His Brand of Beautiful

by Lily Malone

  “Had a brudda work for Shasta too, but he in Queensland now,” Doug said. “He on a Brahmin station near Mt Isa now. He says dem big sods dem Brahmin steers. Nasty buggers too, dem Brahmin bulls. I go up there some day. I like to ride one of ’dem Brahmin bulls.”

  His face lit up like a puppy but the smile was over Christina’s head. It wasn’t for her.

  Her pulse bounced as she turned. Before she even turned.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen Tate in jeans. He’d worn jeans for the last three bloody days. But these were stone-washed blue, faded, worn to three thick strands above one knee. Clean. And they hit every muscle on route from arse to ankle so that part of her almost sniffed the air to see if she could smell denim from where she stood—smoking denim—he was that hot.

  Her irritation over his trick with the horses was banished by a wave of pure—or not so pure—lust. For a second, guilt nagged at her belly over the course she’d been plotting tonight. But now, he’d lied to her too, so perhaps that made them even. Christina ignored the pointed voice that told her setting out to get herself pregnant without telling the potential daddy was a bit worse than a lie about horses and motorbikes.

  She turned away as Corky and Doug went to greet him. Turned before Tate’s eyes could find hers.

  The bra strap snagged because she yanked it off the stockrail instead of easing it and then she snatched at the jodhpurs even harder so a tuft of cotton caught on a splinter.

  She stopped only to ditch her clean clothes in the tent and pull on leggings and a jacket. At the last minute she jerked socks over her feet. Out here, who cared if she paired sandals with socks?

  Lily Malone

  Chapter 13

  A far-away howl raised the hair on the back of Christina’s neck. Corky stopped staring into the fire and lifted his head to gaze into the hovering night like a hound on point. Grease glistened on his chin.

  “We seen dingo tracks all the way along the fence,” he said to Tate.

  “Have you ever heard a dingo bark?” Tate asked, dropping his plate to the sand.

  Corky snorted. “Pull the other one,” at the same time Doug said: “Dingo don’t bark, mate.”

  “I saw it on YouTube. Fair dinkum.” Tate’s accent was as rough as Christina had heard it. “Some guy filmed it on a camcorder. It’s a dingo alright and you hear it bark. Filmed out this way too, west of the Simpson, but up nearer the French line.”

  “Ain’t never seen no YouTube. Ain’t never heard no dingo bark.” Corky ended the discussion and patted his stomach. He used his rock as a backrest rather than seat and his boots stretched for the glowing coals.

  Doug yawned. “I’ll wash, man, you dry.”

  Corky flicked sand at the younger man’s boots.

  The two stockmen scoured the camp oven, cutlery and plates while Tate banked the fire. Christina’s pulse had been in overdrive all evening, now it soared. She was glad Corky and Doug were there for distraction, any time Tate looked at her, panic rattled through her bones.

  Corky and Doug spread swags on the opposite side of the fire, said goodnight, and in less than five minutes their snores floated across the embers like traffic on a distant freeway: one truck-exhaust loud, the other a four-cylinder purr.

  “Take a walk with me?” Tate’s shoulders blocked the stars. He held out his hand and as she took it, she knew a bridge had been crossed. There was no going back.

  Sunshine’s white mane and tail shone but the other horses in the stockyard were a jumble of dark shapes with the odd slash of white fetlock or blaze, all of them herded close.

  One huffed an accusation, as if annoyed at being disturbed.

  “You’d think I’d have had enough of the smell of horse to last me years,” she said as Tate’s steps thudded softly in time with the two-step beat of her heart. “I almost miss it.”

  The world whirled.

  He waltzed her in a tight circle on the sand. Her knee bumped his shin and his lips made a warm circle on the cold crown of her head. He inhaled her as if she was a drug.

  “It’s only lavender shampoo,” she blurted, trying to control the tremor in her knees.

  “Not lavender.” His voice throbbed like Springsteen in a smoke-filled bar. “You smell like you. You smell incredible. I want to be inside you so much I can’t think straight.”

