by Lexi Whitlow
I’ve never seen Grace in a dress or a skirt, but she’s brought several. For tonight she’s decked herself out in a mid-calf length, flowing, pleated skirt of lacy material, and a tailored dress shirt, with a western-style short coat in black silk that stops just above the curve of her hips, then drops down with half-tails behind her ass. It’s a good look for her. The best part is that she’s bold enough to anchor the whole outfit with her now well-broken-in cowboy boots. She checks herself in the living room mirror, running a hand through her short blond hair. Then she smiles at me in the reflection.
“You like?” she asks, blinking.
“I like.” I’d like to take it all off her and do her again right here in the living room. I restrain myself. It’s five ‘til seven and I hate being late. We’ll have time later.
Downstairs in the dining room as we’re waiting to be seated, I spot people I know from competitions and other breeders’ events. The crowd in the place is a fifty-fifty mix of RMBA people and everyone else who would ordinarily be at a venue like this on any random Friday night in late January.
Looking around, I’m entertained. Pale skinned men in khaki slacks with soft hands, sip wine from tall glasses, peering through reading glasses to look at their smartphones. Women dressed in revealing yoga pants talk at their partners, who mostly ignore them, preferring instead the digital company of the internet. Some of these women have purple, pink, and blue streaks in their hair. I wonder if that isn’t some desperate cry for attention. Maybe I’m just a Montana rancher who doesn’t keep up with fashion trends.
I slip my hand around Grace’s hip, pulling her close. I lean down and whisper in her ear, “You’re the most beautiful woman in this room, and I’m proud to be with you.”
She smiles up at me blushing. It’s rare that she blushes. I like it.
A few moments later we’re seated, appetizers ordered, and drinks in hand. Jim Burke raises his glass first, nodding to me.
“I heard a rumor that tomorrow night some pretty fine things are going to be said about you. So… I just want to offer you a toast Cam. I’m glad to say I taught you everything good you know.” He grins and lifts his glass, and we all sip together.
“I also want to know when you’re giving me back my son,” he teases, sitting his glass down. “I’m not going to live forever. I need to pass the Heartwood on to someone, but you’re holding Tyler hostage over at the Kicking Horse.”
“You get Jacob,” Tyler responds to his father, just short of laughing. “You’re too damn mean for me to work for. I was mucking out stalls ‘til I was twenty.”
We all laugh, but I know that there’s some truth to what Jim says. At some point Tyler is going to leave the Kicking Horse and go back across the valley to his father’s place. That’ll be a dark day in my world. I don’t know how I could ever run things without him.
“Oh, my word, would you look at this!” a voice from behind me croons. I look up and see Anne Chandler, daughter of Norman Chandler of the Iron Horse ranch near Billings. She’s circling up behind me, wearing a smile as big as Texas, and a belt strung together with all her champion buckles dangling over her narrow hips, hanging down her right thigh.
“Camden. It’s so good to see you here. You haven’t come to one of these things in years.”
She slips her arm around me, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
Anne Chandler is like me. She the heir to a generations-long family ranching operation with a breeding program that goes back decades. She’s competed and shown champion horses in nearly every class, winning consistently. Her foals are top grade performers. She’s also tall, razer thin, blond, and could do with a daily breakfast of biscuits and gravy to soften her sharp edges.
She’s a year older than me, and she’s single. She’s had an eye for me since we were kids, doing cutting and cowing events at the state Four-H events.
“Good to see you, Anne,” I say standing, then nod to my companions. “You remember Jim Burke from Heartland and his son, my foreman, Tyler, and his wife, Amanda,” I say. “And of course, you know Bryant, my uncle.”
“Sure, I do,” she says, her eyes floating around the table, a toothy grin painted across her over-made face. “Now who is this?” she asks, her sharp eyes stopping hard on Grace like the stuck ball at a roulette table.
Anne probably saw me walk in the door with Grace on my arm.
“Grace Bradley, this is Anne Chandler.” I skip the details.
Anne smiles, offering Grace her hand in the most condescending manner she can contrive.
“I love your jacket,” she says, her tone sappy sweet. “It squares you up, makes you look thinner, giving you lines you wouldn’t ordinarily see. It’s a good choice.”
Anne lifts her eyes to mine. “Well, Cam, I’ll let you get back to your friends. We’ll see you tomorrow night at the awards dinner.”
I sit down, then look to Grace. She’s flushed pink. Anne embarrassed her; she hurt her feelings. I slip my hand into hers under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then I lean in.
“There’s a reason she’s still single,” I whisper. “You just saw why. You are the most beautiful woman here, and she knows it.”
The rest of the dinner, Grace is quiet. She’s usually quiet, but in this big room, filled with people I know, she’s more so. I think that if she could slip outside and just watch us all from the windows, she’d feel better about being here. But as it is, she endures being my quiet, lovely adornment.
