Bucking the Rules (8 page)

A freight train might have been a softer blow. She screamed, turning her mouth into the pillow to muffle the sound, even though nobody lived near her. Some habits were hard to break.

He kissed his way back up, nuzzling into her neck. “Don't go anywhere.”

And then he was gone. She sat up quickly. Where the hell was he?

But in the dark she could barely make out his form heading for the pile of clothes he'd left by the door. He picked up his jeans and rummaged through the pockets until he came up with a wallet.

Condom. Right. She smiled and waited until he was properly suited up before patting the top of the nightstand. “Just for future reference, I keep a stash in here.”

“Do you now?” The bed dipped as he joined her once more.

“Modern woman, and all that.” She looped her arms around his neck. “All I need is a kid clinging to my leg while I'm trying to sling drinks downstairs.”

He froze for a second, and she wondered if he'd misunderstood her. His face, what she could see of it in the dim light, gave away nothing. She'd meant it as a joke, but did he think she was serious? Time to smooth that over. “I mean, kids are cute and all, but they sort of don't mesh with my lifestyle.”

He relaxed a little, one muscle at a time, and then he kissed her once more. Crisis averted. The tip of his penis nudged against her clit, and the little extra post-orgasmic zing made her squeal against his mouth.

Embarrassing.

But he didn't seem to mind, or maybe he didn't even notice. He was too intent on kissing her blind. And God, it'd be a fair tradeoff to go blind if she could have a kiss like this every night. He was methodically persistent, not leaving any centimeter of her lips untouched, unkissed. One hand found hers and linked their fingers together, raising their arms over her head. The intimate link that had nothing to do with sex was momentarily startling. His warm, roughened palm over her smaller hand felt so . . . trusting. Safe. So natural.

Back to physically gratifying sex before she started getting stupid ideas.

Her hips rose and she moved a little until she positioned him right where she wanted him. But he had to be the one to push in.

“Come on, cowboy. Let's giddy up.” She grinned at the stupid double entendre. But Trace didn't catch the joke. Or at least, if he did, he wasn't amused by it.

“Say my name.”

“What?”

He pushed in, just a little, before pulling out again. “Just say my name.”

She had nothing against a little bedroom talk, but that was a first. “Trace?”

“No. Say it like you want me. Use it.”

Ah. Now she was catching on. She used her free hand to stroke down his cheek, the beard stubble catching on her own calluses. “Trace. I want you, Trace.”

With fierce pleasure, he drove into her, their hips bumping together. She arched back, finding a more comfortable angle while he pulled out and did it again, repeating the movement until she nodded and moaned. God, was she really going to come again? After already having one turn on the Ferris wheel? She never came from sex alone. What the hell?

Oh, who was she to look a gift orgasm in the mouth?

Trace's rhythm built her up until she was ready to cry for him to end it before she combusted. Then he reached down with his free hand and found her clit once more with precision and gave her that final boost into her second orgasm of the evening.

Trace followed quickly, jerking above her until he let out a hoarse cry and then collapsed over her before shifting quickly to the side to keep her from bearing all his weight.

“Yee haw,” she whispered.

“You have this obsession with cowboys, don't you?” His words were slurred, as if he were drunk on sexual excitement.

“When in Rome . . . or South Dakota. I forget how the saying goes.”

Trace stood and headed to her small bathroom. She waited to see what his next move would be. Damn if she would ask him to stay all night. Not her style, even if she wanted to. Would he just come back to bed? Or pick up his things and be on his way.

She got her answer quickly after that, when he shuffled back into the room and to the bed. After lifting the sheets, he crawled in and pulled her against him.

“I don't do the cuddle thing,” she warned.

“Then don't cuddle. Just be a prop.” His words were fading, like he was almost asleep.

She thought about arguing. Cuddling was too touchy-feely for her taste. It fostered ideas that they didn't have any business thinking about. But the warmth his body gave off lulled her, calmed her still-fizzing nerves, made her want to stretch and curl into him like a kitten with a basket of dryer-fresh laundry.