  Her lips parted in a shallow gasp. He had such a way with words. Why not just lift my skirt? Fuck me right here standing up on the sand. I’m ready. I’ve been ready all day.

  The cross-bar of the stockyard rail prodded her kidneys. Tate tipped her chin with his finger and when his mouth lowered to hers she hoped all he could taste was rock-salt and rabbit, not guilt.

  His hands stole under her jacket and up her ribs. She’d washed her only bra and it left nothing to slow his fingers except the thin material of her dress. Her nipples swelled, ached for the skin of his bare hands, his mouth.

  “Lie down with me, Christina,” he said, voice wild, thumbs rubbing her nipples.

  “God yes.” It was a whisper against his lips.

  She lost a sandal, stopped for it, casting about in the sand, found she could run faster in her socks and kicked off its partner; hair flying about her face, forearm jammed under her breasts.

  Tate stopped to snatch up his swag and she ran on alone before she could change her mind, sandals flapping in her hand like a pair of hooked fish. She stumbled to her knees on the sand, fumbled for the tent zip. It was like trying to catch a cake of soap.

  Tate’s steady arm slipped past her waist. The zipper buzzed and she risked a glance at the stockmen. Their snores didn’t hitch. She fell forward into the tent on hands and knees, slipped on the sleeping bag, came up disoriented in the near-black and grazed her nose on the canvas wall. Tate followed her, rezipped the tent, kicked-off his boots.

  Socks snaked from her feet. A button tore on her jacket and the tent filled with the sound of breathing, of clothes scraping canvas and nylon slipping, slipping; on her knees now, cotton in her fingers, ripping the tunic up—

  Strong fingers trapped hers on the hem. “Let me.”

  He let the cotton brush the small of her back, tease the swell of her breasts, trace every curve as if she was a precious statue he had all night to unveil. Once, she slapped the back of her foot on the tent floor. Then the dress suctioned around her ears and with a static hiss her head popped free. He sat back on his heels long enough to whip off his shirt and singlet. In those few seconds she missed him and her hand stretched across the void.

  Warm skin met her fingertips, his muscles solid and strong. She nibbled a path along his jaw, felt whiskers sting her lips and leaned in close to press her breasts against him. Her nipples grazed his chest.

  “Christina.”

  This time his lips slammed hers. One hand hooked behind her head, the other held hard to her arse, pulling her into heat that was like a furnace. Desire exploded through her thighs, darted in and out of her pussy like a questing tongue.

  This is what I need. Just like this. So much that I can’t think about what comes next.

  She sucked his tongue into her mouth, heard his groan. Her fingers flew to the fly of his jeans, popped it—

  He grabbed two handfuls of her backside, lifted her as if she weighed nothing and shuffled her forward until his hips tucked between her open thighs and her arms wrapped around his neck and she didn’t know if she wanted to rock against the hard ridge beneath the denim or grind against it or squeeze, and nothing else mattered anyway except every point of white-hot heat where their bodies joined.

  He lifted her long enough to peel the leggings from her hips then laid her back, breaking her hold on his neck. He rolled the fabric down her calves, kissed the exposed flesh of her thigh where it dimpled above her knee.

  Her hips squirmed figure-eights on the sleeping bag, the inside of her thighs slick.

  “Hurry,” she said, when he sat up to kick out of his jeans. She reached for his thigh in the dark, explored crisp hair
, the texture of his skin. She stroked the base of his cock.

  “How do you expect me to hurry when you’re doing that?”

  The tent was thick with the scent of her sex; creamy with it.

  Christina’s hair skimmed his knee. Nylon slipped as she edged higher, crawling to her knees beside him and he felt her cheek on his thigh, butterfly kisses from her lips and he knew where she headed, thought about her wet mouth, her tongue lashing him; sucking—

  Christ. He had two seconds to stop her. “Wait, sweetheart. Don’t.”

  Lily Malone

  “Don’t tell me don’t,” she murmured.

  “Slow down.”

  “No.”

  He reached for her chin. Got her mouth, lips already open for him. He slipped two fingers inside and rolled them and heard her moan and when she sucked he felt it all the way through the back of his balls.