After dinner we go up to the Loft, the lodge’s bar on the top floor. The peaked roof and glass walls of the place offer a moonlit, panoramic view of the mountains surrounding the landscape beyond. Almost everyone in the bar is RMBA people, and those who aren’t certainly feel our presence. Our whisky filled glasses, hip-hugging jeans, big silver belt buckles, wide brimmed hats, and pointy boots, distinguish us from the khaki and polo shirt wearing sort who look on us with unveiled curiosity.
Grace and I turn more than a few heads as we slide up to the bar. I’m keenly aware of several men checking her out, passing leering whispers between themselves. They can look, but they better not touch. It isn’t just men, either. Several women attempt to catch my eye, smiling coyly from across the room. That’s fine too, but I only have eyes for the one on my arm. Apparently, the fact that I’m with someone isn’t enough to slow down the bold ones.
“Are you a cowboy?” a strange woman wearing enough black eyeliner to cause me to question her health, asks, slipping her hand around my cuff. “Like, a real cowboy?”
I start to answer, but before I can, Grace steps between us, moving the woman back two steps, separating her hand from my jacket.
“You’re damned right he’s a real cowboy,” she says. “And you need to step off before I cut you out of the herd, lay you out, and brand your ass with the point of my boot.”
Shit. Talk about cutting well.
The black-eyed woman scurries off fast, like a hound is on her tail.
I look down at Grace. She’s half-way angry and half-way proud she sent that one packing. She’s sexy as hell when she’s mad.
“You’re welcome to defend my honor any time,” I say, smirking. “But I’ve had enough women-behaving-badly for one night. Let’s go back to our room and behave badly together. What do you think?”
“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” she replies. “Before I have to fight every woman in the room.”
I’d almost pay to see that, but I’d hate to see her ruin her nice, lacy skirt. I’m looking forward to lifting that skirt shortly.
“I think I need a new rule,” Grace says as the elevator doors close on us.
I slip my hand into hers, tugging her toward me. “What’s that?” I ask, nuzzling her hair, breathing her in.
“Never go out with a man who’s prettier than me,” she says, a wry smile turning her lip as she backs into me, her firm, round ass, pressing against my thigh.
“There is no such beast walking this Earth,” I assure her. Th
e scent of shampoo and some lingering perfume fills my head, warming me, tightening my belly, stirring lower.
“Every woman at dinner tonight, and ever woman in that bar was creaming their panties the second you walked in the room, and then looking at me like you must be taking pity on me.”
“You’re crazy,” I tell her, pulling her tight. “And blind if you can’t see how beautiful you are.” I lean down and kiss her as the elevator dings on our floor and the doors open. Without breaking the kiss, I reach forward to hold the door.
I want Grace to feel this kiss. I spread her lips, probing, sucking her in. The alarm starts sounding as I slip my free hand around her waist, drawing her as close to me as clothing permits.
Breathless, Grace breaks our kiss, laughing, her fingers pressed into my chest. “You’re crazy, and maybe blind too. But I’ll take it however it comes,” she giggles, slipping out of my grasp, ducking under my arm, running into the corridor beyond.
“You’re gonna get it,” I threaten, jogging up behind her. I give her a slap on the ass as I catch her, then grab her hand, swinging her around me. We’ve been practicing our dance steps for weeks and it’s amazing how much fun it is to hold onto her, our bodies in motion together, twirling in time to the music. It’s almost as good as foreplay. It’s definitely sexy.
Once I have Grace inside our little apartment, I don’t waste any time reminding her just how sexy she is to me.
She starts to slip off her jacket, but I stop her.
“Don’t undress,” I say. “I want to undress you, a little bit at a time.”
I slip my hand around the back of her neck, drawing her to me. Leaning in, I kiss her again, this time gently, nibbling her lips, then pressing lips to her cheeks, eyelids, and earlobes.
“Every man in that room was looking at you,” I whisper. “Wishing they were gonna get to do this.”
I slip a hand under her jacket, stroking the small of her back, moving lower, pressing fingers into her fine, heart-shaped ass.
In a moment I stand back and slip her jacket from her shoulders, tossing it on the couch. I study her, taking in her full measure from boot to eye brows. She’s stunning. Soft and voluptuous. Pure female sexiness.
She stands before me, her cheeks a little flush, taking me in with a curious expression, waiting for me, biting her lip.
“I wanna do it on the floor, in front of the fire,” I say. “With your boots on.”
Grace blinks, then breaks out into a big grin, laughing. “Okay!”
I take my time with her buttons, letting my fingers glance over the round rise of her breasts, gently pressing the bump of her nipples over smooth cotton cloth. With her shirt open, I kiss her neck and chest, the lace of her bra catching the stubble at my chin. Slipping her shirt down, I nick and lap at her shoulders, tracing every turn of skin, noting the placement of freckles and tiny moles on the warm, ivory surface of her body.
Usually we have to hurry. Usually we have to take care not to be heard. I want to make it clear to Grace what it will be like when we’re not hiding, when we don’t need to keep secrets.
I kiss and nuzzle her breasts over the satin and lace of her bra, peaking her nipples hard with my teeth, making her moan, hopefully making her wet between the legs.
