Good Time Girl

by Candace Schuler

  He continued to rotate his pelvis against hers, his engorged penis rock-hard and motionless inside her, his pubic bone pressing against her clitoris in a tiny, focused, unrelentingly gentle motion that seemed to go on forever, winding her tighter and tighter, like barbed wire being slowly, carefully tightened with a winch, stretching every muscle and nerve ending to the very edge of release, holding her there until she gave in and went limp beneath him, letting him take her where he would.

  He rose, then, catching her legs in the crook of his elbows as they slid bonelessly from around his waist. He leaned forward, pulling her legs high and wide, opening her fully, and placed his hands on the bed beside her shoulders. And, finally, he began to thrust. Deep and slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that gradually—oh, so very gradually!—became faster and harder as she began to writhe beneath him.

  Faster.

  Harder.

  Faster.

  Harder.

  Until, suddenly, it was too much and too hard and too fast, and everything broke loose in a wild, uncontrollable whirlwind of nearly unbearable sensation, like a hundred strands of bared wire that had snapped under intolerable pressure.

  She screamed this time. It was a full-throated, unselfconscious scream of triumphant release that had the occupants of the neighboring room pounding on the wall and demanding quiet. Ignoring their demands, Tom uttered his own exultant shout of satisfaction and followed her into the spinning vortex.

  “Next time,” he promised, just before he collapsed on top of her, “we’ll get our boots off first.”

  ROXANNE WAS DEFINITELY sans boots when she woke up the next morning. She was also sans everything else, including blankets of any kind. She lay on her side on the rumpled bed, her knees drawn up, her naked flesh pebbling under the arctic blast of the air-conditioning unit in the window. Bright Texas sunlight glittered through the slatted blinds, creating a ladder-like pattern on the worn carpet, over the scattered articles of clothing and bed linens that littered the floor, and across the broad golden back of the naked man lying in bed beside her.

  Her good-looking dangerous cowboy hadn’t disappeared with the morning’s light as she’d half feared he might, but lay facedown, taking up a full three-quarters of the motel bed, snoring ever so softly into his pillow.

  Roxanne couldn’t help the idiotic grin that spread across her face at the sight of him. She also couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to run her hand over all that glorious masculine pulchritude. She would have thought she’d have gotten enough of him sometime during the long, sweaty, tempestuous night that had gone before, but she hadn’t. If anything, last night had only made her want more. More touching. More kissing. More of him. More of herself the way she was with him.

  She’d never been so uninhibited. Never been so voracious and greedy. Never been so effortlessly responsive. It was a side of herself she hadn’t previously known existed and she wanted to explore it.

  At length.

  In depth.

  Right now.

  She tiptoed her fingers back up his spine and tickled the nape of his neck.

  He stirred beneath her touch, the long lean muscles of his back flexing, the smooth rounded muscles of his shoulders bunching ever so slightly under his golden skin as he turned his head toward her. He blinked owlishly, not quite all there. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here this morning,” he said.

  Her fingers stilled. “Are you disappointed that I am?”

  “Lord, no!” He rolled to his side, levering himself up onto his elbow, catching her hand before she could draw it away. “I thought maybe I’d dreamed you, is all.”

  “Then I must have been dreaming, too.”

  He grinned. “Hell of a dream,” he said, and lifted her captured hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “I hate to see it end.”

  “Who says it has to?” she said, and felt her heart flutter at the audacity of what she was about to suggest.

  “Don’t you have someplace you have to be?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “A home? A job? Something?” He hesitated. “Someone?” he suggested.

  “Nope. I’m free as a bird for the rest of the summer. There’s nowhere I have to be until September. No one I’m accountable to.” She looked up at him from under the veil of her lashes. “You interested?”

  “In?” he said carefully, not quite sure she was suggesting what he thought he was suggesting. No man could be that lucky.

  “You. Me.” She tugged her hand out of his, slid it down his torso, curled it around his penis. It hardened instantly, filling her hand to overflowing. “This.” She squeezed him lightly. “All. Summer. Long.”

