The Cowboy's City Girl - An Enemies To Lovers Romance

by Emerson Rose

  Hungry for one another, the undercurrent of attraction and need that has been denied all day takes control. He guides me into his lap, dragging his mouth down my neck and roughly nipping at my skin.

  He covers my face with intense, urgent kisses, and I allow my head to fall back, offering him better access to my neck. I submit to the internal fire that’s been smoldering inside of me for weeks. Holding onto his bicep with one hand, I reach between our bodies to feel his thickness through the thin material of his boxers throbbing against my hip.

  A moan vibrates through his chest, and my head spins with the intensity of it all. Suddenly he shifts under me, and I feel his muscles tense with pain instead of pleasure.

  I bolt off of his lap, but he keeps ahold of my braid, holding me captive half on and half off of the bed. I grab the edge of the mattress and look up at him, out of breath and flushed.

  “This isn’t right,” I say, between ragged breaths.

  “Yes, it is.” His voice is deep and demanding, shaking my resolve.

  “Let me go. I hurt you. I can’t do this.”

  “Pain is my friend, Imani. You’ve misinterpreted my reaction.”

  “No,” I say sternly, and snap my head hard enough to make him release his grip. “No means no.”

  “Until it means yes.”

  “Marcus, I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m not like this; I’ve never been like this.”

  My heart is pounding so hard in my chest it feels like it could explode, my palms are sweaty, and that damn dizziness is starting again.

  “I don’t know how you usually are, Imani, but I am quite enjoying you right now. Except for your constant worrying; that is truly a buzz kill.”

  I start to see sparkles in my peripheral vision again. What the hell? I’ve only passed out once in my life, and this man has set me on the verge of fainting twice in one day.

  “You are doing it again. Come here right now. Sit on the edge of the bed and put your head between your knees. I told you, you need to eat something.”

  There’s no time for embarrassment or pride right now. I have no choice but to do what he says, or I’ll be splayed out flat on my face in seconds.

  I stare down at my shoes for the second time today and feel doubly embarrassed. Six or seven deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth later, I’m feeling better and I slowly sit up.

  “I think you’re right. My blood sugar is probably low. I need to eat,”

  “Of course I’m right. Go to the kitchen. Maria keeps cheese and fruit trays made up in the refrigerator all the time.”

  I feel him burning a hole in my backside as I make my way toward the kitchen. Just as promised, a perfectly arranged fruit and cheese platter waits for me on the top shelf in the fridge.

  I slide the huge tray out, remove the lid, and pop a strawberry the size of a ping-pong ball in my mouth. I spot some orange juice, pour a glass, and chug it. A few more bites, and I’m already feeling much better.

  As I’m returning the tray to the fridge, an idea hits me. It’s wrong and naughty and totally the opposite of what I should be doing, but the streak of crazy that he has unearthed inside of me blinds me from my common sense.

  I vowed to myself to be the epitome of professionalism, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to tease Marcus. Before closing the refrigerator, I smile and grab two of the juiciest strawberries off the tray and a can of whipped cream.

  My hands are full, so I push the door shut with a swish of my hip and lean my back against it.

  I don’t know where the cameras are hidden, but I can feel him watching me when I squirt the whipped cream on the first strawberry and slowly bite into it.

  The juice trickles down my chin onto my neck, but I don’t bother cleaning it off before I repeat the performance. I imagine Marcus stuck in bed watching me make a sticky sweet mess, and smile.

  I jump when I hear him yell, “Imani!”

  Yep, he was watching. I wipe my face with a paper towel and return the whipped cream to the fridge before going back into his room for round three.

  Fifteen

  “Did you get enough to eat?”

  “I don’t know, did I?”

  “I wouldn’t be opposed to you going back for more. Better yet, bring that little show in here and share with me.” He’s still lying on top of the comforter in his briefs, and his hand is resting over his rock-hard cock.

  What made me think I could play games with this man? I’ve never been a flirt. Even before my attack, I was an average girl, maybe a little on the shy side. I went on occasional dates in high school, but I never had a serious boyfriend. Eating strawberries and whipped cream is as close to erotic as I’ve ever come.

  “So, uh, are you all set for the night?” Stupid question. It’s late, I’m way out of my league, and my nerves are getting the best of me.

  “No.” He lowers his gaze to my mouth, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. He makes me uncomfortable and excited at the same time. I want to look away but I can’t. He has me hypnotized, frozen in place while he has his way with me via his stare.

  He continues his leisurely tour over my breasts and down my belly to my sex, devouring and arousing every inch of me.

  He blinks his bedroom eyes lazily and rubs his hand over his cock.

  I need to figure out a way to ask him if he needs anything without actually asking if he needs anything so I can go to my room, lock the door, and turn out the lights.

  I walked right into the trap that I set for myself. Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen; that’s what my mom always says, and I am not handling the heat very well at all.

  “What’s the matter, little temptress, cat got your tongue?”

  Yep, I officially regret that temporary lapse in judgment a few minutes ago in the kitchen.

  “No, I…,” No matter what I say at this point, he’s going to twist it to his advantage, and I’m not entirely sure I don’t want him to.

