He began rubbing his thumb back and forth while sucking at her with his lips and tongue, driving her mad with the sensual assault, until the heat furled up tightly inside her pelvis and then exploded outward, and she cried out, her legs trembling as wave after wave of pure pleasure washed over her body.
He lapped at the juices of her arousal, suckling until the last quiver of orgasm had stilled, and then slowly pulled away.
She lay spent and helpless on the bed, thighs sprawled open.
“Oh,” she said, in a voice of astonishment.
“Oh, what, baby?”
“Oh, that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”
At her words, a slow smile spread across her face, as if she’d said exactly the right thing, and a warm glow lit her from the inside at the effect her words had on him. On how much he wanted her.
Being here with him felt so right, so warm, so comfortable…
She stuffed those thoughts deep into the recesses of her brain. Best not to get used to it, because he wouldn’t be here long.
“Are you going to untie me now?”
“Ha! You wish.” He was breathing rapidly now, his cock engorged with blood, the head of his shaft purple and glistening with pre-cum, and his eyes were glazed with lust…but still he toyed with her, his fingers trailing along her stomach ever so lightly, as soft as the touch of a butterfly’s wing.
“Please? I’ll take you in my mouth. I’ll do anything you want,” she pleaded.
He grinned down at her, breathtakingly handsome and infuriatingly smug.
“You will anyway,” he teased, fingers circling her nipple and then tweaking it gently, which drew an involuntary gasp of pleasure.
“You son of a bitch!” she cried out.
“That’s right, princess. But I’m your son of a bitch.”
Her heart thumped her in her chest when he said that, and then he grabbed the condoms, ripped open a package with his teeth, and slowly rolled one of the condoms onto the thick length of his cock.
Then he lifted her legs up and placed one leg on each shoulder, and positioned himself between her legs. He nudged her with the thick head of his erection and thrust against her, sliding in several inches, and she gasped, and moved her hips to meet him.
He thrust again, forcing himself further up her tight, slick channel. “Oh, God, I love how you squeeze my cock. You fit me perfectly. It’s like you were made for me.”
And with another thrust he was all the way in, so thick that he stretched her to the very limits, bringing her pleasure and pain as he began pumping into her.
His breathing grew more rapid and he plunged in so deep that he was punching against her very core, his testicles slapping against her buttocks, his thick curly hair tickling her with each thrust. Her whole body rocked with the force of his thrusts, and she felt that ball of heat in her pelvis again, bunching up and then exploding and sending hot rippling waves of liquid lava through her whole body.
“Oh, oh, oh…” As she came, she felt her muscles rippling and squeezing him. Her back arched and she clamped her legs tight and the whole world went light and bright.
“Ohhh, baby…yes…yes…” And then he exploded, shuddering violently with the force of his orgasm, buried deep inside her.
Slowly, very slowly, he pulled out, slid the condom off, and then untied her, kissing her aching wrists.
“I will get you for that,” she groaned.
He pulled her into his embracing, wrapping her in his muscular warmth, and she relaxed into him as they lay facing each other side by side. “I expect you will,” he murmured into her ear, his hot breath tickling her. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter Four
The early morning chorus of birdsong pierced the air, waking Ty from his slumber. A woodpecker had taken up residence outside and was rat-a-tat-tatting on a lodgepole pine with military precision, and the sad coo of a male mourning dove drifted through the air. Ooh OOH ooh ooh ooh, the lonesome dove trilled, seeking a mate.
Ty sat bolt upright, disoriented for a minute, before he remembered. He’d made love to Abigail Wintergreen yesterday afternoon – well, okay, he’d fucked her senseless, until they were both raw and sore and aching, and then he’d cooked her spaghetti with tomato sauce that he’d found in the cupboard, and they’d fallen asleep in each others arms while the wind howled outside and the relentless rain hammered on the roof.
He’d always wondered what it would be like to taste that delicious, infuriating girl, to bury himself inside her softness, to hear her scream his name while her nails sank into his back…and now he knew. It was mind-blowingly incredible, and he couldn’t wait to do it again.
