The Rodeo Cowboy’s Baby

by Heidi Rice

  “I’ve always got time for a lady,” he said.

  “Even one that criticizes your skills in the sack?” she poked back, and immediately regretted the urge.

  His brows launched up his forehead and he dropped her arm.

  Jesus, Donnelly, what is wrong with you?

  It was as if she’d suddenly developed a death wish, to feck off cowboys for no apparent reason.

  But then he laughed, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes making that intense green even more delicious. And disconcerting.

  “You’re a pistol, Irish. I like that about you.” He held out his arm again, and she found herself taking it—stupidly flattered by the compliment. She hadn’t been a pistol in a very long time.

  He slotted her into his side, making her far too aware of the warmth of his body, the length of his legs and the tantalizing scent—of cologne and laundry detergent—that clung to him as he escorted her into the grounds.

  He pointed out the arena, newly built after a fire had decimated the original rodeo grounds the year before. He introduced her to a couple of the cowboys perched on the corral fence, who were watching their buddy walk his horse after a recent injury—all of whom were going to be competing tomorrow, as well as Flynn. And finally he took her to a series of pens at the back of the arena. A row of individual stalls housed the horses—made up with metal tubing that were open to the elements. He explained to her that he’d brought his mount in earlier that day from The Double T to get her settled and exercised so she wouldn’t be too disrupted before tomorrow’s event.

  She tried to take mental notes for her column throughout—but all she could seem to focus on was that deep, compelling voice, and the shift of his muscles against her elbow. At last he let go of her arm, to approach a beautiful piebald mare in the final pen. Its nose bounced up and down, its eyes focusing on him as it threw back its head and whinnied.

  Even Evie could hear the horse’s delight. Apparently she wasn’t the only female who found Flynn O’Connell irresistible.

  “Hello, Baby,” he said, stroking his hand down the horse’s nose, then scratching behind her ears. “Hope you’re ready for tomorrow, beautiful,” he murmured.

  The horse whinnied and snorted, her ecstasy clear as he continued to run his hands over her cheeks. Did horses even have cheeks?

  Evie stood back, vaguely uncomfortable—as if she were witnessing something intimate. The tug in her chest made no sense at first, but when he checked the animal’s water, broke up some hay from a bale to put in its feedbag, then produced a carrot from his back pocket and snapped it in two to feed to the horse, crooning to the animal the whole time in that low sexy voice that seemed to speak directly to Evie’s clitoris, she figured out what it was.

  Envy. For feck sake.

  Maybe she did need to get laid. Maybe Janice and Charlie were right. Exactly how sad did a woman have to be to feel that deep visceral tug of yearning simply from watching Flynn O’Connell’s strong, callused fingers caressing a horse?

  “That’s my girl,” he purred. “Sleep tight, Baby,” he said, giving the horse’s snout a kiss before turning back to Evie.

  He directed her out of the row of pens.

  “She’s a beautiful horse,” she said, as she fell into step beside him.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Sending a smile the horse’s way that only sent another shaft of jealousy through Evie.

  Oh pur-leese. It’s a horse!

  “She sure is.” He planted his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Anything else you want to see before we head back to The Double T?”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t you have something you needed to do? I don’t want to keep you from it.”

  His lips tipped up in that puzzled smile again. He twitched his elbow toward the stalls. “I just did it. I never miss the chance to wish Baby good night.”

  He had that mocking lilt to his voice, as if he were joking, but somehow she knew he wasn’t. His devotion to the horse felt strangely compelling. And it made her wonder about what he’d said, about being a mongrel. And about how proud he was at being fostered by the ex-rodeo champion.

  There was a story here, a story she was suddenly more curious about than she should be. It was so long since she’d felt that curiosity—the curiosity that had originally driven her to become a local newspaper reporter. Her column had always been all about her. But where and when had she lost the desire to find out about other people’s stories? It was so rare for her to feel this burning need to know more, she decided for once not to second-guess it—even though it was mixed up in other feelings that felt the opposite of professional.

  So she gave herself permission to probe.

  “You said your foster father got you into rodeo,” she began. “How old were you?”

  His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t look offended by the question, just intrigued. “You planning to put me in your article?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she said. “If I can get you to answer the question.”

  He laughed again, the low chuckle somehow impossibly gratifying as the shot of adrenaline shimmered down to her toes. Not only was it a long time since she’d felt curious about a guy, it was also a very long time since she’d had the urge to flirt with one. And it felt ridiculously liberating.

  Hello, Donnelly the Pistol. It’s grand to have you back.

  “Busted,” he murmured. “In answer to your question, I was ten when Mitch and Dolores took me in, along with my two older brothers, Gabe and Rafe, and my kid sister, Glory. I fell in love with ranching pretty soon after that.”

  “Ranching, not rodeo?” she asked, stifling the pang of compassion and the renewed burst of curiosity at the news he’d been fostered at such a young age—and with all three of his siblings.

  What on earth had happened to their parents? She wanted to know the answer to that a lot more than she wanted to discover how he had been introduced to rodeo, but it seemed too dangerous to probe there, even for Donnelly the Born-Again Pistol. Liking this man seemed even more perilous than lusting after him.

