Corbin's Bend Homecoming

by Ruth Staunton

  Maybe the delivery person at the door would like to join him for cowboy stew and biscuits. Mrs. Carson’s recipes made enough to feed, well, all the hands on a bustling ranch.

  He would freeze the leftovers or drive them into Denver to a homeless shelter but, for tonight, he’d sure welcome someone across the table, sharing the first decent home-cooked meal he’d had in months. Seemed a little like fate.

  Brinngggg. John reached for the knob. What an impatient delivery guy. A riffle of irritation rose, to disappear in a puff of elation when he pulled the door open to reveal his pretty neighbor. What brought her over?

  Why didn’t matter; he thanked whatever good fortune sent her.

  Dark hair swept back in its usual loose bun, a few stray strands framing a face pretty enough to belong to a TV star. Sea-blue eyes with long lashes the color of her hair, not just brown, up close. Rich with layers of colors, reds and browns and even a few strands of gold picking up the light of the setting sun. He pictured Audrey, his “romantic element,” again, but this time his mind added all the colors of his neighbor lady’s crowning glory.

  Her tailored slacks, which he knew from seeing her in her driveway cupped sweet, rounded cheeks, and button-down shirt, topped with a nubby blue cardigan matching the extraordinary color of her eyes, reminded him he didn’t even know what she did for a living.

  Or her name. God above, why even think about her?

  “Hello?” She tilted her head in question, a corner of her rosebud lips quirking. “If you’re done ogling me… I’m your neighbor, Felicity Franceaux.”

  Elegant, beautiful, exotic. It suited her.

  Despite himself, he couldn’t stop staring. Gorgeous and sassy, too. His cock pressed against the fly of his jeans, surging with enthusiasm for their guest. Gathering his dignity, the shreds left of it, and his sense of hospitality, he cleared his throat.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I haven’t had a guest as pretty as you in quite some time. Well, any guest. I’m fairly new in the neighborhood. You’ll have to excuse my poor manners.” He thrust a hand toward her. “John Estrada. Mighty glad to meet you.” Taking her graceful fingers and holding them, he admired the smooth skin in his callused paw. Even though he’d been sitting at a computer for a while now, it would take much longer for his skin to soften, if it ever did. Three decades on the range would never disappear from his body.

  At least he hoped not.

  “I don’t mean to disturb you,” murmured his neighbor, Felicity, he reminded himself, liking the pretty name matching a pretty woman. Her gaze lit on their joined hands and held until he released her, to step back and wave her in.

  “No, not at all. I was just wishin’ for some company.” John flashed her what he hoped wasn’t too eager a grin. Biscuits, stew, and the most beautiful woman he’d seen in years. Who could blame a man for being enthusiastic at the prospect?

  Felicity hesitated a moment before stepping over the threshold and onto the colorful woven rug in the entry. “If you’re sure. I wanted to say hello, introduce myself finally.” She looked around, and he wondered what she thought of his spare, bachelor furnishings. He’d never needed much—his ranch foreman’s home had come furnished and before his promotion he’d lived in a bunkhouse with a bunch of other young hands. “Nice place.”

  He chuckled, closing the door and ushering her into the living room. He’d had some care with his bedroom, but she’d think he had something in mind if he took her right in there. “No, it’s not, but kind of you to say so. It could use a woman’s touch—my bachelor living is pretty spare.” Stopping, he watched her move ahead of him. The woman sure could walk. Not a shimmy or a sashay, exactly, but her feminine stroll set everything moving just enough. And her bottom, like two perfect globes, mighty nice curves for such a trim female.

  Felicity paused at his desk and trailed a finger over the keyboard. “So you work from home? I’ve seen you, through the window, sitting here.” She lifted her eyes, a luscious flush staining her cheeks. “Not… not that I’ve been looking in.”

  He remained silent, cock harder than ever, her discomfiture and pink cheeks driving him to distraction. Along with elation. “You sure?”

