by Sabrina York
He couldn’t be annoyed, because when he opened his eyes, it was to find her leaning over him, watching him with an impish smile on her face.
“Hello there,” she said.
He wove his fingers in the riot of her hair and pulled her close for a kiss. “Hello.”
“Have you recovered?” This, she said in such a teasing voice, he had to glance down at his cock. He wasn’t uncomfortably hard, but he was hard. It laid across his belly, growing even as she stroked him.
He stiffened as a sudden realization hit him.
Shit.
They’d made incredible, wild, passionate love . . . and he hadn’t used a condom.
He’d never forgotten to use protection. Ever.
Shit.
“Hanna . . .”
She kissed his nipple and he realized that while he’d slept, she’d unbuttoned his shirt. The touch of her lips, the nibble, the suck, distracted him.
Also, her hand, curling around his length was diverting as well. She pumped once, twice.
“Hanna . . .”
Her hot mouth skated over his abs, kissing and licking his flesh. He shivered.
“Hanna . . .”
Her wayward tongue dipped into his belly button. She stroked him again and again and angled his cock, just so.
“Hanna . . . Ah God.”
She took him in her mouth. Encased him in her warmth. Murmured. Moaned. The sound resonated through him. All thoughts of conversations, all thoughts of protection or what a man should or shouldn’t do with some other man’s fiancée spun from his head and she took him deeper.
That it was her, his Hanna, the woman he had always wanted with an aching need, taking him in her mouth, sucking him, fucking him with her lips . . . it was too much to bear.
But he resolved to bear it.
She changed her angle and took him deep, holding him at the base in a tight fist. She began a heinous rhythm, her fist and mouth playing a torturous counterpoint.
He needed to stop her. He had to stop her. If he didn’t stop her, he wouldn’t last.
And God, he wanted her again. One more time, before he had to tell her to truth about him and release his hope to the four winds.
She might not be too mad.
She might still be willing to consider his proposition.
But she might not.
And he needed one last time with her in the event she told him no.
“Hanna. Stop.”
She lifted her head.
He forced a chuckle. “I can’t take much more. And I have plans for you.”
She grinned playfully. Lord have mercy, he adored this side of her. “Do tell.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow.” Her lips formed a pout. “Don’t you want something a little more . . . naughty?”
She froze. Slowly her head rose. Their gazes clashed.
“What-what did you have in mind?”
He loved the way her voice softened, became breathy and tight.
He allowed his expression to darken. “I think you know. Take off your nightgown.”
He shifted from the bed and drew up his underwear and jeans. Zipped them slowly, meaningfully.
Oh, she’d get his cock again, but not until he was damned good and ready. Not until she was damned good and ready. Begging, perhaps.
How fitting, how gratifying, that she liked this, wanted this. They were perfect for each other in this regard and, frankly, every regard.
“Go on,” he urged, sending her an impatient frown. “Do it.”
She shivered as she slowly drew the thin fabric over her head. He stared as she revealed her creamy thighs, her red thatch, her perfect, full breasts with pink crests. As the nightgown released, her hair tumbled over her shoulders.
Had there ever been a more splendid sight?
Hanna Stevens, naked against a snowy-white duvet?
“Spread your legs.”
She swallowed, and then complied.
His heart hitched. His pulse thrummed. His cock jerked.
Hell and damnation. He had so many plans.
So little patience.
“Turn over.”
“What?”
He sent her a speaking glare and, with a little “eep” she did as he asked, presenting her beautiful ass to him. She peeped at him over her shoulder.
“Stay there.” He headed for the cupboards, where he’d hidden a coil of rope. Pulling it out, he held it up, so she could see.
Her eyes widened. Lips parted. “Oh my,” she murmured.
His boots, which he’d never bothered to remove, resonated against the boards as he crossed the room, back to the bed. She flinched with each step. “Hands over your head,” he commanded, and with a whimper, she complied.
He wrapped the rope around one wrist and then the other. He would have liked to thread it through the headboard, but there wasn’t one. For his purposes tonight, this would work.
Once she was bound, he sat on the bed, gently stroking the delicate line of her back. She shivered to his touch, but she nibbled her lip, rather than speak, as though she was unsure what to say, or unwilling to break the spell.
“Do you remember the rules?” he asked.
She nodded, a tumble of curls.
“Tell me. Tell me who’s in charge.”
“I-I am.”
“You are. And what do you say if you want me to stop?”
“Wh-whoa.”
“Very good. Try your bonds. Are they too tight?”
She wriggled her hands. “N-no. They’re not too tight.”
He allowed a chuckle at her petulant tone. “Are they too loose?”
“A little.”
He made the necessary adjustment, just a tug here and a loop there. “How’s that?” She sighed. He took that as his response. “Are you ready to begin?”
Another nod.
It did not please him.
“Say it.”
“Yes. I’m ready to begin.” She looked nervous. Good. He wanted her nervous. She should be nervous.