“I can be a prop,” she said quietly. “Just this once.”

“Just this once,” he agreed, though she couldn't tell if he was being serious or not.

T
race was basking. The completely foreign concept had him smiling. He'd never basked after sex in his life. He'd gotten in, gotten them both off, and gotten out. And he wasn't ashamed of it, either. No woman who was willing to roll around in a horse trailer or in the back of his truck cab should be expecting much else.

But this? He sighed a little as Jo's small hand brushed up and down his back. This was something he could get used to very easily. The comfort of lying still after a good ride. The feel of his woman's soft skin against him. Her hands roaming his body, as if memorizing the lines and hollows. And maybe, after a little recovery time, another turn around the sheets . . .

“Oh, my God!”

His head snapped up at her exclamation. What, was she a mind reader now? He didn't think it was that bad an idea....

“What happened to you?” Jo crawled away from him, and the movement made him face plant in the mattress. She maneuvered and rolled. Trace bit back a groan of pain, but then she was straddling his thighs. It would have been a sexy position, if he'd been facing up. But with him positioned on his stomach, it wasn't doing much for him.

“I told you. I fell off a horse.”

Her fingers traced over one of the more tender areas, and he imagined she was following the lines of a large bruise with her fingertips. “You didn't say the horse nearly killed you.”

“Because he didn't. Horses throw riders every day. It's a hazard of the job. I fixed it.”

“By shooting the horse?”

He laughed, then realized she wasn't kidding. “Hell, no. I got back up there and finished my job.”

“You got back on the same animal that did this to you?” Her voice conveyed something . . . either awe or shock. He couldn't see her face to tell which.

“Well, yeah. Animal goes too long after bucking someone off and they start thinking they're running the show. If you get right back on 'em, show 'em who's boss, they learn bucking isn't going to answer any of their problems. That you won't let it keep happening, and that that's not the way to behave.”

“I'll just stick to driving a car and walking.”

“Never ridden a horse?”

“Does a carousel count?”

“Uh, no.” He couldn't believe it. He'd never met someone who hadn't been on a horse at least once. Even a simple pony ride at a local fair. “Maybe I could take you sometime.”

“That's a big pass. I don't do the horse thing.” Her hands started to massage. “Now, the cowboy thing? That's a hobby I could definitely dedicate myself to.”

He smiled into the pillow as her hands started working out some of the kinks in his lower back. Slow and sure, those fingers massaged deep into his muscles, getting to the root of the soreness. “God, woman, you've got good hands.”

“Years and years of opening bottles and carrying trays. They're small, but strong.”

He couldn't disagree. If she kept this up, he might be almost back to normal by morning. But soon enough her hands weren't massaging so much as caressing his back, fingertips trailing over him so lightly they brought chill bumps to his skin.

“Cold?”

“Opposite.” He ignored the pain in his back and did a quick roll, grabbing her before she could fall off the bed and depositing her on his thighs. “I'm a little hot, to be honest.”

She started the same finger-trailing thing over his chest, scratching lightly beneath his chest hair and massaging when she went over his biceps.

“Hot, huh?” She rolled her hips until her exposed center nudged against his erection. “I'll accept that.”

Jo flexed and rolled her hips until he felt her moisture spread over his hardening cock. But she focused her attention on the massage, rubbing his shoulders, arms, and chest. Every so often, she would discover another bruise and trace the perimeter with one soft finger, a frown marring her brow.

“Is it always so dangerous?”

“Riding?” He fought to keep his voice normal and not embarrass himself. God, what was wrong with him? Whenever he actually had the time for it, he loved foreplay. Why was he so goddamn eager to get back inside her? “Hardly ever.”

She didn't look convinced. “I still think I'll pass on that form of entertainment. I wasn't meant to ride a horse.”

