by Mindy Neff
She felt herself tumbling over the edge, felt the mind-numbing clutch of her body that signaled the squeezing, uncontrollable spasms of pleasure.
Suddenly, with his hands under her bottom, he lifted her off the table, took a couple of steps back until his shoulders slammed up against the wall.
Her legs clenched tighter around him. ‘‘Wait! Can this…?’’ Work, was what she would have asked.
It wasn’t necessary. He showed her how well it worked.
With a strength, skill and speed most men couldn’t have pulled off on a bet, he kept them both upright and worked her body exactly the way he wanted, the way she needed, the way she craved. Urgency radiated from every pore, every squeeze of his hands as he raised and lowered her on his steel-hard body, thrusting faster, higher, breathing heavier.
He maneuvered her body as though she weighed no more than a saddle, and all she could do was hold on for the incredible ride, let the astonishment and pleasure roll over her in wave after frenzied wave of ecstasy.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take another second of the blissful gymnastics, when each breath she desperately sucked in and exhaled came out as a scream, he thrust high and hard, and shouted her name. With strong fingers, he gripped her hips, ground their bodies together, holding her still, his manhood pulsing, pulsing, pulsing inside her, touching her womb and clear through to her soul.
For endless moments he stood there, leaning against the wall, her legs around his waist, his forearms effortlessly supporting her weight, his face buried in her neck, both of them breathing as though they’d just run a ten-mile race.
‘‘Who won?’’ she finally whispered. Her breasts, slick with perspiration, slid against his heaving chest.
‘‘I’m for calling it a draw,’’ he said.
She nodded. ‘‘I could sit still for that.’’
She felt his lips curve against her neck. ‘‘Say my name.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Just say it.’’
‘‘Stony.’’
‘‘I love the way your accent changes the sound of the o. Gives it a twang that makes me hard.’’
If she’d had the energy, she would have smiled. ‘‘I’ll remember that.’’
‘‘Do that.’’
Her inner thighs were slick with sweat, and she squeezed them tighter to keep from slipping. If asked to stand on her own two feet right now, she didn’t think she could manage. Stony shifted his arms more securely beneath her, and she dropped a quick kiss of thanks on his forehead.
When their chests weren’t heaving quite so hard, she asked, ‘‘Have you ever considered that you’re the one with the accent, and I’m the one who speaks correctly?’’
‘‘You hear anybody else in town talking in a sexy drawl?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I haven’t met everyone in town.’’
‘‘Pretty close. You’re outnumbered. And darlin’, I hate like crazy to admit this, but I need a bed. I think I’m done for the night.’’
‘‘As long as it’s just for the night.’’ She’d meant it in teasing. She realized her mistake at the same instant his muscles went rigid beneath her hands.
Sex had clouded the fact that they had a goal to accomplish. And the odds were definitely better if they spread it out, consistently, day after day instead of all at once.
Two more weeks, give or take a few days, and her period would come again—unless they were very, very lucky and his seed and her egg were as combustible and compatible as they were.
Part of her prayed like mad that’s what would happen, that a baby would grow in her womb, sending the debilitating adenomyosis into remission, beating the Grim Reaper and the surgeon’s knife.
And the other part of her wished for a little more time. With Stony.
As though reading her thoughts, her confusion, he tenderly pressed his lips to her temple and carried her back upstairs, her legs around his waist, naked bodies spent yet still locked together.
EDEN HAULED AN ARMLOAD of clothes on hangers up the stairs. She was sure she hadn’t arrived with all this stuff in her two suitcases. Obviously she was more efficient at packing than she’d given herself credit for.
She turned the stereo up loud to keep her company and couldn’t help pausing by the window in Stony’s bedroom—again—to look down on the ranch. Regardless of turning her emotions inside out until the wee hours of the morning, he’d gotten up as usual—and left her body humming.
It was the darnedest thing how she’d suddenly become this insatiable tigress in bed. She’d been good to go again this morning just feeling his weight shift in the bed.