He brought his hand down on her ass. Hard. She lurched and whipped her head around to glower at him.
No. He would not allow that either. “That is not an acceptable response. Are you ready to begin?”
She frowned at him, and then realization flooded her face. She licked her lips which, frankly, was like a knife to his gut. He was on tenterhooks here, anxious to begin and worried he didn’t have the fortitude to see it through.
“Yes, sir.” A near snarl.
He stroked his handprint, his mark on her cheek. “Good girl,” he said, and then he smacked her again. Not hard, not cruelly, just enough to warm her, prepare her, to give her what she really wanted.
When she didn’t stop him, he increased his pace, covering her bottom with a series of hearty spanks. He didn’t stop when she began to cry out. He didn’t stop when she began to writhe. But when her breath broke into short pants, he reached beneath her, between her legs, and found her hard nubbin.
And he stroked her.
As he paddled her ass—alternating between sharp and soft smacks, stopping to stroke her heated skin and then beginning again—he caressed her. Teasing and light, around and under, dabbing at the tender underside. Then circling it without touching until she wailed.
“Logan,” she cried. “Please!”
He assessed her response, the desperate look in her eye, the flailing of her bound limbs, the tenor of her cries. He knew . . .
As she reached her crest, he thrust three fingers into her, and thrust them deep and hard, at the same time massaging her clit with his thumb.
She seized. Sputtered. Howled.
Her clench around him was so manic, so frayed, he could barely contain himself.
He whipped out. Kicked
off his boots. Yanked off his jeans. Tossed them aside. Then went lunging for them when he remembered the stupid damn condom. He found it in a crazed scrabble of denim and then knelt behind her on the bed, pulled his briefs down only as far as they needed to go, rolled the rubber onto his aching cock, yanked her toward him with hard hands on her hips, and drove home.
God. God. God.
She was so tight. So wet. So ready. Her channel clenched around him and his eyes crossed. Such pleasure. Such bliss.
It was hell to pull out, but he did not delay in lunging deep again.
As he slammed home, she came again. A series of torturous ripples barraged him. When he yanked out, she resisted, a heinous draw.
“God,” he growled. “God.”
Never before had he been so tense, so on edge. So fucking hungry for a woman.
He held her steady with fingers sunk into the flesh of her hips and pummeled her. A wild man, frantic, desperate, crazed.
But she was crazed as well.
She thrust back into him, closed her hold on him, sucked at his cock with each withdrawal. As he tried desperately to hold back, determined to make this last and last, she worked diligently to make him lose his mind.
And she won.
He gave in. Pressure built at the base of his cock. His balls pulled up into hard little stones. Need burned through his body . . . and with a dazzling explosion, he released.
Bliss washed him as she came around him, quivering with each jerk of his swollen cock.
An eternity of ecstasy, of mindless bliss, over far, far too soon.
He pulled out and collapsed beside her, gasping for breath. She cuddled closer and he held her as she shook. He dabbed away the tears on her cheeks and gently unlashed her, checking her skin to make sure the rope had not been too tight.
He kissed her there, tenderly laving the blue veins tracing her delicate wrists.
She sighed.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gravelly, fatigued, perhaps from too many snarls and growls.
She turned in his arms and nestled into his chest, kissing the underside of his chin. “Yes, Logan,” she said, her eyes filling, once again, with tears. “I am wonderful.”
He couldn’t stop himself from kissing her tears away. Their flavor, a tinge of salt with a hint of Hanna, filled his senses.
He loved her.
God help him.
He loved her and he always would.
Chapter Twelve
They made love again sometime in the night, less frantic this time and far more gentle. Although each kiss, each caress, each whisper in the dark was threaded with a hint of desperation. Their time was almost up.
Tomorrow would dawn and Hanna would return to the party for the last event. And then she would return home. To reality.
She nestled deeper into Logan’s embrace and listened to his even heartbeat, reveling in the warm wash of his breath as it skated over her as he slept. She wrapped her arm around his waist and closed her eyes. Memorizing the moment.
A tear trickled down her cheek and she dashed it away.
It would be difficult saying good-bye to Logan. But she really had no choice. If she was going to save her father’s ranch and keep her mother in a familiar home, she had to marry Zack.
It would be difficult facing him after this. And not just because she now knew, to the depth of her soul, marrying him was a horrible mistake.
The hard, cold fact was, she had abused Zack’s trust.
The realization surprised her. Though her feelings for him were far from loverly, she had agreed to marry him. He was her fiancé. Despite her need to know what she would be missing in a passionless marriage—a folly if there ever was one—she couldn’t deny the bitter ache of guilt.
Zack loved her, in his way. He deserved better than a woman who would have a torrid affair with another man at the first opportunity.
She would have to tell him what had happened here.
Most likely, he would end their engagement and toss her aside and then everything would fall apart.
She ignored the whisper of relief at the prospect. She had no business feeling relief.
