The Last Good Man in Texas

by Peggy Moreland

  She arched up at the first contact, her back bowing, then knotted her fingers in his hair and held him to her as he suckled.

  He lifted his head. "Forget what I said about small breasts," he said. He squeezed a hand around the breast he'd suckled, shaping it within his palm, then dipped his head to lick the glistening nipple that protruded from its center. "I was wrong," he admitted, then closed his mouth over it again with a groan.

  While he suckled, he toed off his boots and stripped off his jeans, then went to work on her slacks. Within seconds he was tossing them aside, along with her panties and easing down into the nest she'd created for him between her legs.

  Dragging himself higher, he rained kisses over her face. "Do we need protection?"

  She dug her fingers into his buttocks. "No. Just hurry."

  He spread his lips across hers in a smile. "And ruin all the fun?"

  "Rory—"

  He liked hearing her say his name, felt a smug sense of pleasure at the impatience her tone held at the moment. But he didn't intend to rush this. Not when he had a whole night of pleasure to look forward to. Intending to take advantage of every second, he dragged his lips down her neck, nipping and teasing his way to her breasts. He suckled slowly, drawing pleasure from each drag of his lips and hopefully pleasing her in return.

  He smoothed a hand over her belly and felt the shiver that shook her as he curved his fingers over her feminine mound. Though the urge to touch her there was strong, he resisted and moved on to stroke his hand down her thigh, then back up. Her legs parted instinctively, and this time he couldn't resist. He dipped his fingers into the juncture of her legs, found her center, the slick, moist heat.

  "Rory, please…"

  He couldn't ignore the desperation in her plea, wouldn't have even if he could, as the same desperation burned through him.

  Shifting on top of her, he guided his sex to hers, then found her hands. Lacing his fingers through hers, he pushed her hands up to hold them against the blanket above her head and closed his mouth over hers. He rocked his hips against hers, pushing himself inside, then filled her mouth with a groan as pleasure knifed through him.

  He held himself, unmoving, savoring the feel of her around him, giving her the time she needed to adjust to his size, his length. Passion built, as did the heat, and he thrust hard, burying himself deeply inside her. He felt the clamp of her feminine walls around him, the quiver of her legs beneath his and ground his hips against hers, giving her his full length, the satisfaction she demanded.

  Arching high to meet him, she came apart in an explosion of heat that stole his breath. His body responded, his sex pulsing, his body jerking, as he emptied himself inside her.

  Spent, he rolled on his back, taking her with him, and wrapped his arms around her. Weak, he slowly became aware of the butterfly stroke of her fingers along the side of his face, the warm moistness of her breath as she released it in a sigh against his chest.

  Smiling, he curved a hand over the back of her head and pressed a kiss against her hair. "So tell me. What did you think of that sunset?"

  Weaving her legs with his, she snuggled close. "What sunset?"

  * * *

  Though spending the night with Macy on a blanket spread beneath a canopy of stars had a certain appeal, the lack of amenities the outdoors offered forced Rory to suggest that they return to her trailer, where they spent the remainder of the night. The bed in her trailer was more a bunk than a bed and they had to arrange themselves spoonlike in order for them both to fit.

  But Rory didn't mind the crowded quarters. Not when it meant he got to sleep with Macy's hot little body snugged up against his, his head resting on the pillow behind hers.

  He was the first to wake the next morning, and he lay there a moment, enjoying the unexpected pleasure of finding himself in her bed. But a busy day lay ahead, one jam-packed with activities surrounding the grand opening of his store.

  Knowing he couldn't laze around in her bed any longer, he tucked his nose in the tempting curve between her shoulder and neck. "Wake up, sunshine," he whispered, nuzzling. "Time to get moving."

  She stretched like a cat, arching her back, her feet braced against his legs, then moaned and went limp.

  "What time is it?" she murmured sleepily against the pillow.

  He rolled his wrist to look at his watch. "Quarter after six."

  She tugged the sheet to her chin and burrowed deep. "Roosters don't even get up this early," she complained.

