Body Language: The Boot Knockers, Book 2

There are no words for desire this hot…but he’ll sure try to find them.

The Boot Knockers Ranch, Book 2

If there’s one thing that Damian Vince can do well, it’s read women. With his trademark wink and sexy drawl, he’s the most wanted cowboy on the Boot Knockers Ranch, a spa where sexually challenged women come to get charmed out of their uptight panties.

He’s also the ranch’s bad boy—he hates to admit he’s had his mug-shot taken more than once. But now he’s on the right path, ranching and fulfilling women’s desires.

Prim grade-school teacher Ruthie Johansson prays Damian will be able to fix her strict upbringing that’s left her leery of men and intercourse, though her body aches for both. Once she sets eyes on the muscular, auburn-haired Damian, she throbs only for him.

As they get skin to skin, her instinct touches something Damian’s been struggling to hide from his fellow Boot Knockers. A secret he’s spent a lifetime keeping buried beneath bar brawls and a bad attitude. But with Ruthie’s gentle coaxing, he just might give overcoming it another try—as long as they do their homework in bed.

Warning: Contains a bad boy with a vulnerable underside, a squeaky clean woman who wants to get dirty, and a secret shame only love and compassion can heal. Prepare to drool while he parses her sentences…one sexy verb at a time.

Body Language

Em Petrova

Dedication

For Ike, my own little backward reader.

Chapter One

Hair flopped into Ruthie’s eye, and it wasn’t hers. It belonged to the man hovering over her, leering as if she was a prized steak and he was a German Shepherd. She blew his hair away and twisted her head to the side.

“You want this, don’t you?” Andrew asked.

“Of course.” She didn’t sound very certain even to her ears. Was she trying to convince herself? Sleeping with Andrew was the next step in their relationship. For two months she’d been dating the high school history teacher and admiring his scholarly mind.

And she’d once liked his long brown hair, normally kept in a ponytail on his nape, but this…

She spit a few more strands out, her annoyance climbing.

Just mount me and get it over with.

As she thought this, guilt bubbled in her stomach. She’d been taught to only give herself to her husband on her wedding night. But no, she didn’t follow her parents’ religious bent. Besides, she wanted Andrew.

He leaned in and kissed her in that tender, tongue-swirling way she loved. Melting into the caress, she ran her hand down his spine, urging him against her aching breasts. She longed for him to twist the sensitive buds, but he continued to hover over her.

“Don’t be afraid to touch me,” she whispered, surging upward in hopes he took the cue.

His eyes darkened, and he braced himself on one arm. Anticipation built in her core as he traced a path up her ribs to her breast and covered it with a palm.

She blinked, and his hand was gone, braced on the mattress again.

That’s it? Two months of sexual tension and build-up for that?

Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. This was their first time together. It sometimes took a while for couples to find their rhythm.

Reaching between his legs, she found…

His half-erection. He wasn’t even hard enough to enter her.

Guess I’ll have to warm him up a bit.

She stroked him in a way a good girl of her upbringing shouldn’t. Andrew’s shoulders tensed but after a minute he began to get into it.

“Oh yeah, this will be good, Ruthie.” He pushed into her hand, stiff at last.

She barely whispered, “Condom,” and it was over.

Over as in Andrew’s face was beet red and her hand was soaked with his sticky ejaculation.

He collapsed on top of her, heavy weight pinning her to the bed she wanted nothing more than to flee from. His long hair covered her face entirely, and she peered through the seaweed-like strands and tried not to drown in a sea of despair.

With a fat, expensive-looking envelope in her hand, Ruthie raced into her rented two-story home and slammed the door. For a minute she couldn’t focus on the Americana accents of her living room. All she could see was Texas.

The Boot Knockers Ranch was an exclusive resort on two hundred rolling acres of farmland smack-dab in the middle of cowboy country. It boasted horseback riding, Jacuzzis, three private swimming pools and five-star food.

Women went there to get laid.

Ruthie cringed as the crass thought formed in her mind but she ripped into the envelope and pulled the contract free. There it was—her name, Ruthie Johansson.

I hereby agree to all the terms. Just get me into the arms of someone who won’t come too soon or want more of a relationship with my Bible-loving father.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with her parents’ religious leanings, except their beliefs still had a stranglehold on her at the age of twenty-six. Her childhood had been a series of failed friendships because all the Abigails, Terrys and Julias in the world were “bad influences”.

Ruthie’s adolescence had been worse, especially once boys began looking at her. No school dances or movie nights with boyfriends.