But he hadn’t taken her up on the invitation. He had work to do, horses to feed and groom and train.
So much for a honeymoon weekend. She might as well go on over to Hannah’s and pick up Nikki.
She huffed out a sigh. After all that, the man just up and went to work.
‘‘Oh, stop it, Eden,’’ she said aloud, then reflexively glanced around to see if anyone had heard her—which was absurd since she knew she was alone.
Besides, Clint Black’s voice belting from the stereo was loud enough to reach her just fine upstairs, so even if there was somebody in the house, they wouldn’t have heard her mutterings over the volume of the music. Aptly—or not so aptly—good old Clint was singing about what was on his mind when he’d said ‘‘I do.’’
Honestly. She hugged the armload of clothes to her chest. There was no call to expect Stony to treat the weekend like a honeymoon; to stick by her side. He hadn’t married her for love or even for the long haul. The sole point was to try and get her pregnant.
And Lordy, if last night was any measure of what was to come, her reproductive system would have to be dead—and her along with it—for it not to jump right up and snag one of those coveted sperm.
Unbidden an image of the sunny room on the east side of her house in Dallas popped into her mind. She could see it so clearly—a fanciful mobile hanging over a white crib, fluffy blankets draped over a rocking chair, toys peeking out of a lacquered wooden box stenciled with cartoon animals, shelves on the walls filled with storybooks and piggy banks and keepsakes.
Realizing what she was doing, she shut her mind to the images, afraid she would jinx something.
Walking into the room-size closet, lined with fragrant cedar, she pushed aside Stony’s jeans and shirts and hung her clothes next to his. Draped across the hamper was a pair of white cotton men’s briefs, a scuffed brown boot lay on its side and a wide leather belt was coiled on the floor like a snake. Otherwise the closet was fairly straight. It wasn’t stuffed with clothes, and there weren’t a whole bunch of things crammed on the shelves.
In fact, there was quite a bit of noticeably empty space—shelves that would hold racks of shoes, a ton of drawers that would take two solid weeks of shopping to fill, and clear plastic bins void of odds and ends.
The size and design of the closet was the only hint that this hadn’t always been only a masculine room. Elsewhere there was no trace of the woman who had once shared it with him. After hearing about Stony’s ex-wife, though, Eden wished her good riddance, glad there were no reminders of the evil woman.
She hummed along with Vince Gill as she put her creams beside Stony’s in the bathroom, hesitating when she set the box of feminine unmentionables beneath the counter. Now they were in all four of the bathrooms.
Her stomach clutched and fluttered as she imagined herself not having to touch a single one of those boxes for the next nine months.
With a hand pressed to her abdomen, she left the bathroom, determined to keep busy and quit torturing herself with what-ifs and if-onlys.
The cedar chest at the end of the hallway held an absolute treasure trove of wonderful things—glass bowls, a candy dish and a bobby pin holder in mint-green and pink carnival glass, delicate teacups and saucers, a silver-backed hairbrush and mirror set, a bowl and pitcher wash basin with a hairline crack along one side of the bo
wl.
Carefully she hauled her cache back to Stony’s room and set about to soften the stark masculinity in the decor. Besides, she’d always felt that masculinity was all the more evident when contrasted with a few frills. She ran her fingers over the beautifully embroidered hummingbirds hand stitched on a table scarf, then laid the fragile cotton on the cherry wood dresser and arranged her perfume bottles atop it.
Satisfied that she’d gotten everything transferred from the downstairs room to Stony’s, she picked up her recipe box and went to the kitchen, lowering the volume on the stereo as she passed.
She needed the mindless act of cooking to keep her thoughts off Stony, her body and her womb.
Perhaps she would get a head start on the week’s meals, put together a couple of casserole dishes. Then there was that new recipe for Danish pastry she wanted to try, and Nikki had adored the cookies with faces made of M&M’s. Maybe she’d whip up some of the sticky buns Hannah had nearly swooned over. And if she made those, she might as well do up a batch of the scones Dora had politely said were good enough to give her an orgasm.