  Laughing, he dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. "This rooster does," he informed her as he climbed over her. "The grand opening is in two days and I've got a ton of work to do to prepare for it."

  She shifted, moving into the spot he'd vacated, and yawned as she settled her head on the pillow again.

  "I'd offer to make you breakfast, but I'm not much of a cook."

  He pushed his legs into his jeans, then pulled them up. "You're not even going to offer me a cup of coffee?"

  Whimpering pitifully, she threw back the covers. "If I have to." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then sat there a moment, scrubbing her hands over her face as if trying to wake up.

  Rory stared, his request for coffee forgotten. Totally nude, she created a picture much more tempting than caffeine. He tossed aside the shirt he'd picked up, buried a knee in the mattress beside her hip and pushed her back. "Maybe later," he said as he stretched out over her. "Right now I've got a hankerin' for you."

  * * *

  Six

  « ^ »

  This was the problem with getting physical with a guy, Macy told herself as she dug a narrow trench around a tree beside Rory's house. If the sex was good, you couldn't get the guy off your mind. If it was bad, you didn't give the guy another thought. But if it was really good, it was worse, because then you started trying to think of ways to get more. Whereas, if it was really bad, it was merely an inconvenience. You had your phone number changed.

  Sex with Rory had definitely been better than good, which was why she couldn't keep her mind focused on anything for longer than two seconds at a time before thoughts of him came drifting back in to distract her.

  And distractions were not what she needed right now, she thought, as she stole a surreptitious glance at the painter who was exiting the house through the rear kitchen door. When she'd arrived that morning and gotten her first look at the workmen on the job, she'd known immediately that she was in for trouble. She'd worked with men like them before. Dumb, macho blockheads who thought a woman's place was in his bed.

  She'd introduced herself, told them Rory had hired her as his landscaper and that she had his permission to fire any man on the spot who was caught littering or damaging any of the vegetation. It was stretching the truth a little but she figured in order to put the fear of God in them, she was going to have to use extreme measures, which, in her book, included lying.

  Though she kept digging, pretending to be busy, she kept an eye on the painter, watching as he set paint pails filled with brushes on a crude table constructed from a couple of sawhorses and a sheet of cracked plywood. She knew what he was planning to do. He intended to clean his paintbrushes, then dump the mineral spirits he'd used to clean them with on the ground. She'd seen it done a zillion times. It was a quick, easy method of disposing unwanted chemicals but hell on the soil and vegetation that soaked it up.

  Knowing she had to make a stand, let these men know she expected them to abide by her rules, she leaned her shovel against the tree and moved quietly to stand within six feet of the man. Just as he lifted the first pail to dump, she said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  He jumped, startled, then scowled and lifted the pail again. "And who's gonna stop me?"

  She clamped a hand down on his arm. "I am."

  He gave her a slow look up and down and snorted a breath. "Maybe you and a team of sumo wrestlers." He tried to shake off her hand. "Get outta my way. It's five o'clock and I'm thirsty for a beer."

  "You kn
ow that I'll have to fire you if you dump that here," she warned.

  He sneered. "I don't take no orders from no woman. Rory Tanner hired me. He'll be the one to fire me."

  She gave him a tight smile. "Well, guess we'll have to see about that, won't we?" Before he knew what she intended, she hooked a foot behind his ankle and jerked, managing to snatch the paint pail from his hand before he sat down hard on his butt.

  Addled, he gave his head a shake, looked up at her, then came up off the ground with a growl. He charged, his head ducked low, and caught her just above the knees with his shoulder and took her down, sending the pail's contents shooting into the air and down over both of them as they landed in a pile.

  Pinned beneath him, she shoved at his shoulders. "You're fired. Do you hear me? Fired! Get your equipment and get off this job now!"

  He lifted his head, his teeth bared, his eyes filled with hatred. "Ain't no woman gonna tell me what to do."