“How about a cowboy?” He gripped her hips and slid her along his shaft. “Think you could take on riding one of those? I think there's a song that encourages such practices.”

“Sounds promising.” She sighed heavily. “If only I knew a willing cowboy.”

He reached out blindly and rummaged through the nightstand she'd pointed out earlier and luckily came up with a condom in short order. “I think you might have found one. Why don't I saddle up and we'll take a test ride?”

She grinned and snatched the foil packet out of his hands. “I'm capable of this kind of saddle, I assure you.” She was efficient and quick, not fumbling, but sure and easy with the task. Watching her fingers roll the rubber down his cock had him swelling bigger than he might have ever been before.

Jo wasted no time in holding herself up so she could slide down over him. As her body clamped around him, Trace gritted his teeth. Finesse would be hard won this time around, too.

She picked a rhythm quickly, one that kept him on his toes every step of the way. Just when he thought he had the pace down, she changed it. And each time, he knew she picked up on his frustration because that damn cocky grin would spread over her gorgeous lips and she'd laugh, low and throaty.

“You're enjoying this.”

“It's sex. What's not to enjoy?” She bent down and brushed a kiss to his jaw, changing the angle once more. “If you're not enjoying it, you're doing something wrong.”

“I'll have that one stitched on a pillow.” He tried to take control by thrusting up, but she evaded him and laughed hard and loud.

“Stitched on a pillow.” She looked down at him, her raven black hair spreading around her shoulders like a cape. “I'm going to remember that one. I like a man who's witty in bed. So much more fun.”

He wasn't sure he liked being compared to other men. But then again, he was coming out on top, so he shrugged it off and thrust once more into her wet heat. This time she stayed put, letting him, before taking charge another moment later.

“One of us is going to have to stay in the driver's seat.”

She bit her lip. “Eventually. But the whole back-and-forth is doing it for me.” She swiveled her hips instead of pumping up and down, making a circular motion over his pelvis. Trace's eyes wanted to roll back in his head at the feeling. God, she was something.

He loved a little bed play, but he was going to lose his fucking mind if she kept that up. And then he'd embarrass himself and shit knew he didn't need that. Proactivity time.

Reaching down, he found the bare, silken skin of her mons and massaged with his thumbs. The way her eyes widened, then drooped a little, he knew he'd hit a winner. Soon, she was rhythmically seeking his hands and their touch, which meant she was thrusting down on his cock at a speed he definitely wanted.

But she would never come like that. To add some fuel to the fire, one thumb slid down into her wetness and found her clit. He massaged in slow—achingly slow—circles. Jo's eyes closed and she leaned back on her hands, back arching like a dancer's to accommodate the position.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “That feels so . . . so good.”

“If it doesn't feel good, you're doing it wrong,” he said, tossing her words back at her.

She grinned in acknowledgment at the hit, but didn't open her eyes.

She was a goddess, he decided. No, not quite. A nymph. A city nymph who landed in the country with too much polish and nerves of steel to match. His own personal nymph.

And he wanted her to be his. Over and over again . . . Whoa. Too much, too soon. He slowed down, both mentally and physically. Time to slam on the brakes with that theory.

Jo raised herself back up. “Problem?”

“I can't see your face.” He motioned with his head and she came down over him, breasts pushing into his chest, face inches away from his. “I want to see your face when you come.”

“Here I am.” She kissed him hard, tongue tangling with his. And she moved against his hand, along his shaft, until he was mentally cursing again.

But this time, he didn't have to worry. Jo throbbed around him, clenching uncontrollably and he knew she was close, so close....

“I'm coming, cowboy,” she whispered.

“Name.” He needed to hear her say it again as she went over the edge.

“Trace,” she said easily, then again louder as she climaxed and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

He surged up one last time, holding onto her slender hips and driving into her until he collapsed back on the bed, spent. Content to hold a boneless Jo over his chest as long as she wanted.