Her hands find my shirt, unbuttoning it while I lap and kiss every inch of skin above the cinched waist of her skirt. She shoves it back and I shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor. Then I peel off my t-shirt so I’m bare chested in jeans, my skin warmed by the fire and her touch.
I slip my hands under her skirt, fingers tracing up her thighs, dancing over her soft flesh. Touching her, seeing her laid vulnerable to me, is pure pleasure. Her hot skin sends an electric pulse up my arms as her hips rise to meet my advancing hands. I hook her panties, slipping them down her thighs, over her knees and boots, and off into my hand. I lift them to my face, breathing in her scent. Her scent makes my dick go hard, pressed tight inside jeans.
I lift her skirt, shoving it up high over her hips, exposing the soft mound of flesh I’ve wanted to taste and feel all night. With one hand I gently touch the short curling hair, stroking it, parting it. Then I slip my thumb between the seam that protects her most sensitive places.
Grace moans softly. Her jaw slacks. Shallow breaths catch in her chest.
I take my time with fingers, mouth, and lips, bringing her forward, sucking slick pleasure salty and hot from her, listening to her cries, feeling her fists gripping my hair, fingers digging in as her pussy shudders to my touch.
When Grace lies still, glowing, senseless, I give her no rest. I want her whining, moaning, calling my name.
“Turn over,” I instruct, seizing her hips in my grasp. I roll her over, then lift her ass up so she’s on her hands and knees.
We’ve never done it this way before, but I want to. I want to fuck her hard and deep.
I shove her pretty lace skirt up, revealing her bare ass and her dripping, swollen folds. My hands swirl over her pale, porcelain skin, caressing her cheeks, grabbing handfuls of soft dimpled flesh at her hips, running my fingers along the tender surface just inside her upper thighs.
“God, you look so good…” I half-growl, my voice graveled with heat and anticipation.
“Inside me,” Grace pleads, turning her head so she can see me. I hope she sees how badly I want her.
I unhook my belt, then the button and zipper on my jeans, freeing my pent-up lust, stroking myself to length. Gripping my dick firmly, pleasuring myself, I tease the crease between her cheeks with the head of my cock, pressing, spreading pre-cum on her skin, rubbing it in.
“You want me inside?” I ask, touching the dripping, hot hole between her legs. “You want me to fuck you like this?”
She nods, breathless. “Please,” she begs.
I press in to that swollen, pink, heat, shoving past her seized, tight muscles, and am quickly enveloped in molten pleasure, consuming me.
Grace cries out. Her grip on my cock tightens. My hands slide over her hips, up her back and to her shoulders, wrapping them tightly. I draw her body down onto me roughly with each hard thrust. She cries out again and again as I drive into her like spiking a fence post. Her back is rigid and straight. I shove her knees farther apart with my own, going even deeper.
“Oh, fucking… God… Cam… Oh…,” she mewls, clawing the rug.
I could fuck her like this forever, by hard balls slamming into the flesh of her pussy, pumping her clit hard and fast.
I feel her muscles tense, then begin to tremble irregularly. Her hands ball to fists, gripping the rug beneath her. Her back arches, shoulders rolling. I grip them harder, shoving myself inside her, feeling the tremors build until her body erupts, flooding slick, dripping lubrication onto me and down our legs.
Her body shudders. She falls to her elbows, completely weak, at my mercy, heaving breath.
I pull out and roll her over so we’re facing again, then shove her knees wide. Without pausing I push back into her throbbing walls, lost in the liquid heat of her body.
I ride her at a cantering pace, the shaft of my cock dragging rough over her clit, popping past her muscles, in and out, until she’s wrapped around me, her boot heels dug into my ass, her nails ripping my shoulders, head thrown back, whining like a cat.
I watch her come with her eyes closed, that peaceful expression coming over her, her lips open, chest heaving as I rock her body with my own. Watching Grace come is the single sexiest image I’ve ever seen, and it rips me down to my balls. They draw up tight, and in just a second demand release.
I come, hauling hard into her, losing my mind, going blind, senseless, my bliss filling Grace, both of us calling out, groaning our pleasure in unison. She milks me dry, sapping every ounce of strength from me. I slump heavy over her, heaving for air.
We collapse on the floor as one thing, tangled up, completely spent, breathless.
Chapter 13
Grace
Good lord. What the hell was that?
I breathe, trying to fill my lungs. Cam’s slick skin is hot against mine. His body is wrapped around me, our arms and legs piled together in a heaving mass.
Whatever that was, it’s worth repeating again, and again, and again.
I’m laughing. I can’t help myself. It’s reflexive, like a blink or a hiccup. In a moment I’m laughing so hard tears trickle from the corners of my eyes. I laugh until it almost hurts to breath.
Cam comes up on his hands beside me; soon he’s laughing too. He rolls back, leaning against the couch, pulling me into his chest, tenderly smoothing back the wet strands of hair stuck to my forehead. We calm in an embrace, naked, warmed by the gas flames flickering in the hearth.