  She stumbled on. “It’s just, the curtains are open and, when it’s dark out, this window faces my house so from my couch, I can see and I…” Her chest rose and fell with her short breaths. How flustered she became. Why? His cock didn’t care why. It throbbed and his palm tingled. A spanking man’s fantasy girl.

  “Little lady, I don’t mind if you do look at me sitting here working away. What I want to know is why you never stopped by before?”

  She bent toward the monitor, and he held his breath. Something about the intimacy of her reading his words… “Well, you always seemed to be working and I didn’t want to—”

  “Disturb me. Right.” Reaching for her hand again, he drew her toward the kitchen. “I am a lonely bachelor. A nice single woman is welcome anytime and, to prove it, why don’t you stay for dinner?”

  “How do you know I’m single?”

  Now his cheeks heated, but his perma-tan might cover it. “Don’t forget, my window faces yours, too. I’ve never seen a husband hanging around—unless you’re married to a man serving in the military or an astronaut on a long-term space mission, in which case I apologize for assuming.”

  Her blue eyes held his gaze without blinking. “Seems like we have both been doing a little peeping.” Neither confirming nor denying his assumptions, she let him settle her into a chair at the table, which was—to his chagrin—covered with bowls and cups, flour and a tin of baking powder, and rest of the detritus of his afternoon of meal preparation. Hands folded in her lap, Felicity didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ve been doing a little cooking.” Stacking dishes and cutlery, he carted them off to the sink and grabbed a sponge to scrub the table. “I guess you can tell.”

  Felicity stared at the counter, where his biscuits rested, and the tip of her tongue swiped over her full bottom lip, leaving it wet and shiny. If he got any harder, his cock would burst out of his jeans and greet her. “I have a confession to make. I didn’t suddenly develop a neighborly urge.” She blushed again, the rosy hue staining her cheeks and down her throat. If she kept that up, he’d be making a pass at her before he gave her any of his stew. “I smelled your baking and it drew me like the Pied Piper.”

  Wiping the last of the flour from the table, John tossed the sponge into the sink. “If I’d know a little dough was all it took to lure you over here, I’d have taken up cookery sooner.” He set two bowls, spoons, and glasses on the table—where he never ate because it felt too lonely by himself. “We’re having stew tonight. I’ll be having it for a week.”

  She giggled. “That does look like a big pot. Are you sure you weren’t expecting dinner guests?”

  “No, ma’am. I was wantin’ something good.”

  “But why so much?”

  “Mrs. Carson’s recipe. She was my former employer. I followed it to the letter because it’s my first experiment in cooking. Even as a kid, I pretty much stuck to Hot Pockets and the occasional pancake.” Ladling hunks of steaming meat and vegetables into one of the bowls, he held it carefully as the stoneware heated in his hand. “This recipe serves twenty, I think.”

  “At least.” She eyed the bowl but kept her hands folded in her lap. Big Steve would approve. At the Circle X, nobody lifted a spoon until his wife took her seat. Good manners to wait for the person who made the food to have a shot at it, too. Cowboys could eat a powerful lot.

  Once he’d piled the still-warm biscuits onto a platter, he brought over a stick of softened butter and the bear-shaped honey dispenser and set it all in the middle of the table. “I don’t know what you like to drink, but I have some dark beer I’ve always liked with this meal? Or a cola? Water? Milk?”

  “Beer sounds good.” Felicity slumped a little into the chair. “Long day at work, and I’m glad to unwind.”

  John got them each a bottle
and opened them, then sat across from her and took a long pull from his. “Go ahead. Taste the stew. I hope it’s good.” Under his watchful eye, she spooned up a chunk of beef and a piece of carrot, a few peas swimming in brown gravy, and lifted it to her lips. He envied the spoon.

  She paused. “John?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Eyes on your own plate. You’re making me nervous.”

  He lifted his gaze from her lips to her eyes. “Darlin’,” he drawled, putting on the charm, “I’m quivering in my boots. Tell me if I did Mrs. Carson proud or if am a miserable failure.”

