TroubleToysTemptingCowboys

by Jennifer LaRose

  Inhaling sharply, she set the box—intended as a prop for the dildo—on the table beside a jar of massage lotion. As she tried to gently lay the rubber novelty down, it slipped from her fingers and crashed into the jar. The power switch hit the edge of the lid and the gadget turned on. The soft vibration was almost inaudible until it dropped to the table where it amplified into a shocking bzzzz. The head started to rotate slowly, and the entire shaft quivered as it squirmed toward the edge. Her eyes bulged.

  “Oh fuck,” slipped from her mouth.

  “Darlin’, you might wanna catch that thing before it runs off.”

  She quickly scooped it into her fist and shut it off, tucking it against her stomach. Rolling her gaze upward, she watched Brock’s eyes travel from the gelled shank to her face. He cocked a brow and grinned. She gasped.

  Fortunately, none of the other cowboys witnessed the mishap—thanks to Brock’s huge body standing squarely in front of the table, blocking their view. She laid the dildo down carefully and grabbed the drink from the table. “Thank you,” she said, and guzzled half of it in one desperate gulp. The contents burned her throat and set her stomach on fire. Her eyes watered. On the verge of choking, she threw a hand over her mouth. Dear God, what had she asked for?

  “Easy, darlin’. You wanted something strong, so I made it a double.”

  * * * * *

  Brock sat alone in the back of the room, his Stetson lying on his lap to hide the erection brought on by the beautiful Tiff. He swore she’d just stepped out of his erotic dreams. She appeared a bit more relaxed having guzzled the drink, and it added a rosy tint to her prominent cheekbones. Her posture held more slack. She’d even loosened her blouse by unbuttoning another button.

  “Gentlemen, please fill out the top portion of your order forms even if you don’t intend to place an order,” she said from the couch, wringing her hands. “It’s for administrative purposes. I promise I won’t solicit your email accounts.”

  The slender contour of her neck and shoulders held his utmost attention. She wore her chestnut hair pulled up and clipped to the top of her head. A few stray tendrils curled past her ears, and a pair of silver earrings dangled from her lobes. Her eyes were as green as the trees. And her breasts, damn, it looked as if she’d tucked them only halfway into her pink blouse. One more whiff of her delicate scent would send him in the bathroom to take care of the boner in his pants. He’d hand over his prize stallion for a taste of her delicate body. The length of her skirt, or lack of, would land her in jail in his part of town. Sheriff McNeely wouldn’t tolerate that amount of thigh. He’d slap her with an indecency charge and lock her up, no questions asked.

  She’d shrugged out of her suit coat about fifteen minutes ago, shortly after she’d unfastened her blouse button and finished her second drink. The third one sweated in its tumbler on the edge of the table. He’d cut the double whiskey in half because she was already tipsy and giggly. Not that he minded. Hell, the sound was music to his ears. He’d done it for her sake, to save her some embarrassment in the face of his rowdy friends. They’d already demanded she demonstrate the table full of novelties rather than hand them each a book. That’s when drink number two made its way into her belly without pause to catch a breath.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Bobby said loud enough to quiet the room. He scooted to the edge of his chair, holding the gelled vibrator above his lap. A rubber notch in the shape of a rosebud was attached to the side of it about three-quarters shy of the tip. “My Sherry might like this here gizmo, but can you tell me what this thingy’s for?” he asked, flicking the bud with his index finger.

  Tiff choked. Brock gazed at her just as she lifted drink number three. It dribbled over the side of the glass and along her fingers during the shaky journey to her mouth. Her eyes found his and held steady while she downed half the contents.

  He’d seen desperation in a woman’s expression before, but hell, Tiff’s seemed to be begging for help.

  Damn, why did he short-change the double shot? It appeared she’d asked for alcohol to gather more nerve and relax. Obviously, the men weren’t going to show her any mercy. He hoped they’d only intended to play, and he’d make sure that’s as far as things got.

  He stood, setting his hat on the back of the chair, and headed toward the couch.

  “It’s a stimulator,” Tiff responded.

  Hell, she’d spoken so softly he’d barely heard, and he was damn near at her side.

  “A what?” someone with a deep, raspy voice hollered. It sounded like Dustin, Bobby’s younger brother.