Her father’s strict no-boys rule had nearly resulted in a chastity belt when, after a youth group meeting, her father had walked in on her and Jeff Dean. Jeff had his big hand under her skirt and inside her panties. Her father had gone ballistic—all but running home for the shotgun hung above his bed.

Daddy had ripped Jeff off her. Then he’d blistered Jeff’s ears with a lecture about God and propriety that had ensured Jeff would never come within a mile of Ruthie again.

And Ruthie…well, she had been shamed and grounded until she was eighteen, at which time her father had found her a string of “appropriate” boys, including Jered, who had spent long evenings talking scripture with her father.

But in two short weeks she was going to land in the baking Texas heat and take charge of her sex life.

No, not just her sex life—
her life.

She dropped the contract onto her dark red, overstuffed chair and withdrew the colorful brochure from the packet. This was the same brochure she’d picked up at a sex shop two towns over and spent a week perusing.

Twenty rugged men ranged in age, each one as hot as the last. Tall and lean, muscled and broad. Some weren’t even wearing shirts, and their chests glistened in the Texas sun.

Ruthie ran her finger over the lineup. Who would she get as her guide? And would the cowboys find her attractive enough to seduce her?

With a short whoop of excitement, she collapsed to the chair and let her head fall back. The school year wrapped up in a week, and then she’d have a few days to purge her mind of third-graders and high school history teachers named Andrew who continued to text her asking for “more fun”.

She was about to embark on a new journey—with a Boot Knocker.

When Damian entered the meeting room, the laughter and Texas drawls made him smile. The cowboys were settled around the long wooden table, some cradling beers though it was nine in the morning. With their lifestyles, they often didn’t go to sleep until mid-morning, though they spent plenty of time in bed.

Damian leaned against the wall a few feet from the table, watching his comrades.

“If I find anyone within a country mile of my toy closet again, he’s going to find himself on a stretcher,” Booker said. Laughter rippled down the table.

They were always playing jokes on each other, and the latest prank on Booker had been to steal all the batteries out of his prized sex toys. The collection was huge, so it had been a massive undertaking—one that had gone off without a hitch. Booker was still nursing his grudge.

Hugh, head of the Boot Knockers and Master of Games, entered the room and stood at the end of the table. They all knew why this meeting was being called—they needed to replace two of their Boot Knockers. Hugh and Riggs had done it—fallen in L-O-V-E—with each other and with a sexy woman who had been their client.

As Hugh swept his gaze over the room, the cowboys quieted. Damian waited.

“I think you all know what this meeting’s about,” Hugh said. Riggs, who sat at the head of the table near Hugh, grinned. Hugh gave his lover the faintest of nods.

“First, a toast!” Jack raised his beer, and those with drinks followed. Jack leaped onto the long bench and faced Hugh.

A cheer went up.

“To Hugh and Riggs—and their lovely woman Sibyll! May you all live long, love hard and fuck often!”

Damian snorted and brought his hands together in applause.

Shaking his head, but with a grin stretched over his face, Hugh held up his hands. They silenced again. “Thanks for the well wishes. All three of us appreciate it.”

Damian looked at the corner where a knot of women stood. The female staff members moved aside, allowing Damian a direct view of Sibyll’s flushed and happy face. She wiggled her fingers in acknowledgement of the toast.

“Okay, some of you have been wondering what’s going to happen with me and Riggs out of the game. We book the ranch full every week, so every man is needed.”

“Every man Jack!” Jack interjected.

“I think he’s had too many beers.” Quay plucked the bottle from his hand, and Jack sank back to his seat with a crooked grin.

“Riggs and I aren’t leaving the ranch. In fact, we’ve already picked a spot for our personal bungalow to be built. Construction will begin as soon as possible. We’re going to build up the horse herd and make this ranch more lucrative than it already is.”

“Good—pad our pockets, boss,” Ty called from the end of the table near Damian.

“Oh, we will. You guys will be able to retire as millionaires, I have no doubt. Now whether or not you’ll be able to walk after all the action you’ve seen while here is another story.”

Guffaws sounded, and Damian added his chuckle. In the past two years he’d been a Boot Knocker, he’d been with a lot of women. Helping them through rough patches in their lives—and sex lives—was his favorite part of the job.

Hugh braced his palms on the table, leaning over. He met each pair of eyes before continuing. “Riggs and I will not be taking on more clients. But I will remain Master of Games. Someone has to be in charge of you assholes.”

More laughter sounded, as well as an “aww, man” or two.

“We need to vote in one more Boot Knocker to take Riggs’s place. I have one in mind, but we’ll still need to recruit another hardworking cowboy. Until we’ve found the second man, no rotating weeks off.”