But her side of the bed was empty.
He stretched and groaned, flinging back the covers as he climbed out of bed, naked. His mouth felt furry; there were usually half a dozen guest toothbrushes in the cabin, so as soon as Abigail was done in the bathroom, he’d be sure to brush his teeth before he kissed that delicious rosebud mouth of hers again.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stifled a huge yawn, trying to decide where he’d take her out for breakfast. He was going to show her exactly how wrong she’d been when she claimed that he wouldn’t be seen with her in public.
He hadn’t been back to Crooked Creek in eight years, but as far as he could tell when he drove by, the Daily Grind coffee shop was still where everybody in town gathered for breakfast. So if he took her there, everybody would see that they were together.
Then again, the Royal Swan Hotel was the fanciest place in town, with caviar omelettes and Mimosas served up for brunch.
He could always ask her which place she’d rather –
Hell.
The bathroom door gaped wide open, and he suddenly realized why there was a dull sense of emptiness in his chest.
She was gone. She’d gathered up her clothing and left, without waking him, without saying a word.
Stunned, Ty grabbed his underwear off the chair back where they were hanging and slid into them. He grabbed his jeans from the clothesline in front of the potbellied stove, yanked them on, and stepped out on to the front porch, barefoot.
Had she walked back to her property in the middle of the night?
No, far off in the distance, he could see a cloud of dust disappearing into the horizon. Someone had come and picked her up while he slept. He swallowed hard, and felt an unfamiliar throb in his chest.
What the hell? Why had she run off like that?
Normally, he practically had to pry a woman off him in the morning – even though he always made it extremely plain that he was just looking for a quick roll in the hay.
But now that he’d finally spent the night with a woman that he wanted to see again, she’d evaporated like the morning dew, leaving him with an odd, dull ache of emptiness inside.
With a deep sigh, he walked back inside the cabin, dressed quickly, and grabbed his Nextel radio so he could call for one of the ranch hands to come pick him up, and send a tow truck out for his pickup.
Time to go back to the house and confront his older brother Clayton, lay down the law about Clayton’s plans for the ranch. He hoped they could come to a peaceful resolution, but he sensed that Clayton was spoiling for a fight.
His stomach churned at the thought of the inevitable showdown. Clayton had already invited developers from Graniti Industries out to the ranch, without consulting Ty, and they were driving all over the property, pissing off the ranch manager and the ranch hands, getting in the way, taking measurements, making nuisances of themselves.
Would he be able to talk sense to Clayton? It had years since they’d seen each other. They’d both taken off as soon as they graduated high school, leaving behind Crooked Creek and the Jackson ranch, and never looking back.
Ty had eventually drifted back into ranching; it was in his blood. Clayton, who was more bitter than Ty and had much more reason to loathe his heritage, had turned his back on ranching completely, and gone into construction management
. Now he was swooping down on Crooked Creek like a vulture on a corpse, ready to destroy the town while pretending to save it. He’d partnered up with Graniti Industries, known for their massive property developments, and set his sights on the Jackson Ranch.
It was no wonder Abigail was so adamantly against it; for once, he agreed with her on something.
And why had Abigail’s name popped into his head again, anyway? Damn the woman.
* * *
Cheyenne Larkin. Betsy Finkelstein. Carlotta Mancini.
They were Abigail’s best friends in the world, and they had her surrounded. Cheyenne sat to her left, Betsy and Carlotta sat across from her, at the Daily Grind coffeeshop. They were staring at her like she was a bug under a microscope.
Abigail squirmed uncomfortably, taking another healthy swig of sweet, light coffee.
“Wow,” she said, looking up at her friends. “Suddenly, I know how all that wildlife feels when I’m staring at it through a telephoto lens. It’s actually pretty creepy.”
“Spill it, and get to the good stuff immediately,” Cheyenne directed her.
“Yeah. We want details. And we’ll know if you’re lying.” Carlotta was plowing through a giant stack of pancakes, shoveling forkfuls into her mouth without taking her eyes off Abigail. She and her husband Lorenzo, a sheriff’s deputy, were expecting twins. She was five months pregnant, the globe of her stomach already swelling gloriously, her smooth olive skin glowing. Her dark black curls were shinier and more lustrous than ever, and she ate enough to feed a small football team every day.