  “A clitoral stimulator,” she replied a bit louder, holding the glass to her chest in a tight-knuckled grip.

  Brock had to damn near pry it out of her fingers. “Loosen up, darlin’, I’ll pour you a refill.” She looked inclined to having a breakdown.

  Nodding slightly, she obliged and let go. “A little stronger this time, please.”

  “Sure that’s what you need?”

  “Positive.”

  “They’re taunting you, gal,” he said for her ears only. “Call their bluff. It’ll shut ‘um up.” She nodded right before he turned and walked toward the kitchen.

  When he approached the counter and unscrewed the cap from the whiskey bottle, laughter burst from the other room. Did he hear feminine laughter in the midst of the male clamor?

  Choosing not to measure the whiskey this round, he tipped the neck over her glass and poured, leaving an inch for a shot of soda. After wiping up the few drops that’d splashed on the countertop, he picked up the drink to return to the party. As he sauntered into the family room, Tiff said, “I don’t know if this will do you gentlemen any good. It may be too big.” Then she hiccupped, which made her giggle.

  She no longer sat on the couch, but stood directly in front of the guys, holding a quarter-size rubber ring between her thumb and index finger. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her profile. A smile brightened her face.

  “What the hell is it?” Bobby asked.

  Dustin squinted for a clearer view. The man had been told a hundred times to get his eyes checked. “It’s a plastic ring off the milk jug cap.”

  “The hell it is,” Trevor said. “I’ve got one of those things on my bathroom faucet. It’s a pipe seal.”

  Tiff giggled. “It’s a penis ring.”

  The room fell silent.

  A what? Brock took a swig of the drink.

  “A penis ring!” Bobby yelped, his face contorting in horror. “I like jewels and all, but that thing’s not going anywhere near my junk. Hear what I’m saying?”

  Dustin squeezed his legs together. “It looks painful. What’d ya do with it?”

  Tiff’s giggles turned into a laugh as she stretched the ring. “See, it won’t hurt. It’s expandable.”

  “What’s it do?” Dustin asked.

  “It’s intended to prolong an erection.”

  Brock gulped another swig.

  “Oh no. No way. That ain’t supposed to happen,” someone said. Brock was too enthralled to care who spoke. “If God wanted me to prolong my erection, he would’ve given me a permanent hard-on. That’s just not right.”

  Tiff laughed until she snorted, which made her laugh even harder. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. Brock wouldn’t forget the sound of her laughter anytime soon.

  Too bad the country song that began blaring from his cell phone drowned it out. He silenced the music, set the drink on the table, unclipped the phone from his belt, and checked the incoming number. His new tenderfoot, Ryan, obviously needed guidance once again to handle a feisty mare. He could spare the kid a few minutes; Tiff finally appeared totally relaxed and in control of the room.

  When Brock stepped outside on the porch to answer the call, the noise inside grew louder. He moved down the steps to the sidewalk. What should have been a three-minute conversation ended after fifteen. Ryan was a slow learner, but Brock wasn’t ready to give up on the kid just yet. It might
take him a little longer than normal, but he was determined to build the boy’s confidence and esteem.

  When he climbed the steps and pulled open the door, he froze. Two spike-heeled shoes, minus a body, lay on the floor. The glass he’d left on the table was empty. All of the men stood gathered around the mechanical bull, chanting, “Tiff-an-ee. Tiff-an-ee.”

  Straddling the saddle with her skirt bunched at the top of her thighs, sat the woman of his dreams. She had one hand on the horn, and the other raised high in the air while the bull bucked and rotated at a slow speed. She laughed as she gyrated. Hell, she’d mastered the moves and the room full of men better than a pole dancer at a saloon. Did the alcohol steal her inhibitions, or was this the true Tiff? God damn, the rhythm of her hips.

  “Turn it up,” she squealed. “Make it buck me harder.”

  “Aw shit.” He’d love to buck her harder—one day he hoped to give her the bucking of her life. But right now, he needed to remove her ass from that machine before she killed herself or became the victim of a gangbang. It wasn’t in his friends’ natures to violate a woman, but they were under the influence, and he knew too well the mind-altering effects of alcohol. He hated the prospect of having to rough up a buddy over a stranger if things got out of hand. Whether or not this was normal for her, he refused to be a part of the show.