  Tom nearly swallowed his tongue. He had to consciously tell himself to take a breath before he could speak. “And when the summer’s over?”

  “When the summer’s over, we go our separate ways. No fuss. No muss. No strings. And no looking back.”

  Good God Almighty, Tom thought, as what she said sank in. He’d just been offered a last fling that was going to take him nearly to the end of the rodeo season. And then she’d disappear from his life. A man could be that lucky!

  “So, how about it, sugar?” She squeezed him more firmly, adding a leisurely up-and-down stroke for good measure. “You want to take me on for the rest of the summer?”

  5

  THE DRIVE from the Broken Spoke Motel in Lubbock, Texas, to the rodeo grounds in Santa Fe, New Mexico, was nearly eight hours long, which gave Roxanne more than enough time to think about what she’d done the night before—and what she’d agreed to do for the remaining two and a half months of her summer vacation.

  The first was an event she had planned for as carefully and completely as she did her class curriculum each year. Like the thorough, conscientious, obsessively good girl she was, she’d considered her options, made her decision, then spent a good six months laying the groundwork for getting laid. She’d taken country-western dance lessons, researched the rodeo, read every sex manual, erotic novel and women’s magazine article on attracting and seducing the male of the species that she could get her hands on. From there, it had taken nearly a week of attending rodeos to decide on the cowboy she wanted. And then another week of careful study to transform herself into the kind of woman he might conceivably want in return.

  The second event, however, was a decision her sexy alter ego had made on the spur of the moment, in the heat of passion, so to speak. And Roxanne wasn’t entirely sure if she was comfortable with that decision. Could she be Roxy for two and a half months? Could conservative, stick-in-the-mud, good girl Roxanne Archer sustain the transformation to good-time girl Roxy without reverting to type and blowing her cover? Did she have the stamina and the cunning to stay in character for that long? More importantly, did she have the wardrobe?

  She’d only planned on a weekend of sexual excess—a week, if she got really lucky—and had purchased accordingly. A pair of cowboy boots, one denim miniskirt, a pair of jeans, a couple of skimpy tops and some sexy new underwear weren’t going to last her an entire summer. If she was going to do this—and, she realized, she was going to do it, was already doing it, despite the misgivings still niggling at the back of her mind—she needed to supplement her new wardrobe. Otherwise, she’d be reduced to wearing the khaki slacks and linen camp shirts that were her usual summer uniform. And that wouldn’t suit Roxy, at all.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Roxanne hooked a strand of flying hair behind her ear with one long red nail and looked over at her good-looking, dangerous cowboy. He sat in the driver’s seat of her rented convertible, his left elbow on the car door, his right wrist draped over the steering wheel, his hat pulled down low over his eyes, piloting the car down the long, lonely ribbon of highway at speeds that just begged a cop to stop them. If there had been any cops, that is. She hadn’t seen anything besides the occasional eighteen-wheeler for miles.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said politely, and then belatedly remembered her San Antonio drawl. She fluttered her
eyelashes to cover the lapse. “You say something, sugar?”

  “You’ve been sitting over there, lost in thought for the past thirty minutes. I was wondering if you were having second thoughts.”

  “Second thoughts about what?”

  “About us.” He flicked the hand he had draped over the steering wheel, the gesture eloquent in spite of its brevity. “This.”

  “I never have second thoughts,” Roxanne said airily, lying through her teeth.

  Roxanne always had second thoughts. And third and fourth ones, too. But she was sure Roxy didn’t. Roxy was a decisive, daring, devil-may-care, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of girl; the kind of girl careful, conservative Roxanne had always secretly envied.

  “Once I make a decision—bam—” she snapped her fingers in the air between them “—it’s made. Second thoughts are a waste of time. Unless…” She felt her stomach clench as one of those second thoughts she denied having popped into her mind. “Are you having second thoughts, sugar?” She shot him a sliding sideways glance, rife with deliberate insouciance in case he was. “Because, if you are, we can dissolve this—” she ran her fingernail along the top of his thigh “—partnership—” she said, encouraged when his quads tensed “—at the next truck stop. You just say the word and I’ll be gone. No muss, no fuss, remember?”