“Like how big is his cock?” Cheyenne added. “I’d heard stories, but I always wondered.”
Betsy and Abigail both gasped. “Cheyenne! Keep it down!” Abigail hissed. “It’s possible that SOMEONE in the entire frickin’ town might not know what happened last night.”
Cheyenne glanced around the crowded restaurant. “Naaahhh. This is Crooked Creek. Population, nosy. By the end of the week everybody in town will know.”
“But you should watch your language in front of the children. Use euphemisms,” Betsy said virtuously, shielding Carlotta’s stomach with her hands.
“Betsy, they don’t actually have ears yet.” Carlotta swallowed a gigantic spoonful of cheesy scrambled eggs.
“So, how big is your husband’s cock?” Cheyenne asked Carlotta, with a wicked grin at Betsy, who glared at her and then leaned down to shout at Carlotta’s swollen stomach “Don’t listen! Cover your little earbuds!”
“Seven thick, uncut inches. Why I married him,” Carlotta said around a mouthful of pancake, unperturbed. “Also, because he came with his own handcuffs.”
“Oooh. Does he have a brother?” Cheyenne’s blue eyes sparkled with hope.
“Yep. Francesco. You slept with him.” That was also true of a good percentage of Crooked Creek’s single male population under the age of 35. Cheyenne had a healthy libido and no sense of shame whatsoever.
“Oh, yeah. Last year. I think. He was pretty good, actually.” Cheyenne looked thoughtful, as if she were considering a repeat performance.
Carlotta held up her empty fork and waved it in the air. “Hell-oooo. We’re interrogating Abigail. Spotlight on Abigail. Let the storytelling begin.”
They all swiveled back to focus on Abigail again. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment.
“For the sake of argument, what makes you think that anyone else knows that Ty and I…”
“Fucked like bunnies?” Cheyenne finished helpfully. “Okay. Everyone in the universe knows that Ty is back in town for Boone’s funeral. Yesterday, when Molly made it back to the stable alone, and the storm hit, I figured you were stranded somewhere and I needed to come get you, so I called a bunch of people to find out where you might have gone. Dylan fessed up, because I threatened to kick his ass.”
Dylan, Betsy’s cousin from Montana, was the new staff photographer at the Crooked Creek Telegraph, one of the oldest newspapers in the country, in operation since the town was founded in the 1880s. It was owned by Betsy’s father.
“Tattletale,” Abigail grumbled.
She and Dylan were photo buddies, frequently going on nature hikes together to capture the stunning Colorado landscape.
“Pussy,” Carlotta said scornfully.
Betsy shuddered, imagining the years of therapy Carlotta’s twins were going to need thanks to their mother’s potty mouth.
“Anyhoo, when he told me that you were on the Jackson ranch, I was worried because of the storm, so I called the ranch house and asked Drew if he’d seen you, and he said no, but he told me that Ty had left to look for a trespasser on the far east side of the property. Which is where you had headed. Then around midnight, when I called Drew to see if you’d made it back to the main house, he said no, and he told me you guys were probably out at the Settler’s cabin.” Pause. “Fucking like bunnies.”
“He did not say that!” Abigail gasped, mortified. Drew Monroe had been the ranch manager on the Jackson property for thirty years.
“Something very much like that. Come on, he’s a rancher. They spend all year breeding animals. They’re very earthy.”
Abigail buried her face in her hands. Great. Cheyenne was right; everyone in town would know.
“We should talk about your sex life, Cheyenne. I’m sure it’s much more interesting than mine,” Abigail pleaded.
Cheyenne’s current conquest was Franklin Vandermere the Third, a wildlife biologist who was spending the summer in a rented cabin in Crooked Creek, writing about pronghorn antelopes for his dissertation.
“Nahhh. We’ve heard Franklin sex stories for a month straight. I feel like I know his private parts as well as my husbands’,” Carlotta said. “Don’t tell my husband I said that. You, on the other hand, hardly ever get any nookie, and then things end because it just doesn’t feel right, or whatever. Spill it.”