  “Yeah, ranching. I liked the steadiness and security of it. Ranching’s hard physical work, and unpredictable as hell, but it’s rewarding if you put in the hours. And animals are generally more predictable than people.”

  “So how did the rodeoing come about?” Evie asked, trying to stay on topic and not notice the gruff tone, or the way it rumbled through her torso.

  “I had way too much…” he frowned as if searching for the correct word “…energy as a kid. All four of us did. Mitch figured out the best way to work it off was to challenge us. And there isn’t anything more challenging than trying to ride a wild horse without pissing your pants when you’re a kid.”

  “He let you ride wild horses as a ten-year-old?” she said, startled by the strange clutching in her chest at the appalling thought.

  He laughed, opening the door to the truck. “No, I was twelve before I attempted that.”

  “Twelve?” How was that any better?

  “Hey, some kids start even younger than that. And Mitch had already given me a heap of practice on a mighty bucky, which is like a machine to learn the motion, plus I’d done some saddle-bronc riding on a steer, before he would let me ride my first bronc right out of the chute. And if you know how to fall right you can usually avoid breaking anything important.”

  “Usually?” she said, her heart still battering her chest wall. Unfortunately, the pulse in her clit was doing the same macarena. “How many bones have you broken?” she asked, still appalled but also unforgivably aroused too, at the thought of this beautiful, buff guy taming a wild horse.

  Clearly she wasn’t as immune to macho farm boys as she thought.

  She waited as he clicked open the locks on a dusty Chevy flatbed truck with The Double T Ranch logo etched on the door. He cradled her elbow to help her into the cab, the brief contact shimmering right down to her toes again—and sending an electrical zap to her already oversensitive clit en r
oute.

  “You really want a list?” he asked after walking round the cab to climb into the driver’s seat, the flirtatious glint in his eyes doing nothing to calm the pulsing between her thighs. “I wouldn’t want to make you swoon. Being a rodeo cowboy can get ugly.”

  “I’m tougher than I look,” she said, knowing full well they were not talking about broken bones anymore. “And it just so happens I live for dirty details.” The provocative quip popped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  But she didn’t regret it this time, when his eyes became hooded. And the sexual tension in the cab stretched so tight, her nipples stiffened under her blouse and bra.

  Almost as if he could sense her reaction, his gaze drifted down.

  Her lungs ceased to function. Then began to bellow in ragged pants.

  His gaze met hers, the grin so potent she had to squeeze her thighs together. “Are you flirting with me, Irish?” he asked.

  Yes.

  “Maybe,” she said, the husky murmur the opposite of coy.

  “And there I was thinking you didn’t rate farm boys,” he goaded, the smug teasing tone not dampening the heat in her knickers one little bit.

  “I think I may have underappreciated the difference between farm boys and cowboys,” she heard herself say.

  Why was she flirting with him? Why was she teasing him? Why wasn’t she freaking out now? The questions came and went unanswered, her brain consumed by the surge of pure unadulterated excitement.

  “Is that so?” he said, his gaze darkening with lust.

  His thumb touched the side of her face. The contact set off a thousand prickles of sensation as the callused pad slid down her cheek, rubbed across the pounding pulse in her collarbone and finally landed on the top side of her breast to trace the open neck of her blouse.

  And she had her answer.

  Because it feels so wonderful, to have a man look at me and touch me like this again. As if I’m whole and sexy and desired.

  The thought should have made her feel pathetic, but she was through thinking, when all she wanted to do was feel.

  His thumb continued to stroke the soft flesh, finding the edge of her bra. He was watching her response, the feral intensity in his gaze as exciting as the gentle rub—back and forth—across her cleavage. He popped open one button, then paused, as if waiting for her to object. He raised an eyebrow in question as his fingers landed on the next button down. Her ragged breathing speeded up as she gave a barely perceptible nod.

  The second and third buttons popped open, and he parted the silk blouse to give himself a full-frontal view of her breasts encased in transparent purple lace.

  “Jesus,” he hissed, not teasing anymore.

  Her breathing became sharp and jagged as she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for her expensive lingerie habit—and Flynn O’Connell’s take-charge approach to flirtation.

  Cradling the heavy weight in his palms, his devious thumbs circled the pebbled nipples currently trying to poke right through the sheer fabric.

  Her breath shuddered out on a groan as her back arched and she found herself thrusting into the caress, the desire to feel more unbearable.

  Please, just suck them already.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Oh. My. God. Did I just say that out loud?

  Her lids flew open, but before she had a chance to be horrified, he had popped open the front hook of the bra with deft fingers, released her yearning breasts from their confinement and found one turgid tip with his tongue.

  She lurched off the seat, the rough groan he made rumbling down to her core. He captured her ribs in wide palms and held her steady while he went to work, licking and sucking, nipping and tantalizing, driving her into a frenzy of want.

  At last, he trapped one aching tip between his tongue and the roof of his mouth and suckled hard.

  She gasped, and squirmed, the moisture dampening her panties becoming a flood.

  “You like that, huh?” he asked, his voice deep and husky with arousal, too.

