Second Chance Cowboy

by A. J. Pine

Fine. Yes. Maybe a little bit. But that was about as rational as what she was doing right now—raising both of his hands to cup her breasts.

  “Christ, Red.”

  She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  He let out a soft growl. “Jesus, Ava,” he ground out, his thumbs stroking her taut nipples. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She arched into his palms. “Getting you out of my system so I can freaking think straight. This is it,” she assured not him, really, but herself. “This one time. Then we can both move on.”

  She spun in his arms again so she could only see him in the mirror, then clasped her hands around his neck. He dipped his head so his lips brushed against her ear.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” He peppered her jawline with achingly soft kisses. “Because I’ll stop if it’s not.”

  His voice was rough. And sexy. And stopping—for her—was not a possibility.

  “It’s what I need,” she whispered. “What do you need, Jack? Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

  He pinched one of her tight peaks and grazed his teeth along her neck.

  Her breathing hitched.

  “This,” he whispered. “I need this.”

  They didn’t need each other. Only this, their bodies’ combined demand for release. Everything else would be clearer once whatever was brewing between them was allowed to boil over—and then simmer.

  She grabbed his hands and guided them to the hem of her tank, hesitated for a second, then lifted her arms so he could pull it over her head.

  Her jeans rested low on her hips, and he traced the line of the faint scar across her pelvis.

  “Owen went into distress during labor,” she said. “The cord was wrapped around his neck. I had to have a C-section.”

  His hand stopped moving, and she dropped her head and groaned. “I suppose childbirth talk kind of kills the mood, huh? Not the sexiest of subjects.”

  He hooked a finger under her chin, gently lifting it so his eyes could once again lock on hers. Then he shook his head. “You’re the sexiest woman I have ever seen,” he said. “And the strongest. There is nothing you could do to make me not want you like this. Don’t you get that?”

  What she got was that she wanted him like she wanted air. She wanted his hands on her, in her. His lips hot against hers and the taste of him lingering on her tongue long after they parted. She tried to give voice to all of this, but all that came out was a soft “Okay.”

  He spun them both so their hips were against the sink, their bodies perpendicular to the mirror so he could still watch as he bent to take one of her rosy nipples into his mouth.

  She dug her fingers into his hair and cried out as his teeth nipped.

  All the while she watched him watching them, and every synapse of every nerve fired off at the thrill of it.

  She unbuttoned his jeans and gripped his hard length through his briefs. He repaid her with another satisfying growl.

  “We should shower after all that hard work,” she said, breathless from his touch—from touching him.

  She snuck her thumb inside his waistband and swirled it over his wet tip.

  “Ava,” he groaned, then backed away from her to pull the shower curtain from the tub so he could turn on the water.

  Wordlessly they finished undressing each other. She stared at the man before her for several long seconds—the light dusting of hair on his chest, the ridged muscles of his abdomen, the sheer solidness of his form. He was beautiful in a way that made it hard to breathe.

  He pulled her over the lip of the tub into the warm spray, leaving the curtain open as he pressed himself to the tiled wall and pulled her back against him, their naked forms framed once again in the mirror.

  She didn’t protest.

  “God, you’re gorgeous,” he said in her ear before he lightly bit her lobe.

  She watched his hands cup her breasts, and then one traveled south, below her belly button, her scar, and finally between her legs.

  Her breath caught as he parted her, teasing her entrance before one finger slipped inside.

  “Jack,” she cried softly, and his cock ground against the flesh of her back.

  No sir. This was not the boy she’d fallen in love with. This man knew a woman’s body—knew hers in a way he couldn’t have when they were two inexperienced teens figuring this out together.

  “You’re like warm fucking silk,” he said, exiting her slowly until his slick finger reached her swollen center.

  She whimpered, grabbing his wrist. “More,” she squeaked. “Please.”

  He smiled wickedly at her in the mirror. Two fingers entered her this time, and she threw her head back against his chest, eyes squeezing shut so she could try to keep it the hell together.

  She writhed against his erection, and he swore.

  “Inside me,” she said, almost unable to form the words. “Please,” she begged.

  “Open your eyes, Ava.” He pumped his fingers inside her warmth, and her legs went completely boneless. Somehow, though, she didn’t fall.

  Jack wouldn’t let her.

  She opened her eyes, meeting his in the slowly fogging reflection of their need.

  “I’m not gonna lie,” he told her. “I want to make love to you. But not like this.”

  He exited her again, his fingers now tracing maddening circles around her clit.

  “Not…like…what?” she asked, gasping between each word.

  The steam won out, and she could no longer see him—see what he was doing to drive her out of her mind.

  He spun her and backed her toward the tiled wall of the tub, pressing her against it and then kissing her until she nearly forgot her own name.

  “Not when you’re driving me so crazy I’m not sure how long I’ll last inside you.” He kissed her again. “Not when I won’t be able to lay you out properly and give every inch of your skin, every freckle, the attention it deserves.” Another kiss. “And not when I can’t promise you anything beyond these next few weeks.”

