by Mia Hopkins
Without another word, he embraced her. He smelled musky and sexy. She savored the weight of him, pressing her into the earth, crushing the flowers. As he kissed her neck, she ran her hands up his muscled back, her fingertips grazing his hot skin in lazy trails.
He hooked his thumbs into the elastic of her underwear. “Up,” he murmured.
She raised her hips as he slid her panties off.
“Spread your legs,” he said.
The edge of command in Dean’s voice made her drip hotly onto his shirt. Staring at his face, she parted her thighs and leaned back on her elbows to watch him as he lay down between her legs.
Dean didn’t touch or tease her. He didn’t stroke her legs or skin or play with her breasts.
He simply lowered his head and kissed her, long and hard, sealing his lips over her sex. She yowled in surprise and tried to clamp her legs shut, but he held them open with his enormous hands, and she was pinned to the ground, unable to move.
And then he went to work.
His hot tongue began to lap languidly at her, up one side of her pussy and down the other, teasing her open. He placed his big thumbs on her outer lips and spread her gently. Her entire body felt raw and exposed, and when he dipped his tongue inside her, she gasped and jumped reflexively, like a knee hit with a tiny hammer, every nerve on high alert.
For a long time, he pleasured her, making her wetter and wetter with each masterful lash of his tongue. Soon she was drifting above the poppy field, high on the opiate of her own arousal.
Just when she thought she couldn’t fly any higher, Dean lifted his head and swiped her clit with the hardened tip of his tongue.
Pleasure sliced through her. She gasped and squirmed again. His hands clamped down on her legs, pinning her to the dirt. He pressed his lips against the front of her pussy and began to strum her swollen clit with his tongue. He didn’t stop, his unrelenting rhythm jacking up the orgasm that was threatening to break inside her like a thunderstorm.
His lips, his tongue, the sensation of his beard against the hypersensitive skin of her inner thighs, the feel of his calloused hands gripping her open, the way he knew exactly what he was doing—Monica’s body tightened like a windup toy. No one had ever turned her crank like Dean. She was so wet. When a new rush of moisture trickled out of her, Dean growled and quickened the pace, a man on a mission to see her fall apart.
She was sweating and cursing quietly. The sun beat down on her. There were flowers tangled in her hair. Dean pushed his body forward and nestled his rock-hard shoulders behind her knees. With one last trick up his sleeve, he opened her legs wider, pushing her thighs up and out until she was completely open, like he was cracking the spine of a brand-new book.
At exactly the same time, he pressed his tongue against her clit, hard.
The orgasm exploded out of her, a pent-up monster finally let out into the light of day.
Ecstasy crushed her in long, agonizing waves. She convulsed as he held her steady, his tongue never leaving her, his grip never loosening.
After the last tremors of her orgasm slid through her, Monica lay perfectly still on the ground. The hot sun burned her, and the wind licked the sweat from her skin. As hot pleasure drained out of her, she concentrated on catching her breath, dry desert air filling her lungs.
Dean rested his bearded cheek on her thigh and stroked her hips with a surprisingly light touch. A few seconds passed before she realized she’d reached out and torn handfuls of flowers out of the earth as she’d come. The velvety orange petals were crushed in her fists. She unclenched her hands and the petals blew free.
She sat up slowly and reached for him. He brought himself to his knees and let her kiss him, slowly, graciously, as though they had been lovers for a long time. When she broke the kiss, he lifted her chin with his forefinger and looked into her eyes.
“Why so lonely, princess?” he whispered.
She stroked his sun-warmed shoulders and said nothing.
* * * * *
When Monica finally caught her breath, Dean stood and helped her up. He still had a massive hard-on. She reached for him once more. While she kissed him, she slid her hand down those rock-hard abs and over the hot metal of his big brass buckle. But he took her wrist before she was able to go any lower.
“Today was for you,” he said softly. “All for you.”
“What the hell?” she blurted out. “That’s weird.”
His eyes crinkled up and he laughed through his nose. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Make sure you know what you want. I ain’t in no hurry.”
She stared at him, bewildered, as she buttoned herself up. He picked up his shirt, shook it out and put it back on. He tucked it in and adjusted his belt.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
They drove past the Rambling Ranch Inn without a word. Monica was sunburned, breathless and guilty. One of her aunties was watering the begonias outside the front office. Monica leaned down in her seat, afraid that what she and Dean had just done was written all over her face.
Oh God. What have I done? This was no anonymous motel hook-up in San Francisco. This was Dean MacKinnon, the most famous man in town. If her family found out what she was up to—Monica shuddered. This is bad.
“You okay?” he asked. He’d put a poppy in his hatband when she wasn’t looking. The little orange blossom flickered like a flame.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
When they reached the parking lot of the diner, most of the patrons were gone. Dean’s ancient pickup truck was one of the few cars left in the lot. She pulled into the empty space next to it to let him out.
After she put the car in park, he turned to her. “You should come with me when I visit Bo Walker this week. See the property, check out the bulls.”
She nodded. “Let me check my schedule. I’ll let you know.”
