  “The Christmas tree, the decorations. Cinnamon-scented candles. Your wife did an amazing job. The house looks great.”

  He sauntered toward her, tugging on the brim of his hat as he went, and enjoyed the stain of color spreading over her delectable skin. “Amy, I’m not married.”

  “Girlfriend?” she squeaked.

  He shook his head and leveled his most enticing gaze at her.

  “You live with your mom?”

  She sounded so hopeful, Kellan almost laughed. She was so darn nervous, yet obviously aroused, that all he could think about was how badly he wanted to kiss her. Totally inappropriate, of course. She was there to discuss Slipping Rock Ranch business, probably hoping to negotiate a price discount for her restaurant, and he had enough integrity not to mix business with pleasure. No way did he want her to mistakenly feel like doing business with him obligated her to get physical. But getting physical with Amy Sorentino was the only thing his mind and body could focus on at the moment, and instinct told him she was equally conflicted.

  Lucky for him, once they wrapped up their negotiations for a beef contract, there was nothing in the law books preventing two consenting adults from enjoying each other naked.

  But even with all that integrity and self-control, he couldn’t stem the urge to press a fingertip to the crease between her eyebrows. She looked up at it and her eyes crossed, which only made him want to kiss her worse. He dropped his finger and averted his gaze. “I love Christmas, that’s all. I love the lights and the songs. I love the way it smells, and the way it feels to sit in front of a cozy fire with a big old tree taking up space in the corner. No one lives here but me and Max.”

  “Max?”

  He met her whiskey brown eyes again, hoping his didn’t reflect his fraying willpower. “My dog.”

  The flush of her skin spread to her neck, and he wondered if she tasted as delectable as she looked. Her lips, ripe and ready, parted enough for him to see a hint of her rosy tongue. She was everything he loved about women, all soft curves and sweet smells. He slid his hand up her forearm to cup her elbow and she leaned into his grip. Her body was so damned responsive it was killing him.

  “We need to talk business,” she whispered.

  He swabbed a hand over his mouth and stumbled back. Whoa, boy. “Yes, we do. I’ll get the coffee.”

  Instead of taking a seat at the kitchen table like he expected, she trailed him to the coffeepot. “My sisters and I are transforming our farm into a vacation spot for families, including a restaurant.”

  “Like a dude ranch?”

  “Sort of. We’re not going to call it that.”

  He handed her a mug of coffee. “What are you going to call it?”

  “Sorentino Farm will now be Heritage Farm.” She touched the mug
to her lips and blew across the surface of the coffee as though to cool it.

  He busied himself with cream and sugar in an effort to get his mind out of the gutter. “And your restaurant?”

  “The Local Dish. Because I’m going to highlight locally grown ingredients.”

  The Local Dish. Cool name. “Which is why you’d like Slipping Rock to supply the beef.”

  Her lips pressed together, giving them an alluring pout. He had to find out what they felt like. “You’ve got the best reputation in New Mexico, but I can’t afford the price on your Web site. I . . .”

  Then he was touching her again, this time grazing her lower lip with the pad of his finger, and discovering it was as velvety as he’d expected. What the hell was up with him? He couldn’t remember ever having such little control over his impulses. But Amy didn’t seem to mind his lack of control. Her eyes closed and her tongue darted out to flick his skin. She moaned like women did when tasting a first bite of chocolate. It was a sound of pure pleasure that sent Kellan’s integrity flying out the window.

  “Amy?”

  “Hmm?”

  He dipped his face toward hers until a scant inch separated them. “I think we’re done talking business.”

  Her eyes opened a little and she offered him a dreamy smile. “What do you propose we do, cowboy?”

  Boots, his hat—this lady had it bad for cowboys. No problem. He could work with that. Shaking his head with amusement, he let out a gruff chuckle and set her coffee mug on the counter. “Darlin’, we can do whatever you want.”

  Amy raised a brow, then slung an arm around Kellan’s neck and locked her open mouth to his. Stepping back and pulling him with her, she slammed into the wall. His hat toppled off. With any luck, he’d get the hint that she didn’t want it slow and easy. Nothing short of high-octane fireworks was going to diffuse her anxiety today.

  She wasn’t sure what made her take this plunge. Maybe it was the charming incongruity of a room that smelled of testosterone, leather, and a recent fire in the hearth, but looked like Martha Stewart had stopped by to decorate for the holidays that tipped Amy over the edge of reason. Or maybe it was simpler math—one eyeful of Kellan’s perfect, hard ass in those cowboy jeans plus one horny, stressed-out, sex-deprived woman equaled instantaneous combustion. All she knew was that she suddenly didn’t give a damn about rules or celery—what she really needed this morning was a down and dirty cowboy quickie.

  It had been months since she’d last felt a man’s hands and mouth on her skin. Ten months, to be exact. That manipulative bastard Brock McKenna had been her last—and he hadn’t even been all that good in the sack. With him, she’d had to do a lot of closed-eyed visualizations of fantasy cowboys riding bucking broncs or wielding lassos to bring herself off. Somehow, she didn’t think she’d have that problem with the cowboy presently dragging his tongue along her neck.

  He hitched her knee around his hip and pressed into her. She ground her body into his and relished the vibrations of his groan against her tongue. That’s right, cowboy. It’s been a while for me, but I haven’t forgotten how it’s done....

  Next thing she knew, he’d scooped her into his arms and was hustling up the stairs, into a bedroom. He set her on the bed and unzipped her boot. She shimmied to the edge of the mattress and lent him a hand, flinging her shirt and bra onto the floor. The faster they got to the good stuff, the better. After all, she had places to go and things to do . . . and she didn’t want to give herself any time to consider why this tryst may not be the best plan she’d ever come up with.