  He clamped a wide hand over her throat, squeezed. Her eyes wide, her mouth open and moving soundlessly, Macy clawed at his hand. She knew she had to do something and quickly, but before she could think of a way to break free, the painter was hurtling backward through the air and Rory was kneeling over her, smoothing her hair back from her face.

  "Macy, are you okay?"

  Hearing the concern in his voice, the worry, she nodded, then struggled to sit up, holding a hand to her burning throat. "I—fired—him," she managed to choke out.

  He glanced over his shoulder to where the painter lay moaning. His jaw hardened and he looked back at her. "If you hadn't, I would've." He gently took her by her arms and helped her to her feet. "You're sure you're okay?" he asked as he guided her toward his truck.

  She rubbed at her throat, nodded. "Fine," she croaked.

  He looked her up and down, as if needing to verify for himself that she hadn't received any other injuries, then boosted her up onto the passenger seat. When he was sure she was settled comfortably, he glanced back over his shoulder again. "I'll be right back," he said, then slammed the door.

  Wide-eyed, Macy watched him stalk back over to the painter, who was standing but rocking unsteadily on his feet. Rory grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulled back a fist and plowed it into the man's face. Blood spurted from his nose as the painter fell like a brick, knocked cold.

  "Billy!" Rory yelled.

  A man ran from inside the house, his face pale, obviously having witnessed the entire scene.

  "Yes, sir?"

  Rory flung out a hand, indicating the man on the ground. "Take Joe to the doctor and have him patched up. Tell 'em to send the bill to me. When you're done, I want you to get back here, pack up your gear and your crew and clear out. Nobody who would stand by and watch a woman harmed is going to work for me."

  Hanging his head in shame, Billy nodded.

  * * *

  Sitting on the kitchen table in Rory's apartment, planted there by Rory himself, Macy shoved impatiently at his hand. "Would you stop it!" she cried. "I just got the wind knocked out of me for a minute. I'm okay now."

  Ignoring her, he continued to probe and prod. "You could have suffered internal injuries. A broken rib. A punctured lung." Paling, he picked up her purse and shoved it into her hand. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

  She tossed the purse away. "I've already told you, I'm not going to the hospital."

  He plucked his cell phone from the clip on his belt. "Then I'm calling Ry and have him come and check you over."

  She snatched the phone from his hand and tossed it on the table behind her. "You're not calling anybody. It's bad enough that I have to put up with your prodding and poking. I'm not letting your brother get any cheap thrills by groping me, too."

  Flattening his lips, he hitched his hands on his hips and glared at her, then went limp as a rag and gathered her into his arms. "God, Macy. He could have killed you."

  She gulped but refused to let him know how truly frightened she'd been. "He wasn't going to kill me. Another couple of minutes, and I'd have had him crying 'uncle.'"

  He drew back to look at her. "Are you kidding me? Another couple of minutes and he'd have snapped your neck."

  The blood drained from his face at the suggestion and she tugged him back to stand between her legs, afraid he was going to faint. "He didn't hurt me," she told him for what seemed the umpteenth time. "I'm fine. I promise." She held her arms out, so that he could get a good look at her. "See? There's nothing wrong with me."

  He caught her arm and turned it over. "What's that?"

  She looked down, then scowled and rubbed at the spot. "Paint. I was holding a bucket of paint when Joe tackled me."

  He scooped her off the table, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Let's get you in the tub and get you cleaned up."

  His concern touched her, but she couldn't let him continue to worry about her when there was nothing wrong with her. Locking her arms around his neck, she pushed her face up to his. "Is this a trick to get me naked?"

  He stopped, stared, then continued on to the bathroom. "No, but now that you mention it, it sounds like a damn good idea."

  At the side of the tub, he gently set her down on its edge, then leaned to turn on the water. After he'd satisfied himself with the temperature, he toed off his boots and dragged his T-shirt over his head.

  As he reached for his belt buckle, she lifted a brow. "I thought I was the one who needed a bath?"

  "You are," he assured her, then grinned and shoved his jeans down his legs. "But I figure it'll makes things a whole lot easier if I'm in the tub with you when I bathe you."