  There it was again, that tightening in her throat that made her unable to respond with any words at all.

  “I can still stop,” he said, apparently reading something in her expression. “The last thing I want is for you to regret this.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t stop,” she managed to say. “Please don’t stop.” Because whatever came after this, she didn’t care. Not now. Not when she could have him for today. For this one moment, even if it was their last.

  And before he could ask her again if she was sure, she kissed him and grabbed his cock, stroking him from root to tip.

  “Ava,” he groaned against her lips.

  And then he was kissing her cheek, her jaw, down her neck and breasts until he lowered himself to his knees where he sprinkled kisses on the inside of each of her thighs.

  She sucked in a sharp breath anticipating what would come next, but nothing could prepare her for his hot breath against her folds, for the sensation of his tongue sliding along her opening and then circling her aching arousal in achingly precise strokes.

  She was nothing more than a blob of freaking Jell-O, her knees buckling as he slipped two fingers back inside while his tongue worked her expertly into complete and utter madness, all while he somehow kept her from melting into a puddle onto the bathtub floor.

  The orgasm came over her like a fifteen-foot wave, pulling her under until she was gasping his name—and for air.

  He held her close as she shuddered against him, as she slid down the wall and into the tub in front of him, standing no longer an option.

  Who the hell was she kidding? Get him out of her system? She’d just let him right in to her goddamn system.

  He was leaving. She was taking control of her life and career.

  This. Was not. The plan.

  He brushed her wet hair from her face and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “That’s what I needed.”

  She forced herself back into the moment. “But what about…?” She
stared at his rock-hard length.

  “I’m fine,” he started to say, but she closed her hand around his base and squeezed. “Fuck. Red.” She stroked him slowly. “Jesus.”

  “Stand up,” she said. “Your turn.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  He would have been satisfied with simply bringing her to climax. He could have set her up in the kitchen with something to eat for lunch and then come back for a cold shower of his own, where he’d take care of his own release.

  Because shit—he needed it. He just wasn’t prepared for needing her.

  Seeming to have regained her sea legs, Ava stood and held her hand out for his. He was still kneeling, still savoring the taste of her and wondering how he’d gone his entire adult life without it.

  “Ava—” he said when they were both standing, but she shook her head and splayed a hand across his chest.

  “It’s only this once, remember?” she insisted, but even with the water beating down on them, he detected a hint of uncertainty. Or maybe it was him. “And despite what you might think of me,” she teased, “I’m not a selfish woman.”

  “I never said—” he started, but she kissed him, silencing him because he couldn’t say no to her lips on his. “Red,” he groaned as her teeth tugged on his bottom lip, but she wouldn’t respond, and he knew if he didn’t get the words out now, he never would. “Ava.” She stopped and tilted her head up, her emerald eyes meeting his. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I already did that once, and that’s not my intention here.”

  She nodded. “But you didn’t know,” she said. “And I hurt you, too.”

  His forehead fell to hers. She’d destroyed him—the messed-up kid he was then. But she’d been a messed-up kid, too, one who thought he wouldn’t want their son, and back then…who could say he wouldn’t have reacted exactly as she’d expected?

  “If we know what we’re getting into, then no one gets hurt,” she said, then kissed the line of his jaw. “Right now, though, you need to let someone take care of you.”

  And before he could argue, her kisses traveled south, down his collarbone, his abdomen, each of his hips, until her tongue, warm and willing, swirled around his tip.

  She teased him for what felt like hours—licking, tasting, stroking. Time seemed to stand still when she was near, or maybe it was that he wanted the minutes to stretch out before them. If this was his one-time-only with her, he wanted only to be infinite.

  But without warning, the teasing was over. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into her hair as she swallowed him down to the base of his cock. She gripped him tight, her hand following the trail of her lips as she came back up for air. Again and again she took him into her mouth, her hand working him until he thought he might lose his mind.

  The water still beat down on them, steam clouding the air, and it was as if they weren’t really there. As if this wasn’t exactly real. It was this realization that let him relax his shoulders, that gave her permission to take him to the edge, where he spilled over with silent release. He couldn’t fully let go, but he could trust her enough to let her take the wheel—to let the smallest piece of his decade-old walls crumble here—in this fantasy world they’d created, and then piece himself back together as soon as the steam cleared.

  She stood and buried her head beneath his chin, his chest heaving against her.

  “You gave up control for me,” she said softly. “I don’t suppose that was easy to do.”

  She stepped back to look at him, and as much as he knew he was a dick for doing it, he shuttered his expression.

  He couldn’t let her see that even after climax, he still needed. He needed her close, needed her hands on him to steady the erratic beat of his heart. Needed her kiss to reassure him that this was something more than her getting him out of her system.

  If she knew how far that was from how he saw things, she’d know how much control he’d truly lost, and nothing terrified him more than letting her see that.

  He had no right to need these things from her, not when he was moving to the other damned side of the country.

  Her smile quickly fell, and she shook her head. “You keep so much of yourself locked away,” she said, then kissed the spot on his neck where he could feel his pulse thrumming against her lips. “If you’re ever ready to let some of it go, I’m here for you.”