  He grins and removes his hand from his cock, tucking it behind his head. I lower my eyes to the bulge he’s brazenly revealed and pull my bottom lip between my teeth. Why I try to avert my eyes before he notices, I’ll never know. I never stood a chance with this professional predator.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. I’d like to lick… that juice from your chin, though. Given your inclination to faint, I think we should get some rest and pick this up again tomorrow. I will, however, be thinking of you as I’m falling asleep tonight. Maybe you’ll be thinking of me, too.”

  And he winks.

  Oh, dear God.

  “Will you be getting my sleeping pills, or do I have to hop?”

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and relax, for now. Lesson learned. Don’t start things you’re too tired, or too scared, to finish.

  Now I’m exhausted, horny, frustrated, and I have to convince this stubborn man who always gets his way that he shouldn’t take his sleeping pills.

  “I can’t do it; what if you never wake up? We don’t know what’s going on until we get a current CT.”

  “You’re welcome to lie next to me and watch me breathe all night if you want. I’m taking those pills no matter what you do, though. Whether I hurt myself in the process is your choice.”

  I huff and march into the bathroom, snatch the pills off the counter, and lob them onto the bed within his reach. He can have them, but I’m not staying to watch him sleep. I’m learning fast what Castillo manipulation smells like, and I’m not falling for it again.

  “I’m going to bed. Do you need to use the bathroom before bed?”

  Please say no, please say no, please say no.

  I’m here to be his nurse, but he makes me weak, and he doesn’t play fair.

  “No, Imani, I’ll be fine.” He reaches out to retrieve the pill bottle and opens it directly over his lap, drawing my attention back to his arousal.

  I will never ever allow myself to make the mistake
of teasing him again; no more strawberries. No more anything. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me before I can take two steps.

  “Imani, leave my doors open. Yours, too. I might need you during the night.”

  I don’t have it in me to respond. I turn and make my way to the room next door and leave our doors open in case he needs me.

  The lights in the guest room have been dimmed and the bed made irresistible by someone, probably Maria, who has pulled the corner of the comforter back.

  I kick off my shoes and sit cross-legged on the open triangle of crisp white sheets to let my brain settle before I go to sleep. I close my eyes for a moment and deep breathe the way my therapist taught me to do when I’m overwhelmed.

  I haven’t had to use meditation to unwind for years. No matter how hard I try to relax - which is the problem, I shouldn’t force myself - my thoughts keep drifting over the events of the past two weeks.

  When I realize I’m doing more harm than good, I sigh and open my eyes. I lean forward and narrow my eyes when I notice a short lavender nightgown lying at the foot of the bed.

  Why on earth would he have something like this on hand if it’s not another woman’s? Does he seriously think I’ll wear used lingerie?

  I snatch it off the bed with the intention of throwing it in the trash when I notice a price tag still attached to the bodice.

  It’s new, and it’s expensive. Holy shit, who pays that much for one piece of clothing?

  Marcus, that’s who.

  I don’t like the idea of accepting a gift this expensive, and from my boss, no less. But… it is better than sleeping in my jeans and sweater or, worse, in my underwear.

  Marcus may be in a cast and freshly home from the ICU, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have someone help him into my bed in the middle of the night. I imagine rich people can afford to pay someone to do just about anything.

  I wonder if he is watching me on his cameras from his room. He did say there was a camera in every room. Does that include the bathroom? I try to think back on the flashing Brady Bunch boxes on the screen in his room, but I can’t recall seeing a bathroom in any of them.

  That’s ridiculous, he wouldn’t. Would he?

  I switch off the light and, with one eye on the hallway that is still glowing from the fire in the living room, I shed my clothes and step into the overpriced gown.

  I slip between the soft, million-thread count sheets and close my eyes for only a second before I snap them open again.

  With all the fuss about Marcus taking a sleeping pill, I forgot that I don’t have mine with me. When I left my apartment today I never would have dreamed that he would be going home so soon.

  I’m not going to make it through another night terror. My only hope of getting any sleep at all is in the pill bottle on Marcus’s night table.

  I throw back the thick comforter and pad as quietly as I can to Marcus’s door. His room is dark like mine but for the light on his night table. His eyes are closed, and he is as still as he was the first time I saw him in his hospital bed.

  I tiptoe to his bedside and glance back and forth between the pill bottle under the lamp and his peaceful face. This is wrong, very wrong. I know that taking another person’s prescription medication is a huge no, no. But being a nurse, I also know that we take the same ridiculously high dose of the exact same medication.

  I reach for the bottle and jump when I hear Marcus’s deep, growly voice.

  “Thief.”

  “Shit, you scared me. I thought you were sleeping,” I say, clutching my chest.

  “I was trying to but someone is stealing my pills,” he says, lifting his heavy eyelids open halfway. His sleepy gaze roams over the thin material of my new nightgown.

  “Lavender looks beautiful on you; I knew it would.”

  “Thank you.” I cross my arms over my breasts in a hopeless effort to cover myself.

  “Why do you need them?” he asks.

  “Nightmares, like you.” I don’t offer that information to anyone but knowing that he suffers the same way compels me to be honest.