She was up to her elbows in flour when Stony walked in the back door, automatically ducking as he passed under the jamb.
Her heartbeat slammed into high speed, and her blood sizzled. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and watched Stony’s eyes flair.
So much for cooking taking her mind off sex.
He studied her as though waging a debate. A not wholly pleasant one, judging by the frown lines on his forehead.
Then he dragged his gaze away and looked around the kitchen, brows raised. ‘‘Cooking a few things?’’
Using the back of her wrist, she swiped at an itch on her cheek. ‘‘My mind gets carried away sometimes.’’ Stopping to look at the disorder in the kitchen through his eyes, she grinned. ‘‘Despite actions to the contrary, I really am a focused person and run a very efficient, successful business. It’s just that I start thinking about several things at once and I end up with two or three projects going at the same time. Thank goodness I finish what I start.’’
‘‘Always?’’
Oh, my gosh, the look of purpose on his face and the implied sensuality in his deep, gravelly tone made her knees go weak and her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. He wore the white hat that was as much a part of him as his deep-chocolate hair.
Good guys wore white. Lord, she had no idea where that thought had come from. Right now, though, he didn’t look anywhere close to good. He looked big and bad and highly motivated to have his way.
She swallowed hard. ‘‘Usually.’’
He took off his hat, tossed it on the granite countertop, then slowly, deliberately, came toward her, his whiskey eyes trained on her like tractor beams. ‘‘Make any exceptions?’’
‘‘Um…I imagine I could. Do,’’ she amended quickly.
His smile was that of a predator, and Eden was astonished. The man was like night and day, depending on which side of the door he was on. Outside—on the ranch or in public—he was soft-spoken, a deep pool of still water, a gentle man who kept to himself yet would give a stranger his shirt—or his seed, in her case.
Inside, in private, he was danger and excitement, thrillingly improper and bold, a sorcerer and a magician when he put his hands on her body. A man with a masculinity and sexuality hot enough to burn, and cool enough to surprise.
He didn’t even give a courteous pause or a passing wave to her personal space as he invaded it, eased right up against her and kept on going. His thighs molded to hers as he walked her backward toward the bedroom off the kitchen that she’d just spent half the afternoon moving out of, his mouth toying with her lips, her cheek, her ear.
With a hand at the small of her back, he pulled her tighter against him, tight enough to let her feel the thick line of his arousal.
She opened her mouth to suck in air, and he filled it with his tongue, effectively and immediately sweeping her brain clean of coherency or reason. The power of his kiss whipped through her, lit her desire quicker than the hot, blue flame from a burner.
Flour sprinkled over his shoulders like snow flurries as she locked her arms around his neck, rubbed against him as though she could climb right in his skin.
He groaned, buried his lips in her neck, cupped his hands over her behind and lifted her. Aligning their bodies for maximum torture, he ground her against his arousal—hard.
She felt cool tiles against her back, opened her eyes and realized they were in the bathroom. He put his knee between her legs, exerted enough pressure to lift her slightly and pinned her against the wall using merely his bent thigh and his pelvis to hold her there. His hands were braced high on the wall behind her, his breathing as heavy as hers.
‘‘What are you doing to me?’’ he asked.
Although she imagined it was a rhetorical question, she turned it around on him. ‘‘Since I’m the one with my feet off the floor, I’d say you’re doing it to me.’’
His lips curved. ‘‘I didn’t plan on this. I just came in for a snack.’’
‘‘And the sight of a woman with flour in her hair sends you into fits of lust?’’
‘‘Evidently.’’ His hand lightly brushed her hair, and his thumb swept the side of her face.
‘‘My gosh, do I have the stuff all over me?’’ She must look a sight.
‘‘Not all over.’’ He pulled her T-shirt up to her armpits, reached between them and undid the snap of her shorts. ‘‘You smell like a sugar cookie. I want to eat you up.’’