  She patted his thigh and lifted her hand, only to find it captured beneath his. He drew it to his crotch, pressing it down over the rapidly hardening bulge beneath his fly. “Does that feel like I’m having second thoughts?”

  Roxanne’s cherry-red lips turned up in a wicked smile of pure feminine satisfaction—and relief. “It sure feels like you’re having some kind of thoughts.” She squeezed him lightly. “You want to stop somewhere and act on those thoughts, sugar?”

  His smile was as wicked as hers. “I wasn’t thinking about stopping at all,” he said, and moved her hand in a suggestive up-and-down motion before releasing it.

  Roxanne felt an illicit thrill zing through her. Here was another fantasy, hers for the taking, if she dared. She’d never done what he was suggesting, not in a moving vehicle. Not in a vehicle at all, actually. Not anywhere. The world of lovers’ lanes and teenage sex in the back seat of Daddy’s car hadn’t been one she’d ever been invited to enter. There had been no heavy petting in somebody’s rec room or fogging up the windows in a parked car. She’d been nearly twenty-four, a responsible adult with a job and her own apartment when she surrendered her virginity. By then, there had been no need for furtive sex or forbidden thrills. She’d always wondered what she’d missed. What it would be like to indulge in frenzied sex acts that stopped short of intercourse.

  Now was her chance to find out.

  She couldn’t resist.

  Didn’t want to resist.

  Feeling decadent and daring, she squeezed him slowly, leisurely, measuring the length and hardness of his erection beneath her palm. He was satisfyingly hard, deliciously long, gloriously thick. She made a purring sound in her throat and tiptoed her fingers up the straining bulge to the metal button at the top of his fly.

  His stomach muscles contracted.

  She flicked the button open.

  He drew in a quick, hard breath.

  She grasped the waistband of his jeans between her thumb and forefinger and gave a sharp little tug. The remaining buttons of his fly popped open, one after the other, slowly—pop, pop, pop—each one a tiny explosion of sound that was more felt than heard. Without giving herself a chance to chicken out, she flattened her palm against his washboard stomach, slid her fingertips under the elastic edge of his briefs, and burrowed down between his legs.

  His breath hissed out between clenched teeth and he shifted in his seat, spreading his knees to accommodate her and give her room to explore.

  She caressed his balls, cupping them gently in her palm for a delicious moment, and then curled her fingers around his hot, rigid flesh, and began a slow squeezing stroking meant to drive him mad.

  He seemed to swell in her hand, becoming harder and longer and thicker with each stroke. He had both hands on the wheel, now, his knuckles white with the ferocity of his grip. His breathing was fast and shallow. His upper lip was beaded with sweat. His foot was a lead weight on the accelerator.

  Roxanne was surprised to find her excitement matching his. Her breathing was fast and shallow. Her pulse was racing. Her body was tingling. She hadn’t realized it would be like that, hadn’t imagined that being the seducer would be as thrilling as being seduced. She felt incredibly powerful, incredibly sexual, incredibly female.

  She wanted—desperately—to make him come with just her hands alone.

  She released her seat belt and shifted in her seat, twisting her body sideways so she could reach over the console with her right hand and cup his balls through his jeans. With her left, she continued the long squeezing strokes, using her thumb to spread the pearl of moisture that appeared at the tip of his penis and increase the friction, moving her fist faster and faster as she felt his tension build.

  Tom stiffened and made a low, guttural sound deep in his throat. The car swerved, the back end fishtailing wildly, spewing up gravel as he steered it onto the shoulder of the road and stomped on the brakes. Roxanne’s body was propelled forward, and then back against the seat, but her rhythm never faltered. She was intent on one thing, and one thing only, and wasn’t stopping until she got it.

  And then it happened.