  Using the lubricant of her own saliva he circled her nipple, first one, then the other, tweaked the tips into hard buds until she arched her back and offered them to his mouth.

  She tasted like rain.

  He cupped her pussy through thin cotton and held her there, hard, while heat poured into his palm and her hips bucked against his hand and her legs shuddered. He pressed her back to the nylon.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, tracing her cleft with a finger, leaning over her.

  “Are you kidding?”

  Her clitoris was ripe. Melon-soft.

  “You’re so wet, Christina”

  “I’ve been like that all day.” Her hands flicked the elastic of her knickers. “Take them off.”

  He anchored the crotch against her inner thigh, held it, let the material snap back into place. “Ask me nicely.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Please, Tate. Take them off.”

  Kneeling between her legs he bent forward to lift her arse and help her kick a leg free. Her hips moved beneath him and he forgot about her other leg because she’d shifted again, hooked an ankle over his back and tilted her pelvis at him somehow so the head of his cock was about to split her apart.

  “Wait, Christina,” he said with a muttered curse. “A condom… I haven’t… do you need me to?”

  “Don’t stop,” she begged, locking her ankles around him and making it impossible to concentrate on trying to locate his jeans in the dark and the packet in their pocket. “It’s safe, Tate. Don’t stop. Please…”

  She rocked at him, impaled herself inch by sweet inch and he almost shouted aloud it felt so damn good. She was so wet he couldn’t help but slide further inside. It had to be ten degrees hotter in there.

  “My God. The way you fit,” she whispered when he filled her to the hilt and they were breathing like trains.

  She was all velvet inside and he thought: Fuck taking it slow.

  He swapped her rhythm for his own and her hips arched and rocked and slammed and his chest crushed her breasts and her kisses grew hotter and wetter and harder.

  “Tate yes, just like that.” She buried her face in his neck. “God. I’m going to come.”

  “Let it go, baby. Let it go.”

  He felt every muscle in her body clench. Her shoulders wrenched from the sleeping bag and fingers clawed his back and he dove in again and again and knew he was about to explode.

  She buried her face in his neck and her fingers dug in his shoulders, hanging on.

  Fireworks took hold of the back of his balls and he buried himself as deep as he could, felt her grip him like a glove and he held on as the world rushed in and the tent expanded out and he shot and shot and shot.

  “Wow,” she whispered after a while. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” He kissed her nose, eased his weight off. “You don’t need to thank me.”

  “Sorry. I’m all messed up. Tired. Dumb thing to say.” Her words slurred.

  He brushed his knuckle against her cheek. It came away wet.

  Her knickers were still trapped around one knee and he slipped them off her ankle.

  He left her only long enough to entwine the two sleeping bags into one. She rolled to her side. He put an arm over her flank and nestled into her back. His heartbeat thumped her spine.

  A dingo howled.

  She mumbled something once in a voice thick with sleep. It sounded like ripe grapes and he knew she already dreamed. Her arm twitched once then stilled and he held her as she slept.

  Lily Malone

  Chapter 14

  A car murmured past.

  Sunlight filtered through curtains he hadn’t given her time to fully shut. It struck Tate’s overnight bag, which was curled in the corner of Christina’s bedroom like the cat someone forgot to put out. The clothes he’d stripped from her hung where he’d tossed them, dress half off her sewing chair, tights dangling in a noose around the mannequin’s neck, boots and belt on the carpet near Christina’s handbag.

  Sweat tainted the air, his and hers; all of it wrapped in the salt smell of afternoon sex.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” Christina said in the buttery voice he loved, fingers spidering playfully across his ribs.

  Those fingers didn’t match her tone and Tate laughed. It was impossible to take her seriously while she sat astride his hips, dusky nipples jutting at his chin.

  “Why not? I’m on holiday,” he said.

  She glanced at the bedside clock. “You might be on holiday. I’m not. I have a winery to run. I have a fun run to run. I haven’t done any training for a week. I’m lucky Lace is still on her honeymoon.”

  He stroked her thigh. “You’ve been getting other exercise.”