“Okay, fine. Not that it matters. He owns a ranch in Wisconsin, and he’s going back there in a few days. He only came to town for his father’s funeral and to talk his brother out of plowing over the Jackson ranch – Betsy, put that notebook away! I have got a fork, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Like a fast-motion cartoon character, Betsy had whipped her reporter’s steno pad out of her purse, and held pen poised over paper.
“Pshaw. Nothing scares me; I have four older brothers.” She shot Cheyenne a look. “Two of whom you’ve slept with.”
Cheyenne shrugged. “Eh. They were kinda uptight. I think it runs in the family.”
“We hold very public positions in this town; we have our reputation to think of,” Betsy said primly, then turned back to Abigail. “So, the potential development is not going through?”
It had been the talk of Crooked Creek for months now.
Everyone knew that Boone Jackson’s father had created some kind of mysterious trust governing what would happen to the ranch once Boone died; nobody was sure exactly what the terms of the trust were. The Jackson property sprawled over 20,000 acres; whatever happened to the ranch would affect the tiny town of Crooked Creek forever.
Boone’s health had been in decline for some time, due to his heavy drinking; when he was admitted to the hospital with end stage cirrhosis of the liver, and given weeks to live, his son Clayton hadn’t wasted any time.
Clayton hadn’t bothered to visit his father in the hospital, but he’d invited property developers out to the ranch even before Boone took his final breath. In town, they’d bragged about the casino and the condominiums and the new thousand-home subdivision they were going to build, along with the spa directly on top of the hot springs on the Jackson property.
Crooked Creek, which the town was named after, was a tributary of the Colorado River, feeding directly into it, and it ran right through the Jackson property, which bordered the river, so the land had enormous value.
Currently, the town had a population of 351. Clayton’s plans would change the character of the town forever; once he was done, he might as well have wiped
the town off the map.
For now, the developers had been stalled. Nobody could proceed until Boone died and the land passed into his son’s hands.
But now that Boone was gone, what would happen to Crooked Creek? Nobody in town knew.
Abigail sighed. “I don’t have anything official, Betsy. Ty told me that he was going to make sure that his brother’s plans didn’t go through.”
“Well, that’s at least good enough for the Tattler. I’ll cite an anonymous source who is very close to the Jackson family.” Betsy flashed her a smirk. The Tattler was the Telegraph’s gossip column.
“So, getting back to the interesting stuff.” Cheyenne pinned Abigail with a look.
“Fine, fine! Jeez, if I’d known that everyone would find out…” Abigail paused to think about it. “Actually, I still would have done it. He was incredible. Multi-orgasmically, earth-shatteringly incredible.” Now all of her friend’s eyes were boring into her, and they were riveted. Even Betsy.
At the booth behind them, the Cottonwood Lane Ladies Wednesday Night Bingo Group, who had been chatting animatedly, fell into a hush and swiveled their heads to listen.
And Abigail told the tale of her one and only night with Ty Jackson to a rapt and enthralled audience.
Chapter Five
It had been three days since the best sex of her life, and Abigail wasn’t finding it as easy to get over Ty as she’d hoped. Why should that be a surprise? She’d fantasized about him all through high school. She’d finally had the chance to live out those x-rated fantasies…and she felt like one night wasn’t enough.
And, to make the situation even more frustrating, she’d gotten a dozen calls from a Wisconsin number, which she suspected was Ty’s cell phone number.
There was no point in answering. Ty lived in Wisconsin. What kind of relationship could they have? A relationship that was over before it began. And no matter what Ty said about how he’d be proud to be seen with her, Abigail knew as well as anyone that pillow talk was meaningless. Guys would say anything to get a woman into bed. She remembered exactly what type of woman Ty dated in high school; slim, stunning, flashy, delicate…she was none of those things. She was chubby, cheerful, best-friend Abigail.
Curvy Girls: Claimed By The Cowboy (The BBW and the Billionaire Rancher) Page 3