 

“Morning.” Trace walked into the kitchen after dumping his boots by the front door and headed straight for Seth in his high chair. “Hey, little man. Were you good for your Aunt Peyton and Miss Emma?”

“Wild one, that Seth.” Emma set a platter of hash browns on the table. “Had to stop all the crazy parties he was trying to throw.”

“That's my boy.” He rubbed over Seth's still bald head and gave him a quick kiss on the top of his fuzz before sitting down next to him.

Peyton watched him for a minute. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, good. Great.” Trace scooped some hash browns onto his plate and grabbed the ketchup to squirt a little red river over them. As he grabbed his fork and picked up a bite, he caught his sister's look. “What?”

Peyton shrugged. “I just thought you would be back later. If you stayed somewhere overnight, then—”

“I made it most of the way.” He shoveled in a bite of food as an excuse to quit talking.

“Where'd you bunk down?”

Trace mumbled around his breakfast and ignored the look Emma shot him for his rude table manners. “Seth, did you learn to walk while I was gone?”

“He's running a five K next week. Where'd you stay?”

“Why does it matter? I'm sorry I didn't make it home last night.”

“I don't care about that. He's sleeping through the night, and it's no big deal. I'm just curious—”

“In town.” There. “I stayed in town. Okay? Is that a problem?”

Peyton eyed him for a minute, then shrugged like she hadn't just brought the Spanish Inquisition down on his head and went back to her own breakfast.

Women. Trace rolled his eyes and finished his own food. “I'm gonna run up and change Seth and myself before the day gets started.” He picked up his son, who wailed at leaving two stray Cheerios behind on his tray.

“Welcome to the world, son. Disappointments abound.”

Bea floated in, looking . . . different. “Hey, Bea.” “Hello, brother.” She reached around Seth and gave him a kiss, then a quick pat on the kid's back before walking into the kitchen.

Trace looked over his shoulder at Peyton. “Was there something different about her?”

Peyton nodded slowly. “She was wearing jeans.”

“Like, denim ones?”

“Yeah. And blue, too. Not that stupid pair of white jeans she wore last month and insisted they were practical.” Peyton's look of astonishment grew. “Oh, my God, you don't think she's got plans to go into the stables, do you? Because that's all I need, is her going in there and trying to distract the hands.”

“Like I would be caught dead in that pigpen.” Bea sniffed as she settled down with her half a grapefruit. Emma, it seems, had caved and was keeping the kitchen stocked with Bea Food. “It smells like animals.”

Peyton rolled her eyes.

“Besides, these are Dior. They are not for tromping in mud.”

“They're denim! If you can't go out to the barn in them, they're not real jeans!” Peyton yelled to the ceiling. “What's the point of jeans if you can't get them dirty with work?”

“If you have to ask, you're clearly not going to understand,” Bea shot at her. “They are for looking exquisitely casual.”

“An oxymoron if ever I heard one,” Peyton shot back.

A knock sounded at the door and then it opened. Morgan Browning, the ranch's vet, popped in. “Hey all.”

Emma waved him in. “Have you eaten yet, Morgan?”

Toeing his boots off, Morgan nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I have. My mama does a mean breakfast.”

“That's right, she does. You sit down and eat something anyway. Always too much food around, since that one doesn't eat anything.” She pointed a spatula at Bea, then huffed back to the kitchen.

“I told you months ago to stop making me a share of grease and you'd be fine!”

A clatter of pans was the only answer Bea got.

Morgan gave Trace a handshake. “I still can't get used to seeing you back here all the time.”

“Just like high school,” Trace said.

“Yeah. High school.” Morgan grinned foolishly, then gave Seth a tweak under the chin. “Except I don't think this guy would have quite fit in with our crew.”

“Little too young to go keggin' and silo climbing.”

Peyton waved from the table. “Morgan, if you're done playing Remember When with Trace, I have a few—”