Hold Me, Cowboy

by Maisey Yates

  Immediately, his blood ran hotter, faster, desire roaring in him like a beast. He wanted her. He wanted this. There was nowhere soft to take her, not here. Not in this place full of nails and iron, in this place that was hard and jagged just like his soul, that was more evidence of what he contained than anyone would ever know.

  “The rest,” he said, his voice as uncompromising as the sculpture all around them. “Take off the rest, Madison.”

  Her lashes fluttered as she looked down, undoing the snap on her jeans, then the zipper, maddeningly slowly. And of course, she did her best to look like she had no idea what she was doing to him.

  She pushed her jeans down her hips, and all that was left covering her was those few pale scraps of lace. She was so soft. And everything around her was so hard.

  It should make him want to protect her. Should make him want to get her out of here. Away from this place. Away from him. But it didn’t. He was that much of a bastard.

  He didn’t take off any of his own clothes, because there was something about the contrast that turned him on even more. Instead, he moved toward her, slowly, not bothering to hide his open appreciation for her curves.

  He closed the distance between them, wrapping his hand around the back of her head, sifting his fingers through her hair before tightening his hold on her, tugging gently. She gasped, following his lead, tilting her face upward.

  He leaned in, and he could tell that she was expecting a kiss. By the way her lips softened, by the way her eyes fluttered closed. Instead, he angled his head, pressing his lips to that tender skin on her neck. She shivered, the contact clearly an unexpected surprise. But not an unwelcome one.

  He kept his fingers buried firmly in her hair, holding her steady as he shifted again, brushing his mouth over the line of her collarbone, following it all the way toward the center of her chest and down to the plush curves of her breasts.

  He traced that feathery line there where lace met skin with the tip of his tongue, daring to delve briefly beneath the fabric, relishing the hitch in her breathing when he came close to her sensitized nipples.

  He slid his hands up her arms, grabbed hold of the delicate bra straps and tugged them down, moving slowly, ever so slowly, bringing the cups down just beneath her breasts, exposing those dusky nipples to him.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Prettier than anything in here.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted the word pretty uttered in here,” she said, breathless.

  “About my work. About you... That’s an entirely different situation. You are pretty. These are pretty.” He leaned in, brushing his lips lightly over one tightened bud, relishing the sweet sound of pleasure that she made.

  “Now who’s a tease?” she asked, her voice labored.

  “I haven’t even started to tease you yet.”

  He slid his hands around her back, pressing his palms hard between her shoulder blades, lowering his head so that he could draw the center of her breast deep into his mouth. He sucked hard until she whimpered, until she squirmed against him, clearly looking for some kind of relief for the intense arousal that he was building inside her.

  He looked up, really looked at her face, a deep, primitive sense of pleasure washing through him. That he was touching such a soft, beautiful woman. That he was allowing himself such an indulgence. That he was doing this to her.

  He had forgotten. He had forgotten what it was like to really relish the fact that he possessed the power to make a woman feel good. Because he had reduced his hands to something else entirely. Hands that had failed him, that had failed Elizabeth.

  Hands that could form iron into impossible shapes but couldn’t be allowed to handle something this fragile.

  But here he was with Madison. She was soft, and he wasn’t breaking her. She was beautiful, and she was his.

  Not yours. Never yours.

  He tightened his hold on her, battling the unwelcome thoughts that were trying to crowd in, trying to take over this experience, this moment. When Madison was gone, he would go back to the austere existence he’d been living for the past five years. But right now, he had her, and he wasn’t going to let anything damage that. Not now.

  Instead of thinking, which was never a good thing, not for him, he continued his exploration of her body. Lowering himself down to his knees in front of her, kissing her just beneath her breasts, and down lower, tracing a line across her soft stomach.

  She was everything a woman should be. He was confident of that. Because she was the only woman he could remember. Right now, she was everything.

  He moved his hands down her thighs, then back up again, pushing his fingertips beneath the waistband of her panties as he gripped her hips and leaned in, kissing her just beneath her belly button. She shook beneath him, a sweet little trembling that betrayed just how much she wanted him.

  She wouldn’t, if she knew. If she knew, she wouldn’t want him. But she didn’t know. And she never had to. There were only five days left. They would never have to talk about it. Ever. They would only ever have this. That was important. Because if they ever tried to have more, there would be nothing. She would run so far the other direction he would never see her again.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would stick around. But that was even worse. Because of what he would have to do.

  He flexed his fingers, the blunt tips digging into that soft skin at her hips. He growled, moving them around to cup her ass beneath the thin lace fabric on her panties. He squeezed her there too and she moaned, her obvious enjoyment of his hands all over her body sending a surge of pleasure through him.

  He shifted, delving between her thighs, sliding his fingers through her slick folds, moving his fingers over her clit before drawing them back, pushing one finger inside her.