A whoop of happiness sounded, and Hugh grinned at their enthusiasm.

“This man will be allowed to purchase stock as you all were. His duties will be the same, and he will be treated as an equal.”

“Who’s the lucky bastard?” someone called.

Hugh looked at Sibyll, and she crossed the room, entrancing all twenty of them with her cutoff shorts and tan leather boots that hugged her calves like a second skin. It was impossible for Damian to keep from appreciating her curves—and the way her lovers looked at her. Their devotion was touching. Everyone on the ranch had been rocked by it.

Sibyll opened the door, and Paul walked in.

Riggs shot to his feet, black hat askew from the jolt. “You know how I feel about this!”

“Archer,” Hugh said quietly, using Riggs’s last name as he often did.

Silence reigned as Riggs and Paul glared at each other. The pair had fought it out more times than Damian could count. He’d witnessed brawls in the barn, the fields and outside the grub house. He’d even seen Riggs pin Paul against Bungalow 3 once.

Damian shuddered. That fight had been one of the worst, and if he recalled, it was over who had moved a can of saddle oil. Damian could still hear the crunch of the broken bones. Both men had sported taped fingers for weeks.

“Hugh, you can’t be serious,” Riggs argued.

“You and Paul are oil and water, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a good candidate. He knows this ranch. He understands the commitment we all have to the land and the women who come here.”

“He’s a looker too,” Jack shot out.

Paul narrowed his eyes, face mottling red. Many of the Boot Knockers swung both ways, which helped when women wanted to explore by way of a threesome. In fact, that was how Sibyll had ended up with two men. But Paul reacted strongly to the idea of male relations.

Riggs shoved his hat down low over his eyes and sat again, head bowed. Hugh placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it once.

“We’re going to vote.” He gestured to the women to come forward. “Ladies first.”

Sibyll approached the table with a small stack of notecards. She set them in front of Hugh then picked up a pen and made a show of running her fingers up and down the shaft.

Laughter resounded throughout the room. Hugh gave her a smile, and she stepped aside for the other ladies to vote.

Hugh handed Riggs the stack of cards. “Take one and pass them down.”

Reluctantly Riggs did. Everyone knew what his vote was going to be, but it didn’t matter. The rest of them liked Paul, and he’d be a good addition to the ranch.

As Damian watched the stack making its way toward him, his hands got clammy. The rustle of paper irritated the hell out of him, but he slicked his face into a mask. The guys lifted pens lying in front of them and marked their votes. When the stack reached Damian, he handed it to the next guy without taking one.

Looking up, he met Hugh’s gaze. “I don’t need paper to cast my vote. Yes for Paul becoming a Boot Knocker.”

Paul grinned and nodded at Damian. Riggs issued a noisy sigh.

Once the Boot Knockers had voted, Sibyll collected the cards. She and Holly, the office girl who coordinated all their lives and those of the women they pleased, spread the cards on a nearby table to count.

After a minute Sibyll raised her head. Across the room she met Riggs’s stare. Before she gave the word, Damian knew it.

Riggs jumped up again. He rearranged his features as he turned to Paul and shook his hand. “Congratulations. A step up from ranch hand. We’ve knocked heads plenty, but now you’ll be knocking boots like the rest of the cowboys.”

“And
with
the rest of us,” Jack added.

The faint tightening of Paul’s lips was the only indication he might not be relishing the idea of leaping into bed with any of them. Then he glanced at Jack and looked away quickly, ducking his head. Damian didn’t know what to make of that, if he’d imagined it.

Damian blinked, and it was over.

Hugh nodded then turned to Paul. “Congratulations, Paul.” He stuck out his hand and Paul clasped it. “You’re a Boot Knocker. Now remember, keep your hands in your lap…”

“And your pecker in your pants,” the cowboys chorused the mantra Hugh recited every time they had a new crop of women visitors and were about to fight for them.

The cowboys stood to leave. Though Riggs had extended a branch of truce to Paul, he shot the newest Boot Knocker a look of dislike when he turned his back.

Damian slipped into the open air. Damn, he’d never get enough of the freedom on the ranch. Miles of open land to gallop on—much better than a six-by-eight-foot concrete cell.

Riggs’s glance reminded Damian that no one knew about his stint in jail for being young and dumb. But if they did? Would they treat him kindly on the surface and dislike him behind his back?

As he strode toward the auditorium, where he’d receive his next assignment, his shoulders relaxed. No, they didn’t know everything about him—and he’d keep it that way.