  It took Kellan some effort to figure out how to remove Amy’s boots. They weren’t practical work boots, like he was used to, but a pair of those strap-happy high-heel types women seemed to dig. He might’ve considered leaving them on, as hot as they made her legs look, but the heels looked like dangerous weapons he didn’t want anywhere near his naked self. When he finally looked up after tugging the second boot off, his gaze lingered on her perfect, full breasts before roving to the black silky fabric shimmering between her thighs. He swallowed hard and smoothed his hands up her thighs, bunching her skirt until it collected at her waist.

  “Amy, your panties are coming off now.”

  She set her feet on his chest. “Cowboy, you better get busy before I remember why I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  All right then.

  He tossed the panties aside and touched the smooth, wet folds that told him she was as turned on as he was. He eased a couple fingers inside her and swirled his thumb over her clit.

  Her reaction was a thing of beauty. She threw herself into the experience with the same reckless fire she seemed to do everything else with. Whimpering, she fisted the quilt, pulling it taut as he settled into a slow, steady rhythm.

  “Better than celery?” he teased.

  She grinned and pulled away from his touch, rising to her knees on the bed. “It’s time for your clothes to come off, cowboy.” She reached for his jeans and, with impressive one-handed skill, undid the buttons.

  She shoved his jeans and boxers to his knees and wrapped her hand around his cock, then her lips. Oh, man, did it feel dynamite. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, tangled his hands in her hair, and concentrated on the friction of her wet, hot mouth against his shaft. He stopped her while he still had enough reserves to fuck her brains out the way he wanted to. Gently but firmly, he pushed her onto the bed and stripped her skirt off, then grabbed a condom from his nightstand drawer, rolling it on while she watched.

  She slid her toes up his leg. “I want to ride you.”

  He’d planned on being the one doing the riding, but he was a smart enough man to give a lady what she wanted. He stretched onto the bed and pulled her up to straddle him.

  He drove her onto his cock with a slow upward thrust. Her head dropped forward and she braced her hands on his chest, her hair falling in sheets around her face. Her skin, damp with perspiration and flush with desire, glowed in the morning light streaming through the window. She was so pretty, he forgot about everything except giving her pleasure. Then she rotated her hips in a slow grind and took him straight to the edge of control. He clamped his teeth together and fought against his body’s demands.

  “Touch me.” Her voice was low, thick.

  His hand trembling with his wavering control, he burrowed a finger against her clit. She gasped her approval as she moved, her hips rocking them both straight to the finish line.

  Kellan held himself inside her until the last pulses of his orgasm faded away, then, panting and sated, he eased her to his side and tucked her into the crook of his arm. Just as he was congratulating himself on being the man to help Amy Sorentino relax, she shot from the bed like someone had stuck her with a cattle prod.

  “Rule number one,” she shrieked.

  They were back to that, were they? Kellan propped a pillow behind his head and regarded her with lazy interest as she hopped around, trying to stick her feet though her panties. “What’s rule number one?”

  She shot him a withering glare, like he was guilty of some heinous crime against humanity. “Rule number one is to stay away from cowboys.”

  Her admission was so unexpected, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “That rule doesn’t seem to be working for you. What’s rule number two?”

  She pulled her skirt on. “Go to church every Sunday.”

  “Seems like your priorities are messed up if the cowboy rule trumps church.”

  The lacy black bra went on next and he bid a silent farewell to her fantastic rack.

  “True, but there’s a much greater likelihood of me making it to church, with or without the rule book, than me staying away from—” She lifted her sweater over her head and sniffed her arm. “Ugh. I smell like sex. I can’t face my sisters like this, not to mention the lawyer. I have to take a shower.” She wrestled her clothes back off and stomped in the direction of his bathroom.

  No doubt about it, Amy Sorentino was adorable. And sexy as hell. He swung his legs o
ver the side of the bed, slipped his jeans over his hips, and headed for the hall linen closet. Grabbing the towel on top, he let himself in through the closed bathroom door.

  “Brought you a towel, but something tells me you’re not going to let me wash your hair.”

  “Back off, cowboy. I had a moment of weakness, but I have myself under control again.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but I consider myself more of a rancher than a cowboy.”

  “I can’t hear you,” she hollered, ducking her head under the water. He chuckled again and left her to scrub the sex off her body in peace. He, for one, wanted the smell of her to linger on his skin all day long.

  Ten minutes later, when she sprinted into the kitchen, he had her celery ready to go in a plastic grocery bag. She peeked inside, sighing. “I’ll take those onions, too, if you can be fast about it.”

  He must have been feeling merciful, or at least extremely satisfied, because he didn’t even consider teasing her. “You got it.” He walked to the pantry and rummaged through a bin. “What’s rule number three?”

  “Apologize when I know I should.”

  Good rule. One he wished he were better at. He dropped three fat, golden onions in her bag. “Does that happen a lot?”

  She hustled out the door, speed-walking so fast she was almost running. “More than I like, that’s for sure.”

  Kellan’s time with Amy was coming to a close. He jogged ahead and planted himself in front of her car door. “May I at least get your phone number?”

  She went still. “What?”

  “We still have business to discuss.”

  She smacked her forehead and seemed to wilt a little. “Oh my gosh. I forgot about the beef contract. This is why I need rules.” She wrung the handles of the bag. “Just so you know, I didn’t sleep with you so you’d give me some sort of deal on beef. I’m not . . . I mean—” Regret dropped like a rock in his gut. Why couldn’t he have kept his hands to himself until they’d solidified a contract to avoid all this awkward misunderstanding? Apparently, Amy wasn’t the only one who needed rules.