They looked at each other in silence. Dean was completely clean and put-together. What they’d done in the field could’ve been a feverish daydream or a product of her wishful imagination. But then she caught sight of the flower in his hatband and the still-raging bulge behind his fly. She pressed her thighs together and felt the slickness he’d left between her legs.
The urge to kiss him was so strong, she had to grip the steering wheel to keep from acting on it. There were patrons standing at the entrance of the diner. A couple passersby ambled along the sidewalk.
Dean opened the passenger door. “I think we’re going to enjoy working together. What do you think?” He turned, touched the brim of his hat and gave her a small nod. “Miss Kaur,” he said, his eyes searing hers.
“Mr. MacKinnon.”
He closed her door, got into his truck and started up the engine. As he drove away, Monica sat in the silent interior of her car and listened to the jacked-up beating of her heart.
Chapter Two
The Clown
“Breaking even is ending up in purgatory as far as I can tell.”
—Townes Van Zandt
A mop of dark curly hair appeared on the other side of the breakfast table. A tiny hand gripped the back of the chair. The chair rocked precariously as Dean’s monkey of a nephew swung into place for breakfast.
“Morning,” Dean said.
“Good morning, Uncle Dean.” The little boy was neat and clean, all dressed for kindergarten. Georgia, Derek’s mother, came in from the kitchen and put a pancake on her son’s plate.
“Here you go, kiddo. Pancake, Dean?” Georgia asked. She held a skillet full of pancakes in one hand and a spatula in the other. The new baby was due in a few weeks, but she looked like she was going to pop any minute.
“I’m good, thanks.” Dean finished reading the newspaper, folded all the sections neatly and straightened the pile. He took a sip of his second cup of coffee.
“Where’s Grandpa? Where’s Grandma Cece?” ask
ed Derek.
“They took a trip to the hospital in Bakersfield with your Uncle Caleb. They’ll be back this afternoon.” Dean opened the syrup bottle and poured a little puddle on Derek’s pancake. “Say when.”
The little boy stared at the growing puddle and said nothing.
“You gonna eat the whole bottle?” Dean asked.
The boy looked up at him with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Dean smiled and snapped the bottle closed. “Little monkey.”
Daniel opened the back door, walked into the kitchen and hugged Georgia from behind as she stood by the kitchen sink. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the back of her neck. He rested his hand on her pregnant belly. Together they closed their eyes, smiling, and stood still, a moment of tenderness in the swirl of another morning.
A sudden rush of longing flooded Dean’s chest. Quickly, he looked down at his coffee cup, annoyed at himself for intruding on his brother’s privacy.
At the table, his other brother Clark took a huge bite of pancakes and dripped syrup onto the newspaper as he read the business page. “So where are you going today?” he asked, his mouth full.
Dean cleared his throat. “Bo Walker’s. Going to see if we can get some bulls for Rodeo Days.”
“You taking that girl? What was her name, the one on the rodeo association?”
“Monica Kaur. Yeah. She wants to see them.” He hadn’t stopped thinking about her in the last two days. When she finally called him last night, he’d perked up like a teenage girl whose crush was on the phone. Didn’t matter that all she’d talked was business.
“She’s hot stuff,” said Clark with a grin. “She single? Seeing anyone?”
Dean put down his coffee cup, trying to sound nonchalant even though against all logic, Clark’s words made him see red. “Ask her yourself, you’re so interested.”
Daniel came into the dining room with his breakfast and sat down. “Say hi to old Bo for me, will you? Tell him we all saw Dandelion Wine buck off Bruno Silva on TV last weekend. That sure was something.”
“I’ll tell him.” Dean said.
Daniel turned to the little boy. “Go brush your teeth and get your book bag. I’m taking you to school today.”
Derek the monkey swung out of his chair. There was a smear of sticky pancake syrup on his cheek. “Okay, Daddy.”
* * * * *
Three months.
Dean had been home three months and already he felt like he was drowning. The facelessness of each moment bled into the next. He could feel himself growing older and softer and slower with each passing day.
When he was working the circuit, it was easy to keep bad feelings at bay. He was always moving, never giving himself enough time to stagnate.
And it felt good to start over in a new town every couple of days. Like he’d been erased. Newly baptized, almost a different man, no longer subject to the old misapprehensions or regrets of the past.
On the ranch, at least the work was good and honest, and Dean liked seeing his efforts tallied up each day by feet of fence restrung or number of calves vaccinated or square miles of pasture reseeded or leveled. He didn’t mind that he was answering to his younger brothers. In his absence, Daniel and Clark had become competent cattlemen, as skilled if not sharper than their old man.
Dean clenched his jaw.
The old man.
Their father was the whole reason he and Caleb had come back home, the whole reason Daniel couldn’t sleep at night and Clark spent most nights at the Silver Spur. The old man’s cancer had come back with a vengeance, and the whole family was here to rally around him, to support him and help him fight off the disease one more time.
The show producers called Dean regularly. Was he coming back? When? How many shows? Could they put him on the schedule?
“Not yet,” was all Dean could say. “Just keep me in mind. I can’t give you an answer yet.”