  “Well, let’s hope it’s good or I might have to make you stand in the corner.” White teeth gleamed in a mischievous grin.

  His cock twitched, and his response flowed. “Darlin’, around here, I’m not the one standing in the corner.”

  She sucked in a breath, and time stopped. He’d told her where he stood. In a spanking community, it never hurt to be clear. Nobody put John Estrada in a corner, but he could imagine Felicity there, panties around her knees and reddened butt cheeks exposed for his pleasure.

  For now, he succeeded in eliciting another blush. Pleasure enough, for the moment.

  The bite disappeared into her mouth and she chewed. Then her face lit up. “It’s delicious. My compliments to the chef, and to Mrs. Carson for the recipe.” Digging the spoon into the bowl again, she ate another bite, then two more before reaching for a biscuit with a deep sigh. As she split it and steam rose from its pale, fluffy interior, his night was made. Not a bad first effort. She dabbed it with butter and a drizzle of honey then bit in.

  “Oh my God,” she mumbled around the mouthful. “You’re a genius. If this is your first effort, I want to see what else you can do.”

  He choked on a mouthful of stew.

  Conversation ceased for the length of time it took them to eat second servings and two biscuits apiece—well, he might have had three—dripping with melting butter. Finally, Felicity set her spoon down and sighed. “I can’t remember when I ate so much. You’re talented. Tell the truth. You were a chef before you came here, right?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “A ranch foreman, down in Texas Hill Country.”

  “You’re a real cowboy?”

  “Yep.” He gathered some of the dishes and moved to stand. “At least I was.” The food brought back some of the sense of the ranch, in a good way, reminding him comfort and companionship might be found here as well as on the Circle X. “But not anymore.”

  “Let me help you clean up.”

  Felicity carried some of the dishes and loaded them in the sink, but he wouldn’t let her wash them. “I made such a big mess, it’s going to take a while to find the clean kitchen I started the afternoon with. I’d rather go into the living room and get to know you. Coffee?”

  Ten minutes later they were seated on the couch with thick mugs of strong coffee and a plate of store-bought cookies on the table in front of them. Felicity curled in the opposite corner, legs tucked under her. Comfortable but wary, if her body language offered any indication.

  “John?”

  “Hmm?” He rested his hands on his full belly, relishing the feeling and trying to focus on that, rather than the subtle scent of flowers and woman emanating from the other end of the couch.

  “So… you’re an author?”

  Good, a safe topic. No point in her knowing his interest could become an obsession. “Yes, ma’am. I write cowboy stories now.”

  She toyed with a button on her sweater. “The woman in your story looks like me.”

  John choked. “No she doesn’t… well, maybe a little, but she has darker hair than you.”

  She laughed. “I’m not complaining. I also think she’s prettier than me, but I am flattered by the comparison.”

  “Little lady”—he reached for her hand—“she don’t hold a candle to you.”

  Felicity allowed him to take her hand and enclose it in his big, hard one. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

  He chuckled, a deep rumble for such a lean man. “I didn’t think you were. I’m lucky you don’t think I’m a stalker, and if you asked, I’d change Audrey to a tall, willowy blonde.”

  Her attention focused on the connection between their hands, Felicity lifted her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t you dare. A famous author’s heroine patterned after me? Wow.”

  “You didn’t read much, did you?” He grinned at her, a twinkle in those hazel depths stirring something deep inside her. Waking feelings she’d long suppressed.

  “No… should I go now?” She moved to stand, but he gave a tug and she fell against him.

  “Stay awhile, darlin’. Give an old cowboy something to remember.”

  She flashed him a startled look but smoothed her expression. Just because she’d been daydreaming about him—more than dreaming, but she hoped he’d never know she’d changed her battery-operated boyfriend’s name to Cowboy—didn’t mean he asked for more than friendly conversation. “Okay, I can hang out a while and chat.” Resting against his shoulder, where she’d landed, she inhaled his scent of leather and biscuits. Irresistible combination.