  “Sit. Tell me, I promise to behave.” He points to the other side of the spacious bed, and I consider my options. I could politely decline and go back to the guest room for a guaranteed night of miserable sleep riddled with memories of the worst experience of my life. Or I could stay here with this devastatingly handsome man and spill my guts in exchange for a pill that will anesthetize me into a solid six hours of sleep.

  No contest.

  I walk around and sit as far away from him as I can. I feel exposed, and I’m sure that’s what he intended when he had this gown left out for me. No sense in tempting myself again tonight, my self-control is a thin, straining thread and it’s about ready to snap.

  “So, why the nightmares?” The space between his eyes pinches together in a concerned frown. Nervous to share something so personal, I look down at my hands in my lap.

  “I… I’ve never told anyone other than my parents and my therapist about them.” He sits stone-still, his hands to himself. I think he senses that some distance is important for me to be able to tell him my story.

  I briefly close my eyes and begin telling him my deepest, darkest secret.

  “When I was nineteen, my friends and I got fake IDs. We went bar-hopping on the weekends for a few months over the summer.”

  He clears his throat and adjusts himself against the pillows, and I reconsider for a moment. I lift my head and look at him. A tiny flinch on the outside of his eyes and an understanding twitch of his lips encourages me to continue.

  “One night, around midnight, I got separated from my friends going to the bathroom. The place was packed and someone cut in front of me. I had to let go of my best friend’s hand.” I pause and swallow past the lump that forms in my throat whenever I think of the details of that night.

  “I had way too much to drink and I wandered out a side door into the alley beside the club, thinking it was the way to the bathroom. I was wobbly and my vision was blurry, I didn’t see anyone at first. But then, they came out of nowhere and grabbed me. They took me away…” I take a deep breath and shudder when he reaches out to take my hand in a firm grip. Tears well in my eyes, and I watch his throat constrict as he swallows hard before speaking.

  “Kidnapped from the bar?”

  “Yes, one of them picked me up from behind and covered my mouth. He dragged me, screaming into his hand, to a van parked right there in the alley. Another man opened the sliding door of the van, and the third was the driver. It was like they had it all planned or something. I fought back as well as I could with all of that alcohol in my system, but I was a mental mess and they outnumbered me three to one.”

  “Stop, don’t tell me anymore. I would like to know just one thing; is it OK to ask?”

  A fat tear escapes from the corner of my eye when I nod my head up and down. “Were they caught? Did they go to prison?” The warm compassion that filled his voice when I began my story is suddenly gone and replaced with icy anger.

  This was a mistake, why the hell did I think this was a good idea? Now I’m nothing more than damaged goods to him. This is why I’ve never opened up. It’s the very reason I resigned myself to being forever single. It’s safe that way. No risk, no pain.

  His hand relaxes and he strokes his thumb over my knuckles.

  “Imani, it’s alright to finish. I’m sorry if I’m making this harder for you. It’s not my intention, I promise.”

  I look at him and hesitate. He tips his head down and lifts his eyebrows. His silent encouragement causes me to tell him what he wants to know.

  “Yes, well, two of them were caught. They were sentenced to life, but one wasn’t home when the police raided the house. He’s still out there.”

  The carotid artery in his neck pulses, and his grip on my hand tightens. This is bad; I need to shut up now.

  “This happened ten years ago?” he asks, through tightly clenched teeth.

  “Well,
more like eleven, but, Marcus, it was a long time ago. I’m sorry; this was a bad idea. Please relax. I shouldn’t have told you. It’s not good for you to get so worked up.

  His expression is lethal. Sharp pain shoots up my arm when his grip becomes unbearable.

  “You’re hurting my hand,” I say softly, and immediately he loosens his grip.

  “I’m sorry. Goddamn, Imani, I’m so sorry. If I had two minutes alone with any of those men, just two minutes...” His jaw twitches, and I sigh.

  “Please don’t pity me. It happened, and I can’t change it. I have issues; I have nightmares and I don’t trust people. I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now, okay?”

  He takes my hand again, gently this time. He pulls back the comforter, inviting me in. Relief floods through my body; he still wants me.

  I scoot across the bed, and he tucks me in against his chest with his arm around my shoulder. I lie with my ear over his heart and listen to it beat. He kisses the top of my head and rests his chin there. I’ve never felt so safe and complete.

  For ten years, I’ve been anti-man, anti-relationship, and anti-love, and here I am in bed with a man I hardly know, trusting him with my secrets and my life.

  The comforting scent of eucalyptus and spearmint on his skin takes me to a good place. I relax into the curve of his body and slide my arm around his waist.

  I told him my horrible secret expecting him to be appalled and turn me away, but he did the opposite. Instead of rejection, he has given me unconditional acceptance.

  After a quiet moment, he passes his sleeping pills to me, along with the bottle of water from his night table. I take a pill and close my eyes but not before thanking my guardian angel for bringing me this amazing man.

  Sixteen

  In the morning, I lie with my eyes closed while my mind clears. After a few seconds, I determine that I am starving and entirely too warm. Problem number three is a sharp pain in my leg.