  She gasped, grabbing his shoulders, pitching forward. He could feel her thigh muscles shaking as he pleasured her slowly, drawing his finger in and out of her body before adding a second. Her nails dug into his skin, clinging to him harder and harder as he continued tormenting her.

  He looked up at her and allowed himself to get lost in this. In the feeling of her slick arousal beneath his hands, in the completely overwhelmed, helpless expression on her beautiful face. Her eyes were shut tight, and she was biting her lip, probably to keep herself from screaming. He decided he had a new goal.

  He lowered his head, pressing his lips right to the center of her body, her lace panties holding the warmth of his breath as he slowly lapped at her through the thin fabric.

  She swore, a short, harsh sound that verged on being a scream. But it wasn’t enough. He teased her that way, his fingers deep inside her, his mouth on her, for as long as he could stand it.

  Then he took his other hand, swept the panties aside and pushed his fingers in deep while he lapped at her bare skin, dragging his tongue through her folds, over that sensitized bundle of nerves.

  And then she screamed.

  Her internal muscles pulsed around him, her pleasure ramping his up two impossible degrees.

  “I hope like hell you brought a condom,” he said, his voice ragged, rough.

  “I think I did,” she said, her tone wavering. “Yes, I did. It’s in my purse. Hurry.”

  “You want me to dig through your purse.”

  “I can’t breathe. I can’t move. If I do anything, I’m going to fall down. So I suggest you get the condom so that I don’t permanently wound myself attempting to procure it.”

  “Your tongue seems fine,” he said, moving away from her and going to grab the purse that she had discarded along with the rest of her clothes.

  “So does yours,” she muttered.

  And he knew that what she was referring to had nothing to do with talking.

  He found the condom easily enough, since it was obviously the last thing she had thrown into her
bag. Then he stood, stripping his shirt off and his pants, adding to the pile of clothing that Maddy had already left on the studio floor.

  Then he tore open the packet and took care of the protection. He looked around the room, searching for some surface that he could use. That they could use.

  There was no way to lay her down, which he kind of regretted. Mostly because he always felt like she deserved a little bit more than the rough stuff that he doled out to her. Except she seemed to like it. So if it was what she wanted, she was about to get the full experience tonight.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her up against him, pressing their bodies together, her bare breasts pressing hard against his chest. He was so turned on, his arousal felt like a crowbar between them.

  She didn’t seem to mind.

  He took hold of her chin, tilting her face up so she had to look at him. And then he leaned in, kissing her lightly, gently. It would be the last gentle thing he did all night.

  He slid his hands along her body, moving them to grip her hips. Then he turned her so that she was facing away from him. She gasped but followed the momentum as he propelled her forward, toward one of the iron figures—a horse—and placed his hand between her shoulder blades.

  “Hold on to the horse, cowgirl,” he said, his voice so rough it sounded like a stranger’s.

  “What?”

  He pushed more firmly against her back, bending her forward slightly, and she lifted her hands, placing them over the back of the statue. “Just like that,” he said.

  Her back arched slightly, and he drew his fingertips down the line of her spine, all the way down to her butt. He squeezed her there, then slipped his hand to her hip.

  “Spread your legs,” he instructed.

  She did, widening her stance, allowing him a good view and all access. He moved his hand back there, just for a second, testing her readiness. Then he positioned his arousal at the entrance to her body. He pushed into her, hard and deep, and she let out a low, slow sound of approval.

  He braced himself, putting one hand on her shoulder, his thumb pressed firmly against the back of her neck, the other holding her hip as he began to move inside her.

  He lost himself. In her, in the moment. In this soft, beautiful woman, all curves and round shapes in the middle of this hard, angular garden of iron.

  The horse was hard in front of her; he was hard behind her. Only Maddy was soft.

  Her voice was soft—the little gasps of pleasure that escaped her lips like balm for his soul. Her body was soft, her curves giving against him every time he thrust home.

  When she began to rock back against him, her desperation clearly increasing along with his, he moved his hand from her hip to between her thighs. He stroked her in time with his thrusts, bringing her along with him, higher and higher until he thought they would both shatter. Until he thought they might shatter everything in this room. All of these unbreakable, unbending things.

  She lowered her head, her body going stiff as her release broke over her, her body spasming around his, that evidence of her own loss of control stealing every ounce of his own.

  He gave himself up to this. Up to her. And when his climax hit him, it was with the realization that it was somehow hers. That she owned this. Owned this moment. Owned his body.

  That realization only made it more intense. Only made it more arousing.

  His muscles shook as he poured himself into her. As he gave himself up to it totally, completely, in a way he had given himself up to nothing and no one for more than five years. Maybe ever.

  In this moment, surrounded by all of these creations that had come out of him, he was exposed, undone. As though he had ripped his chest open completely and exposed his every secret to her, as though she could see everything, not just these creations, but the ugly, secret things that he kept contained inside his soul.

  It was enough to make his knees buckle, and he had to reach out, pressing his palm against the rough surface of the iron horse to keep himself from falling to the ground and dragging Maddy with him.