  He charged across the room, shoving his way through Bobby and Dustin to shut down the machine.

  “Hey, I said harder,” she screeched as it slowed to a stop.

  Brock stepped to her side, placed his hands on her waist and lifted her off the bull and onto her feet. “Darlin’, this isn’t wise. If you want a wild bucking, come visit me when you’re sober.” She swayed forward. He gripped her shoulders to stop her from crashing into his chest.

  Her eyes grew big and bright, and an attractive smile spread across her face. An index finger poked him in the gut. “Brock, I doubt even a big, bad man like you can keep up with me.”

  “Oh, shit,” Bobby said, shaking his head. “Now there’s a challenge.”

  She drilled her finger further into Brock’s stomach. “Shall I retrieve the penis ring?” She hiccupped, and at the same time, stumbled to his left.

  “Tiffany, Brock never passes on a dare. Watch what you say, girl.”

  Brock tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I don’t take advantage of inebriated women, so I’ll let this one pass.”

  Tiff’s legs buckled. He caught her around the waist before she tumbled to the floor. Placing one hand behind her knees and the other around her back, he scooped her limp body baby-style into his arms. Her eyes closed and an arm dangled freely at her side. As he headed toward the couch, he shortened his stride somewhat to prevent her flaccid limbs from flopping up and down.

  One of her bloodshot eyes popped open. “Where you taking me?”

  “Just sitting you down, darlin’.”

  “I’m not finished riding.”

  “I’m afraid you are.”

  “But I was having fun.”

  “I see that.” He sat her in the corner of the couch and looked her square in the eyes. A sultry ambiance veiled her entire face, compliments of droopy lids. It was exactly what he didn’t need at the moment. “But I reckon you’ll thank me in the morning.”

  “I think I need a drink.”

  “I’m betting you’ve had enough of that too.”

  The effect of her enticing, pouty mouth hit him square below the belt buckle.

  “Please? One more won’t hurt.” She glided her tongue along her bottom lip while eyeing his crotch.

  Damn, his cock shot to full size. If not for his briefs, the zipper teeth would’ve bit dead into his flesh. If she didn’t stop that fancy tongue-work, his rod would likely rip through his pants. “You stay put and rest up a bit, I’ve got something to take care of.” As he semi straightened, trying to inconspicuously hide the bulge from his friends, he turned in the direction of the bathroom, and rammed into Bobby, who was holding a drink. Nearly half the liquid spilled down Brock’s pant leg and across his boots.

  “Holy shit, Brock, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. I was just trying to get this drink to Tiffany.”

  Brock scowled and then stomped off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. It’d be best to jump on his horse and head home, away from rowdy friends and a sexy, drunken sales rep he couldn’t look at without popping a boner. None of this was on today’s agenda. The only thing that’d happened in his favor was the cold drink that’d absorbed into his pants. At least it shrunk his cock back into a limp state.

  Deciding to take advantage of the alone time, he turned on the faucet and splashed his face with tepid water. He retrieved a towel from the rail and dried his eyes when an eruption of laughter rumbled from the living room.

  “Giddy-up!”

  He stilled, dropping the towel into the sink.

  No, it couldn’t be…

  That was not Tiff… He’d sat her on the couch and told her to stay. Maybe it was Stu—he oftentimes had a high-pitched voice. Yes, it definitely sounded like Stu.

  “Yee-haw!”

  “Aw, shit.” It wasn’t Stu.

  Brock threw open the door and charged out of the bathroom into the living room, tripping over the floor molding. No one laughed at his grand stumble. As a matter of fact, no one saw him because they were too busy watching Tiff’s cute ass rub against the bull’s saddle. Damn it, her skirt was bunched at her thighs again. And her hips… He was not making another trip to the bathroom.

  Storming across the room for the second and final time, he lifted her off the machine, returned her to the couch and plopped down beside her. “I’m thinking it’s best to call it a night.”

  “I didn’t make any sales yet. Nan will kill me.”

  “Hell, after your little performance, the guys owe you some money.”

  “Can I at least show them my personal favorite? I promised them I would.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “It’s my best seller. Please?”