  She nodded, because she was no longer capable of speech—so much for her pistol-packing wit and repartee.

  He curled his fingers around her waist and dragged her across the bench seat, until she lay flat on the worn leather and he could clamp his lips around the other aching tip.

  She sobbed and thrust her fingers into the short bristles on his scalp, holding him to her as the hot suction arrowed down to her core.

  If he’s this good at tit sucking, no wonder his pussy-eating skills are legendary.

  The delirious thought drifted through her head as the pulse of need at her core went berserk.

  Shite, I’m almost there already.

  The thought should have been mortifying, but she was already past the point of no return. Then the heel of his palm wedged between her thighs, the hard rub pressed the seam of her jeans against her aching vulva, trapping in the heat and making her squirm.

  He set up a steady rhythm, grinding the seam against her swollen clit.

  She humped his hand, the long moan echoing round the dark cab. Waves of sensation washed through her—feral, forceful, sublime—her clit pounding in time with her thundering heartbeat.

  She bowed back, thumping her head on the truck door, the ragged moan becoming a sob of pleasure as the conflagration ignited, rolling through her body on a hot wave of pleasure.

  She slumped, her breathing still ragged, as his face rose over her.

  He was smiling—that warm, teasing, tempting twist of his lips telling her what a spectacle she’d just made of herself.

  But she was too stunned, and struggling with the sensory overload, to care.

  “That was hot as hell,” he said, his voice low and deep and not nearly as smug as it should have been. “You want me to go for my pussy-eating merit badge next?” he asked.

  The breeze from the open window behind him brushed her exposed breasts, still damp from his mouth, and as his offer registered, the dizzying joy of afterglow chilled, to be replaced with discomfort. And awkwardness.

  “No… No thanks.” She jolted upright, dislodging his hands from around her waist. And scooted to the edge of the truck seat.

  “Can we go back to Charlie’s?” she said, scrambling to rehook her bra with shaking fingers.

  The swell of emotion tightening her throat was almost as mortifying as how quickly she’d come. She’d never ever come that quickly before in her life. Obviously she’d been well overdue.

  She kept her head down, struggling to rebutton her blouse. She heard his sigh as he moved back behind the wheel of the truck. She stole a look at him, and saw the frown on his face.

  And she suddenly realized how selfish and self-absorbed she must seem to him. He’d just got her off in less than a minute and she hadn’t even thanked him.

  “That was…” The words got stuck in her throat.

  Mortifying? Desperate? Incredible?

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she managed. “But thanks.”

  Entirely of their own accord her eyes tracked to his lap and she sucked in a breath. The thick ridge in his pants, clearly visible even in the half-light cast by the rodeo arena’s lights, was immense.

  She jerked her gaze back to his face, horrified by the shimmy of pleasure in her panties that she’d been the cause of that mammoth erection.

  Nasty, Donnelly.

  After all, she had no intention of letting him get past third base now, even if he was hard enough to drill nails.

  He sent her a strained smile. “You’re welcome, Irish.”

  She could hear the mockery as he turned the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled to life. But weirdly, it didn’t seem to have any edge to it.

  Which had to be down to the endorphins still racing through her system and making her feel far too good about what had just happened. Because, seriously, what guy would not be raging after getting a girl off and then getting an instant brush-off.

  He didn’t press the point thou
gh, as he backed the truck out of the parking slot, and drove out of the lot. In fact he didn’t say anything at all, simply switched the radio on.

  Either he was being ridiculously accommodating, or he was pissed off with her and trying not to show it. The old Marvin Gaye tune about sexual healing that filled the cab had Evie wincing at the unintentional irony.

  She ought to leave it alone. She didn’t owe him anything…

  Heat rose up her chest, making her aware of her nipples, which would probably have beard burn tomorrow morning.

  Well okay, she did owe him something. Orgasm-wise. What she meant was, she didn’t owe him an explanation. But as Marvin finished up and Kings of Leon’s “Sex on Fire” began to ooze out of the speakers, mocking them both, she went with impulse, for once, and leant forward to switch the radio back off.

  “Listen, Flynn, I’m sorry you didn’t…” Her throat closed again with mortification. Especially when he shifted in his seat, obviously attempting to ease the discomfort in his crotch, and slanted a glance her way.

  “What was that, Irish?” he said.

  “I’m sorry I…” Her throat stalled again.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, even though the problem had to be obvious.

  She’d just come and he hadn’t. But she had no desire to finish what she’d started. The whole thing was just so mental. She needed a chance to process what had happened. What they’d done. Or rather she’d done. To take stock and consider if she wanted to do it again. Or not.

  “Yes, I…” For feck sake, Evie, just spit it out, already. “I’m not usually such a monumental cock-tease. It’s just that it’s been a very long time since I…” Her tongue stalled again and swelled up inside her mouth…

  Or rather, it’s been like never since I’ve had a guy suck me to orgasm in a pickup truck in sixty seconds or less.

  Sex with Dan had always been sensitive and subtle and carefully choreographed. And frankly a bit dull. Even before they’d been trying to make babies, they’d never actually done it outside their bedroom.