She sucked in a breath. ‘‘Sometimes I don’t know what to do when you say things like that.’’
His tongue skimmed up the side of her neck. ‘‘I know. And it drives me wild when you get that little catch in your voice, when your drawl gets heavier and your breath goes soft.’’ He lowered his knee, allowed her feet to touch the floor, pushed her shorts down until they fell around her ankles on their own.
Eden shoved her hands under his shirt, felt his skin prickle with chills of desire and his nipples go hard under her fingers. ‘‘So, what are we doing here?’’
He chuckled. ‘‘If you’ve gotta ask, I’m doing something wrong.’’ He stepped back so that her hands dropped away, gripped the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head. Then he shrugged out of his own shirt and reached in the shower to turn on the water.
‘‘I’m going to take a big bite out of you, baby—partly because you smell like a mouth-watering bakery, mostly because I damn well have to.’’ He unhooked her bra, took a moment to taste the upper swell of her breast. ‘‘I’ve got a problem, though. I smell like a horse, but I don’t want to wait for dessert. Seems I’ve become a slave to my appetite, and I’m in a dilemma.’’
He had them both naked before she could even register the process. Wrapping his hands around her rib cage, he lifted her until her face was level with his.
‘‘Anything gonna burn in the kitchen?’’
She shook her head, still back at the part where he’d said he was going to take a bite out of her. You smell like a sugar cookie. I want to eat you up.
‘‘Good. In the interest of speed and my lack of control, you’re gonna have to get wet.’’ He stepped into the shower with her. ‘‘But I promise I’ll make it worth your while.’’
Chapter Eleven
Stony figured two weeks would have taken the sharpest edge off his desire and put a rein on his thoughts so he could at least give his work his full concentration.
He’d figured wrong. All he could think about was finding some excuse to go back up to the house, to check on Eden. She’d been looking tired the past few days, and it was starting to worry him.
He latched Fox-Trot Dandy’s stall and hung the lead rope in the tack room, happy with the stallion’s progress. They’d developed a trust, grudging on Fox-Trot’s part at first, but the bond had eventually solidified. He wasn’t biting anymore and was nearly bombproof. Even through the report of a pistol, the Thoroughbred would stand with di
sciplined, military precision, wouldn’t even flinch unless Stony gave permission. That’s what came from using a soft voice and an easy touch. From asking for good behavior rather than insisting. Hopefully the proud beauty would behave as cooperatively for his handler and jockey.
Leaving the barn, he made his way around the corner of the house, then paused and stepped back in the shadows. Eden was on the porch, both her guitar and Nikki in her lap. A couple of his employees leaned against the wooden rail with adoring looks on their faces.
Jealousy zinged through him, and at the same time his heart kicked and flooded him with the familiar desire.
That beautiful woman hugging his daughter and entertaining his friends was his wife.
And what kind of spell was he under that kept making him forget that their marriage license was only a formality, her presence in his bed merely a means to an end?
He had to remember that she didn’t need him. She had a full life waiting for her in Texas—a home of her own, a successful business, friends, family.
She only needed what he could give her.
So now he had the right to make love to this gorgeous woman whenever he wanted—which had been every night for the past two weeks, from the time Nikki went to bed until well past midnight.
But only at night.
The restriction was the only way to keep Stony focused on reality. The reality that this arrangement wasn’t permanent.
Her laughter drifted on the afternoon breeze, wrapping around him like a down comforter on a cold winter’s night. She dropped a kiss on Nikki’s head, called her doll baby in that sexy Southern drawl, then quickly plucked the strings of her guitar and began to sing, ‘‘Ten bottles of milk on the shelf.’’
Stony chuckled when Eden sang milk and Nikki, Demone and Marcus all sang beer. Her palm slapped across the six strings, stopping the tune, and she gave a mock admonishing glare that sent Nikki into peals of laughter. Rosie leaped across Demone’s foot and licked Nikki’s face, quivering in excitement at the prospect of the gigglefest turning into a full-out romp that she could participate in.