What kind of answer could he possibly give them? His father was dying, even though no one would say it aloud. He wouldn’t be able to do any shows until…the inevitable.
He loved his family. Good people, every single one.
And yet Dean wished he were back on the road. Anywhere but here, where bad memories and new melancholy were eating him alive.
He hoped the trip out to see Bo would be good for him. He borrowed Caleb’s truck. His baby brother’s Silverado wasn’t much to look at but the kid took good care of it. When he took the exit, Dean clenched the steering wheel just a little tighter and put on his sunglasses. Too many women in town who were hungry for a piece of him, and not in a good way. He hoped they’d mistake him for Caleb.
As promised, Monica stood just outside the fire station waiting for him. Her long black hair was gathered in a simple ponytail, and he could see the smooth, dark nape of her neck. She was dressed in another silk blouse, dark jeans and the silliest pink slippers he’d ever seen. The jeans showed off her wide hips and the curve of her round ass. In his mouth, his tongue twitched. For a split second, he thought he could still taste her, the sweet, rich flavor of her sex burned like a brand into his senses.
He stopped the truck at the curb, got out and opened the door for her.
“I told you to dress down, for Chrissakes,” he said by way of hello. “It’s a ranch.”
“I am dressed down,” she said, taking the hand he offered and climbing up into the cab of the lifted truck.
Dean couldn’t help admiring the view. The woman had curves like a dangerous mountain road. A flashback of her surrounded by orange flowers, half-naked and coming hard beneath him, made the rest of his mind go momentarily blank.
“You all right?” she asked as she put on her seat belt.
He blinked. “Yeah,” he said curtly. He shut the door.
The drive to Walker Ranch took an hour and a half. Dean kept his hands on the wheel and tried to keep cool. Monica messed with her tablet computer and chattered about her plans for Oleander Rodeo Days. Who was involved. Who was doing what. What was happening when. She went on and on. Dean’s mind was wandering back to the taste of her smooth brown skin when she asked him a question at last.
“Huh?” he said.
She lowered her sunglasses and raised an eyebrow at him. “I said, did you work with Bo Walker when you were in high school?”
Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. My first job.”
She tapped something into her computer. “Bo Walker owns Dandelion Wine? Isn’t that—”
“The three-time world-champion bull?” Dean nodded. “Bo grew up with my dad. Won a lot of awards as a bull rider before he went off to Vietnam. When he came back, he retired from riding to become a stock contractor. He started with one bucking bull and two good cows. Now he’s got sixty, seventy bulls on his property. Maybe a dozen horses he’s training for roping and pickup.”
“That’s impressive. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Three, four months ago. Back in St. Louis, I think.” He turned onto the winding road that led up to Lake Isabella.
She turned off her tablet and slipped it into her bag. “So what’s it like, not moving around the country like a pinball?”
It’s hell. “It’s fine,” he said. Tightly wound and moodier than usual, he had no desire to be psychoanalyzed today. He decided to turn the focus on her. “How about you? What made you move away from here in the first place?”
“Nothing dramatic. I got into Berkeley, and after four years, Northern California just grew on me, I guess. Most of the companies I want to work with are up there, so it’s a logical place for me to live.” She looked out the window.
Her answer wasn’t as deep as he wanted it to be, so he pressed her. “I knew kids in high school who were itching to get out of Oleander. Were you trying to get away from your family?”
“No, not really.” She gave him a sideways glance. “
Not at first, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess for this to make sense, you have to understand that my family is very big, very tight-knit.”
Had she forgotten who she was talking to? You couldn’t swing a dead possum ’round these parts without hitting a MacKinnon. “Yeah. I think I get that.”
“Also, I was raised in a very traditional way, going to the temple, praying twice a day. My father, my brother, all my uncles—they wear turbans and they don’t cut their beards.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen the Singhs in town before. Good men, all business owners and farmers.”
“My fiancé was a Sikh. We met at Berkeley.” She paused. “His family lives in Stockton. When our engagement ended, we caused a minor scandal. Especially when he got married just a few months later.”
So she’d been burned before, just like he had. “Did that bother you?” Dean asked.
“Not as much as I thought it would. But my family?” She shook her head. “Very bothered. Very, very bothered. Now my mother is obsessed with seeing me married. It was easy enough to avoid her when I was up north. But here? Impossible to escape.” Monica sighed and looked up at him. “Is Walker Ranch much farther?”
Dean glanced back at her. His picture of her was becoming clearer, but she was still a puzzle. One he wanted to solve. “Naw. We’ll be there soon.”
* * * * *
As Bo took them on a UTV tour of his ranch, Dean watched Monica work. She was as perceptive and sharp as a gypsy horse trader, but she hid her true self behind a wall of charm and a smile that could light up a moonless night. Old Bo had no idea what hit him. Before he knew it, Bo had offered up half his stock and told Monica he’d call the rodeo producers himself to make all the arrangements. They shook hands and in a hot minute, Bo was beaming and opening up his finest bottle of bourbon on the front porch while Monica held out her empty glass.
She had gone to rinse her slippers off with a garden hose when Bo leaned over to Dean and said quietly, “That one’s a keeper.”