  So long since she’d been so close to a man. Two years. Pierre smelled like soap and his expensive cologne du jour. Different, but his aura of strength, of command of any situation was the same.

  “Tell me about your book.”

  Resting his chin on her head, John sighed. “I don’t tell anyone about my stories until they’re done. Bad luck.”

  “But I looked—”

  “For a moment. I would have shut the screen down if I’d expected company.”

  “Something you don’t want me to see?” What else did he have there? “Lurid sex scene?” He wouldn’t, would he? Was he a stalker? Stiffening, she stayed put but didn’t give him any encouragement. She’d just met the man, and here she was alone in his house.

  How many times had emergency room visits resulted from such bad judgment on the part of her patients? Nobody knew she’d visited him… and the arm he wrapped around her shoulder held lean muscle; he could overpower her without even trying.

  “Sex… no. No sex scene in this story. At least not yet.” He gave her a squeeze. “I don’t know you well enough.”

  Her? Did he mean if he, if they… Heat flooding her cheeks—again—she knew she should make her excuses and leave. But why didn’t she want to? Something about the man’s presence evoked a safety, security. Like Pierre, but her late, beloved husband had been older than her by nearly thirty years. Such an age difference held a different feel than…

  Than what? A casual conversation with the next door neighbor after dinner? Obviously she was too hard up and needed a quick visit with Cowboy to regain her balance.

  “Oh… okay, well…” Casting her gaze around, she spotted a clock hanging on the wall above the flat screen TV. “Look at the time. If you won’t let me help with the dishes, I should get going. You must have a lot of writing to do yet this evening.”

  He rubbed her arm. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Afraid I might try to use you for more intimate inspiration?”

  Felicity tried to shrug him away, but the circles his thumb traced on her bicep were a focal point for chills racing over her arms and into the pit of her stomach. “Thanks for dinner, but I have an early morning.”

  He bent close to her, lips inches away from hers. “Then you should get to bed soon.”

  How did he make such a simple statement sound so… so…

  “Yes. I need to get to bed.” She swallowed, her throat dry as the desert, and reached for her mug. The tepid coffee made swallowing easier. Lifting a cookie, she nibbled on the edge.

  His eyes bored into her, seeming to see far more than she wanted him to. How long since a man had looked at her with such interest? The power in his gaze both attracted and repelled her.

  Still, she tilted her head to the side, licking crumbs from her lips, inviting a kiss she had no business wanting. A neighbor! If she let this go too
far, she’d be creating a situation where she might no longer be comfortable at home. A failed relationship, or a quickie where one person wanted more, did not make for good neighbors. But his breath was warm, and his hand was big, commanding, when he cupped the back of her head, holding her just so and his lips, when they touched hers, lined up the polarities of the magnetic charge, and she couldn’t have pulled away even if she wanted to.

  “Ohh,” she murmured, parting her lips to his insistent tongue. It swept inside as if he owned her, exploring and taking possession. Her lashes fluttered down against her cheeks, her world narrowing to the places where their bodies touched.

  With a subtle shift, he brought her onto his lap, her breasts against his hard chest, her hip against his thigh. Points of heat flared like matches in a dark room. If the flames connected, she’d combust.

  In the back of her mind, a small voice questioned how the heck this happened. She’d never intended to find herself in the arms of her mysterious cowboy-boot shod neighbor. And not another older man, even one with a smaller age difference. Men died younger, medical fact. That offered a recipe for heartbreak. Stop. Break away. Head for home.

  She couldn’t take another loss.

  He shifted her again, cuddling her close, enfolding her in his embrace and making her feel so small, so safe, and so weak at the knees. All those dangerous feelings she’d never intended to feel again.

  Felicity moaned deep in her throat and he chuckled against her lips. She creamed her pants at the sound, the deep vibration. A thread of heat ran from her mouth to her pussy and back again.