  "Uh-huh," she hummed doubtfully.

  He reached around her to nab a bottle of bath oil from a shelf. "Do you prefer a floral or herbal scent?" he asked as he examined the label.

  "You keep a supply of bubble bath on hand?" she asked incredulously, then held up a hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

  He poured a liberal dose over the water, stirred, then climbed into the tub and offered her his hand. "Easy," he warned as she stepped over. "I don't want you slipping and falling."

  She rolled her eyes. "I'm not helpless."

  "Indulge me." He sank down behind her, then guided her down into the water to sit between his legs. "Comfortable?" he asked.

  Comfortable? she thought. Who could possibly be comfortable sitting in the bathtub between a naked man's legs? Especially if the naked man was Rory. "I'm fine," she lied.

  Satisfied, he slipped his arms beneath hers and drew her back to lie against his chest, wrapping his arms around her middle and locking his ankles over her legs. "We'll soak for a minute before we get down to scrubbin'."

  Lulled by the warmth of the water and the comfort of his body wrapped cocoonlike around hers, Macy closed her eyes. "Yeah. Whatever."

  She dozed for a minute—it couldn't have been longer than that, she was sure—but roused when she felt his breath at her ear.

  "Macy?" he said softly.

  "Hmm?"

  "Wake up, honey. The water's getting cold."

  She stretched, then groaned, hugging her arm against her middle.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, immediately concerned.

  She rubbed at her sore muscle. "Nothing. Just sore. It's been a while since I wrestled with a man."

  His lips curved against her hair in a smile. "Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that."

  Holding her away from him, he stood, then stepped over the side of the tub and grabbed a towel. He dried off quickly, then nabbed a fresh towel and held it open for Macy, wrapping it around her as she stepped from the tub.

  "Hang on," he said, turning away. "I'll see what I can find for you to put on."

  When he returned he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and offered Macy the same. "They'll probably swallow you whole," he said, "but they're clean."

  Touched by his thoughtfulness, she quickly stepped into the pants and cinched the drawstring at her waist, then pulled the T-shirt over her head. L
ooking down, she read the phrase printed across its front and bit back a smile as she looked up at him. "Cowboys do it in the dirt?"

  He hooked an arm around her waist and guided her from the bathroom. "And anywhere else you can think of. Cowboys just like to do it."

  At the door of his bedroom, Macy stopped, staring at the king-size bed. Covered with a leopard-print spread of crushed velvet and a mountain of sumptuous pillows, it screamed "bachelor pad." And all she could think about was how many women he'd shared the bed with.

  Turning away, she pushed past him. "Do you mind taking me back to my house?" she asked, hoping he didn't hear the strain in her voice. "I'd really like to sleep in my own bed tonight."

  He fell in behind her, cupping her elbow in his hand. "Sure, honey. Whatever you want."

  She knew by his sympathetic tone that he thought her reasons for wanting the familiarity of her own bed had to do with the upsetting scene with Joe.

  But that was fine with Macy. Let him think what he would. At least in her bed, she knew she wouldn't be haunted by ghosts of other women.

  * * *

  The parking lot and streets surrounding Rory's store were packed, forcing Macy to park three blocks away and make the long hike back for the private party Rory had planned to follow his opening. Pausing at the door, she shoved the thin spaghetti strap of her sundress back onto her shoulder. She rarely wore dresses and wouldn't be wearing one now if Rory hadn't insisted that she attend his party. She didn't know why he had invited her. Festivities like this were reserved for family and close friends and she was neither.

  And it was the uncertainty of their relationship, her inability to define it, that put the frown on her face as she opened the door to his western store.

  One step inside, she stopped and stared, sure that the entire population of Tanner's Crossing had gathered to help him celebrate his grand opening. The clothing and display racks had been pushed back against the walls, creating space for a single, long row of buffet tables. People stood in loose groups at either side laughing, talking and eating, while waiters, decked out in western attire, wove their way through the room offering guests flutes of champagne.