  It was the last time he’d let those pouty lips stir his libido. The sooner he put this evening behind him, the better. It was supposed to be a night chockfull of fun while celebrating Bobby’s final weekend as a bachelor. Instead, it had turned into a night of lusting over a beautiful brunette he felt obliged to appease and protect.

  He nodded, giving her the opportunity to fulfill her promise.

  A huge smile brightened her eyes. She patted his cheek before she bent forward and dug through a case on the floor at her feet.

  He expected a bottle of body oil or lotion, imagining she enjoyed a long, relaxing massage. But ten seconds later, she straightened, holding a double-headed, fifteen-inch, flexible, lifelike dick in her fist.

  His eyes damn near bulged out of their sockets.

  “You have no idea the effect this has on a woman,” she whispered.

  His balls tightened and the front of his jeans nearly burst apart. “Darlin’?” He guided her hands back to the case where he shook them until she dropped the rubber cock. “Let’s keep this one our secret.”

  Chapter Two

  Dear Lord, Tiffany’s head pounded. Squishing it in a vise until it exploded might release the pressure and relieve the pain. Even simply trying to open her eyes intensified the throb. In spite of her brain wanting to burst, her entire body ached too. It felt like someone had stomped on her ass and the inside of her thighs. Her arms and legs lay outstretched in all directions, too heavy to move. The feeling in her stomach…damn…it was as if red-hot charcoal briquettes were simmering in the pit.

  Death would be better.

  Was this how her mother felt nearly every morning of her life? No wonder she was such a witch and never brought Tiffany breakfast in the cellar.

  One whiff of food right now, and Tiffany would be running to the toilet. The thought of placing her mouth and nose close to a holding tank for bodily waste made her gag.

  “It’s good to see you made it through the night, dar
lin’.”

  Her mind stilled. Her pulse throttled her veins as the masculine drawl brought fragments of memory from the recesses of her mind. The first regret of the party came crashing down. Her eyes fluttered open to an unfamiliar bedroom, illuminated by a dim wooden table lamp. An alarm clock and coffee mug sat on the night table beside a brown furry chair. Dressed only in denim pants, Brock Halston sat in that chair directly across from the bed where she lay. Pronounced thick muscle stood out from the arms folded just below his naked chest. Although he sat lax in the thick cushion, his abdominal six-pack hadn’t lost definition. Her gaze followed muscled, denim-covered thighs to bare ankles and feet. Lord, his feet were big. Maybe she’d died and gone to heaven. “Are you sure I’m not dead?” Where was she?

  “Alive and kicking. You feel as bad as you look?”

  “Worse, I’m afraid. Is this normal?”

  “In comparison to what?”

  The sound of his chuckle reduced her feeling of panic somewhat. “Drinking alcohol. I never touch the stuff.”

  “You could’ve fooled me. Why’d you ask for it?”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed the horrible taste creeping up the back of her throat. “I…don’t know.” God, she was going to vomit. “But I won’t ever do it again.”

  “I reckon that’s best.”

  Slapping a hand over her mouth, she bolted upright, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and placed her feet on the floor. She nearly squealed in pain from the quick movement. The muscles in her ass cheeks and thighs felt as if they’d torn, and the pounding in her head intensified to the point of explosion. She gripped her forehead, applying pressure to her eyeballs with her palms.

  As the pain lessened to a bearable throb, she opened her eyes to a spinning room and two Brocks placing a lined trashcan at her feet. She snapped her lids shut and laid her head on her knees. The mattress sank at her left, and a large hand slid up and down her back in a consoling motion.

  “The worst thing you can do, darlin’, is fight it. Make yourself throw up. You’ll feel better.”

  It also sounded like two Brocks talking. She slightly shook her head and swore she heard the alcohol swishing around in her ears. If she opened her mouth to speak, everything she’d eaten in the past two days would come forth in a wet burst and flood the room. She hated to vomit, and she especially hated to vomit in the presence of another person. Her mother said it wasn’t ladylike. Then again, her mother said a lot of things. Like crying—it was a display of weakness for the thin-skinned. And she’d impressed it upon Tiffany with a belt, using it daily until she could tolerate the beating without shedding a tear. Now, she no longer cried. Well, not in front of anyone.