  “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon and look at me,” she held her arms wide. “It’s the fourth time this week I’ve told Marie I have a city meeting.”

  “You’re an important woman.” His fingers accepted the burden of her breast. “And you look beautiful. Bountiful.”

  “Bountiful?” She lifted herself off his hips to flop beside him, an arm behind her head. Chestnut hair spread across the pillow, close enough to tickle his ear. “Is that your way of telling me my bum looks big?”

  He rolled to an elbow, drew circles around her belly-button. “Bountiful like a Rubens’

  muse. My brand of beautiful. But I’m still disappointed.”

  “You’re disappointed?”

  He grinned. “We’ve been back a week now and you haven’t read me a single page of porn.”

  “Hey, buddy, I won the bet, remember? You’re the one who needs to cough up my brand.”

  “Cracked Pots is a work in progress, you know that. Don’t change the subject. One measly little sex scene is all I want. I thought you were the girl who tried anything once.”

  There was a slide of sheets and her body seemed to tighten in on itself somehow.

  “What makes you think this would be the first time I’ve read a guy porn?”

  “I don’t know about any guy. It would be the first time with me.” He said it softly, but it had weight.

  Abruptly she sat and her fingers toyed with the fringe of burgundy quilt. He could see the faint glow of perspiration shimmer on her skin.

  “Why do you do that, Christina? Push me away, just when I think I’m getting close.

  What are you afraid of?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “I told you I’m crap at relationships. I let everyone down.

  Don’t fall in love with me, Tate.”

  “I asked you to read me porn, not meet my parents.” He kept his voice light.

  She aimed a swat at his chin. “I didn’t mean to wreck the mood.”

  “Yes you did,” he said, gently, getting up to pull the curtain properly shut. “You think you’re warning me off, but what you’re really doing is pulling away. You figure if you’re the one to pull away first, you can’t get hurt.”

  For a moment she just looked at him. Then she rolled away, groping beneath the wrought iron bed. Call Girl By Night came up cover-first, pages yellow as she sat cross-legged on th
e bed to thumb through it. He returned to the bed, switched on her bedside lamp then reclined on the pillow, arms behind his head.

  He could see the shadow of her pubic hair, darker than the hair on her head.

  “That’s hardly lady-like,” he muttered, eyes on the pale pink glisten between her thighs. He felt his body stir.

  She bookmarked a page with her thumb. “I’m not channelling my inner lady right now.”

  He laid his hand lightly on her wrist. “Let me worry about my heart and who it loves, Christina, okay? Whatever you throw at me I’ll cope.”

  She touched her bottom lip with her tongue, bobbed her head once and began to read.

  “Ted was already sitting on the edge of the bed when I entered the room. It was a king-size bed with midnight blue sheets. He beckoned me with one hand and I walked toward him, stopping a foot away from his knees. I moved my hand to the zipper of my skirt but he stopped me. ‘Let me,’ he said and his voice was already thick.

  “His hands were warm as his fingers brushed my stomach.

  “My skirt slid to the floor and I kicked my feet from it. I wasn’t wearing panties and I sensed he liked that. ‘Keep the shoes on please, and take a seat, Lucy,’ he said to me. He untied the towel that had been wrapped around his hips and let it fall to the side. He was already erect. I sat on his thighs in my white stockings and pink stiletto suedes and I could feel his beautiful dick straining against my leg. I’ve never had a client who didn’t like white skimpy underwear on me: they get the virgin and the whore in one easy package.

  “Ted pulled my face to his. Our kiss started gentle, then exploded. His tongue fucked mine.”

  Tate’s hand dropped to his cock and stroked. “Say his tongue fucked mine, again.”

  Pink flushed her cheeks. “His tongue fucked mine.”

  “Good girl, Christina. Keep reading.”

  “He unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it from my shoulders, kissing every bit of bare skin on the way. He was slow and so gentle. When he had the shirt off, he just looked at me for a moment. I hadn’t worn a bra, either. My breasts are small but they’re perky and none of my men complain. He ducked his head and nuzzled my nipples. The left one first, then more attention to the right. I could feel the buzz growing in my pussy.