  The only sound in the room was their broken breathing, fractured and unsteady. He gathered her up against his body, one hand against her stomach, the other still on the back of the horse, keeping them upright.

  He angled his head, buried his face in her neck, kissed her.

  “Well,” Maddy said, her voice unsteady, “that was amazing.”

  He couldn’t respond. Because he couldn’t say anything. His tongue wasn’t working; his brain wasn’t working. His voice had dried up like a desert. Instead, he released his grip on the horse, turned her to face him and claimed her mouth in a deep, hard kiss.

  Ten

  Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to make assumptions, but when they got back to Sam’s house, that was exactly what Maddy did. She simply assumed that she would be invited inside because he wanted her to stay.

  If her assumption was wrong, he didn’t correct her.

  She soaked in the details of his home, the simple, completely spare surroundings, and how it seemed to clash with his newfound wealth.

  Except, in many ways it didn’t, she supposed. Sam just didn’t seem the type to go out and spend large. He was too...well, Sam.

  The cabin was neat, well kept and small. Rustic and void of any kind of frills. Honestly, it was more rustic than the cabins they had stayed in up in the mountain.

  It was just another piece that she could add to the Sam puzzle. He was such a strange man. So difficult to find the center of. To find the key to. He was one giant sheet of code and she was missing some essential bit that might help her make heads or tails of him.

  He was rough; he was distant. He was caring and kinder in many ways than almost anyone else she had ever known. Certainly, he had listened to her in a way that no one else ever had before. Offering nothing and simply taking everything onto his shoulders, letting her feel whatever she did without telling her it was wrong.

  That was valuable in a way that she hadn’t realized it would be.

  She wished that she could do the same for him. That she could figure out what the thing was that made Sam...Sam. That made him distant and difficult and a lot like a brick wall. But she knew there was more behind his aloofness. A potential for feeling, for emotion, that surpassed what he showed the world.

  She didn’t even bother to ask herself why she cared. She suspected she already knew.

  Sam busied himself making a fire in the simple, old-fashioned fireplace in the living room. It was nothing like the massive, modern adorned piece that was in the West family living room. One with fake logs and a switch that turned it on. One with a mantel that boasted the various awards won by Nathan West’s superior horses.

  There was something about this that she liked. The lack of pretension. Though, she wondered if it reflected Sam any more honestly than her own home—decorated by her mother’s interior designer—did her. She could see it, in a way. The fact that he was no-nonsense and a little bit spare.

  And yet in other ways she couldn’t.

  His art pieces looked like they were ready to take a breath and come to life any moment. The fact that such beautiful things came out of him made her think there had to be beautiful things in him. An appreciation for aesthetics. And yet none of that was in evidence here. Of course, it would be an appreciation for a hard aesthetic, since there was nothing soft about what he did.

  Still, he wasn’t quite this cold and empty either.

  Neither of them spoke while he stoked the fire, and pretty soon the small space began to warm. Her whole body was still buzzing with the aftereffects of what had happened in his studio. But still, she wanted more.

  She hadn’t intended to seduce him in his studio; it had just happened. But she didn’t regret it. She had brought a condom, just in case, so she supposed she cou
ldn’t claim total innocence. But still.

  It had been a little bit reckless. The kind of thing a person could get caught doing. It was definitely not as discreet as she should have been. The thought made her smile. Made her feel like Sam was washing away some of the wounds of her past. That he was healing her in a way she hadn’t imagined she could be.

  She walked over to where he was, still kneeling down in front of the fireplace, and she placed her hands on his shoulders. She felt his muscles tighten beneath her touch. All of the tension that he carried in his shoulders. Why? Because he wanted her again and that bothered him? It wasn’t because he didn’t want her, she was convinced of that. There was no faking what was between them.

  She let her fingertips drift down lower. Then she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his neck, as he was so fond of doing to her. As she was so fond of him doing.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rumbling inside him.

  “Honestly, if you have to ask, I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

  “Aren’t you exhausted?”

  “The way I see it, I have five days left with you. I could go five days without sleep if I needed to.”

  He reached up, grabbing hold of her wrist and turning, then pulling her down onto the floor, onto his lap. “Is that a challenge? Because I’m more than up to meeting that.”

  “If you want to take it as one, I suppose that’s up to you.”

  She put her hands on his face, sliding her thumbs alongside the grooves next to his mouth. He wasn’t that old. In his early to midthirties, she guessed. But he wore some serious cares on that handsome face of his, etched into his skin. She wondered what they were. It was easy to assume it was the death of his parents, and perhaps that was part of it. But there was more.

  She’d had the impression earlier today that she’d only ever glimpsed a small part of him. That there were deep pieces of himself that he kept concealed from the world. And she had a feeling this was one of them. That he was a man who presented himself as simple, who lived in these simple surroundings, hard and spare, while he contained multitudes of feeling and complexity.