  She pressed her lips to his and then stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and exited the bathroom with her clothes in hand.

  He let his head thud against the tile while the water, cooling off now, pelted him in his chest.

  She was right, of course. Not that he’d say it aloud. Not that he could. He didn’t just keep his past at bay for himself. He did it for everyone around him. That’s why San Diego was easy, why New York would be even easier.

  But here? Even ten years after the fact, Ava knew him. He’d let his guard down for a matter of minutes, and she’d seen right through to his goddamn core.

  She deserved better than that. Better than him.

  When he emerged fully clothed into the kitchen, the place was a flurry of activity. Ava was carrying a tray of burgers out the back door to where he saw Luke firing up the grill. Walker stood next to the sink, slicing tomatoes on a cutting board.

  Jack cleared his throat, and Walker looked up.

  “What?” he said, already on the defensive.

  Jack shrugged. “Nothing. I guess I didn’t know you were so—domesticated.”

  He was used to seeing his youngest brother eating whatever he could find right from the fridge, not bothering to take the time to do anything more than open his mouth and insert food. As a teen he’d always been on the move, agitated. Jack understood. The anticipation of their father’s mood was almost worse than what happened when he was in a bad one. Almost.

  “I guess it’s just nice to see you—relaxed,” Jack added.

  Walker picked up a half-empty bottle of beer and raised his brows. “Meet my brand of medication,” he said before taking a sip and setting it back down. Jack normally would have worried about his brother drinking and wielding a knife, but he could tell Walker was sober. He did, however, second-guess himself as his brother pointed his knife at him. “I can take care of myself in the kitchen,” he said. “But you tell anyone I know how to julienne and shit, and I’ll lay you out cold.”

  Jack couldn’t hold back the laugh. “Do you—julienne and shit?”

  Walker returned to cutting, his back to him once again. “You’re a dick,” he said under his breath.

  “And apparently you’re not only Mr. HGTV but Gordon Ramsay as well,” Jack said. “Who’d have fucking guessed?”

  “I need cheese!” Ava said as she came back through the kitchen. She headed straight for the fridge, grabbing a block of cheddar Jack hadn’t even known they had and then opening and closing drawers until she found a knife fit for slicing it. “You still take yours medium rare?” she asked, elbowing Jack in the side but not waiting for his answer before she was out the door again.

  Walker turned to face him, crossing his arms as he shook his head.

  “What?” Now it was Jack’s turn to play defense.

  “I know I don’t know my elbow from my asshole sometimes, but I’m pretty damned sure you’re gonna ruin that pretty woman when you leave.”

  Jack crossed his own arms, a mirror to his suddenly perceptive brother. “What the hell do you mean?”

  Walker strode to the fridge and retrieved another beer, twisting off the top as he spoke. “I mean I’m not blind. And if you’d open up your damn eyes, you’d see it, too.” He swigged from the bottle, then wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “That girl carries a ten-year-old torch. And let’s not forget the offspring. Seems like a good kid. You gonna be the father that fucks that all up?”

  Jack’s hands balled into fists. He started forward, ready to unleash his frustration on his brother, but knew it would only leave him hollow. Instead he turned toward the front door and
walked out.

  Luke found him out by the stable, beating a bale of hay on the far outside wall with the bucket of balls he’d found still tucked away in the garage.

  “You still got a mean curveball,” he said over Jack’s shoulder.

  He threw a few sliders. Then a changeup. And then several fastballs until the bucket was empty and his elbow ached. He shook his arm out and then collected the balls, gearing up for round two.

  “I’ve stayed too long already,” Jack said, tossing the ball into his glove. He could still get his hand inside it, but the fit was too small. It was the glove his father had gotten him when he’d started the new season junior year.

  Jack Senior had had a rare, lucid afternoon. He’d found Jack in this very spot, fighting with his then too-small glove.

  “Jackson!” he’d called as he approached, and Jack had held his breath, bracing himself for the blow. But when it didn’t come, his father had simply nodded toward the glove and said, “C’mon. You won’t make it through the season with that.”

  And they’d driven to the next town over where they had a sporting goods store—Jack behind the wheel, of course, since Jack Senior was with it enough to hand the keys over.

  That was the closest his father had come to showing him affection in the years following his mother’s death, so he filed it away under memories he let surface. It wasn’t an apology or an end to the drinking. But it was something.

  “Or maybe you haven’t stayed long enough to let this place sink back into your bones.”

  Jack missed the hay bales and drove the ball right into the side of the stable, the wood splitting on impact.

  “Shit.” He shook his hand out of the glove and went to survey the damage. As soon as he touched the point of impact, the old wood cracked clear through so he could see one of the horse’s stalls.

  “Looks like you’ll have to hang around a bit longer to patch that up. And while you’re at it, we could call one of the Callahan brothers. I was thinking we could talk to them about adding on the tasting room to the structure where we’ll do all the fermenting and shit. I bet they’d fix up that wall pro bono if we gave them the contract for the tasting room.”