  With his hands tight on the steering wheel, his arms rigid, his boot heels pressed against the floor, his head pressed back into the headrest, Tom uttered a harsh, rasping cry, and erupted in a spectacular orgasm. Roxanne watched it happen, entranced and enthralled.

  She had done that.

  She had made him lose control.

  She had made him come.

  She felt triumphant. Exultant. Victorious. Smug.

  “Your turn,” he said, and grabbed her by the shoulders, dragging her across the console to sprawl awkwardly in his lap. She lay on her side, her upper body wedged between his chest and the steering wheel, her hip balanced on the console between the seats, her booted feet against the passenger door. His mouth came down on hers, hot and hard and ravaging. His hand went between her legs, rubbing her through the heavy seam of her jeans. That was all it took. She was already wet, already aroused, drunk on passion and power and the excitement of the new and forbidden. She came hard, her body arching, her nails digging into the hard curve of his shoulders, her thighs clamped tight over his hand. It didn’t stop his fingers from moving, though. He drove her up again, and then yet again, until she was quivering in his arms, until she was shivering and panting and making gasping little whimpering sounds, begging him to please, please fuck her. He brought both hands up to her head, then, cradling it between his wide callused palms, and gentled his kiss, going from ravager to protector in an instant.

  His lips plucked at hers, softly, moist and tender, raining kisses to soothe them both, easy, gentle caresses that fell on her lips and cheeks and eyelids, meant to cool their roiling passions and take them to a place where they could draw an even breath. She sighed tremulously, her breath catching like a child who’s cried too hard and too long, and melted into his arms, tucking her hot face into the damp curve of his neck while he stroked her temple with his thumb and drew soothing little circles on the back of her head with his fingertips.

  They stayed that way for several long minutes, just holding each other, quietly, coming down off the edge together, until an eighteen-wheeler rolled by, buffeting the little convertible with its passing, blowing a long, loud salute on its air horn. Roxanne put her hands against his shoulders and pushed, squirming backward into her own seat. Tom levered his hips up slightly, reaching into his back pocket for the bandana he always carried. He cleaned himself with it, then folded it and passed it to Roxanne to wipe her hands while he rearranged and rebuttoned.

  “It’s nearly lunchtime,” he said, after they had set themselves to rights. “You hu
ngry?”

  “I could eat, I guess,” she said, without quite meeting his eyes.

  She was a little embarrassed, now that it was over. It was, after all, one thing to have wild raucous sex in the relative privacy of an anonymous motel room. It was quite another to jerk a man off in an open convertible at high noon on the side of the highway. She couldn’t help but wonder if she had crossed the line from good-time girl to, well…slut.

  “There’s a truck stop a few miles up the road, just the other side of Tucumari. Pete’s Eats. They’ve got great burritos. That sound okay to you?”

  Roxanne nodded. “Sounds fine,” she said, and leaned down, snagging her purse off the floor. She began rooting around in it, ignoring him.

  Tom knew by the way she was acting that he had fallen short somewhere. That he hadn’t done or said whatever the right thing was to do or say in a situation like this. But, damn, he’d never had a woman do that to him, not in an open car, speeding down the highway. Not while he wasn’t busy returning the favor. He hadn’t expected her to do it, either. His gesture had just been a tease. A dare. He’d expected her to give him a little squeeze through his jeans, a little pat, maybe make some risqué comment about holding his horses until a more appropriate time.

  But then she’d unbuttoned his fly and taken him in her hot little hand, and all his expectations were shot to hell in an explosion of panting lust and excitement that was fueled as much by how she did what she did, as what she did. She’d been avid and intent, her excitement as hot and palpable as his. He’d never had a woman give that way, completely unselfishly, focused on his pleasure alone and asking nothing in return until he’d dragged her into his lap and made her beg.

  Tom didn’t know what the hell to say to that, how to act. He felt gauche and grateful, and totally inadequate, like the callow inexperienced boy he hadn’t been for many years. Knowing he had to do something, say something to let her know what her actions meant to him, he reached over and captured her chin, interrupting her careful application of a fresh coat of lipstick as he turned her to face him.