Because of her, her father would lose his ranch and Mom would have to leave her home, perhaps even go into some state-run facility—which sent a ribbon of horror through her.
If only there was another way.
If only her art had sold. If only she had something, anything, more to offer.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t even land a job. At least, not in Snake Gully. She’d tried, but all the shop owners and even Willy, the owner for the Hitching Post Saloon, just smiled and patted her on the hand and told her to go home to daddy.
She and Sidney had been spoiled, she realized in retrospect. Raised by a wealthy man and never knowing want. It had always been expected that each of them would marry and marry well. Neither had ever had a real job. Neither had any salable skills.
For all her independence, leaving town for the big city, Sidney worked in a coffee shop, barely making enough to pay her rent.
Not for the first time, Hanna cursed their bad luck, or Dad’s poor decision making skills. Granted, he probably never expected his investments to go bad. Never expected the ranch would take a downturn or that Mom would get so sick.
And now Hanna would pay the price. If Zack didn’t dump her tomorrow.
Still, the thought of her upcoming wedding made her belly churn.
And the thought of lying like this in a bed with Zack . . .
She shuddered.
Logan shifted beneath her, murmuring something unintelligible and pulling her closer. She molded herself against him, thrusting her worries from her mind.
This was now. He was here now. There was too little time to squander it thinking about tomorrow.
She stretched up and kissed the underside of his chin until he came awake. Until his hands began to move over her body again with an enticing warmth, and his mouth found hers, and graced it with a drugging kiss.
Let tomorrow take care of itself, she decided.
This night was too precious to waste.
***
The next time she awoke, dawn’s rosy fingers were creeping over the horizon. She nestled into the warmth of Logan’s embrace, loath to leave this comfort.
And then she realized . . . it was morning.
The partygoers would be awakening soon for the final festivities . . . and all she had to wear back to the house was a flimsy nightgown.
“Logan.” She shook him gently.
He muttered a muffled word.
“Logan. Wake up. We need to get back.”
His lashes fluttered and then lifted and she stared down into his beautiful blue eyes. Lord have mercy. He was handsome under usual circumstances, but like this, sleepy and rumpled, sporting a delicious bristle on his cheeks . . . He was irresistible.
She swallowed the drool in her mouth. There was no time for such ruminations.
“We have to get back. It’s morning.”
His lips lifted in a lazy smile. “Not yet.” He tugged her closer and kissed her. She loved the taste of him, his drowsy, earthy scent, but she pulled back, forcing a frown.
“We have to go. Come on.”
It nearly killed her, but she slipped out of bed and cast about for her nightgown. It was half draped over a chair, where she’d flung it the night before. She tugged it on.
He groaned and scrubbed his face. “God. Is it morning already?”
“Come on,” she urged, finding his clothes and tossing them to him. “We need to get back before everyone wakes up.”
Her words must have hit their mark, because he stiffened and glanced out the window, though there was not much to see on the deserted scrub. “Crap. I planned to get you back before daylight.” He leapt into gear, dressing
with quick, sharp actions. He found the truck keys and wrapped her in her blanket. “Don’t worry,” he said, stroking her lip. “I’m sure they’ll all be sleeping in this morning, after last night’s party at the swimming hole.”
“Didn’t you go?”
He snorted a laugh. “I went long enough to see that you weren’t there.”
“Hmm.” She couldn’t hold back her grin. It only faded when he kissed it away.
“Come on,” he said, clearly reluctant to leave. “We should go.”
“Wait.” She stayed his hand as he reached for the doorknob.
He stopped, and looked at her, his expression intent. “Yes, Hanna?”
“I just wanted to say . . . Thank you, Logan. For everything. I truly enjoyed it.”
He kissed her again. “I enjoyed it too. But we’re far from done.”
“The party ends today. I go home today.”
He winked. “But we’re far from done.”
A skitter of excitement danced through her, even though she knew there would be no more playtime between them. Not today. Not ever.
He carried her to the truck, which was hardly necessary, but much appreciated as she was barefoot. Then he settled her in and kissed her before he closed the door. When he slid onto the bench seat on the driver’s side, he leaned over and kissed her again. And then again, as though he couldn’t get enough.
Neither could she.
But she knew, even if he kissed her forever, she could never get enough of him. So, swallowing her regret, she pulled back and said, “We should go.”
His lashes flickered. A muscle bunched in his cheek—making her want to stroke his fuzz—but he nodded and started the engine. They headed down the rutted track, back to the ranch house, jouncing around. Hanna didn’t remember it being so rough on the way here, but she had been distracted.
“I am glad you enjoyed our night together, Hanna,” he said.
“I did.” She tucked the blanket around her, against the early-morning cold.
“But I was hoping we would have a chance to talk as well.”
She laughed. “We were otherwise occupied.”
“We were.”
He turned onto the main road. She glanced at him, surprised that his features seemed tight, his brow knit. She set a hand on his forearm. The muscles rippled at her touch. “What is it, Logan?”
