Stud for Hire (21 page)

God, she was tight. Slick.

Passion and need boiled at the base of his balls. He pulled out, clenching his ass to hold back. He didn't want this to end yet. Not ever.

As he seated himself again, she groaned and lifted her legs, locking them around his waist. Her hold tightened, squeezing him in a hellish grasp. He pulled out and thrust in again and again, each lunge more torturous than the last.

His pace increased, and with it his frenzy. He drove into her relentlessly, bringing them both closer to the peak. She came again, her body sucking at him in torturous quivers, coaxing him, luring him into the abyss.

Beads of sweat burst on his brow. His cock swelled. His balls tightened. A thick, dark snake curled through his gut, curled tighter and tighter, wrapping him in an unbearable need.

In the aftermath of her climax, her taut walls relaxed, though just a bit. His passage became easier as her body wept for him. He sucked in a breath and moved faster and faster yet, pummeling her in a blazing series of short, hard thrusts.

Amazingly, she rose again. But swiftly, her climax took her.

This time he could not resist. Could not hold back. Didn't want to.

It hit him like a wave, a tumult of erratic sensation, a welter of physical and emotional bliss. In that moment he knew ecstasy and heat and desire and love.

And God, he loved her.

Loved her with everything he had.

He released. Released it all to her, his Hanna. His love.

And as he recovered, panting and shaking and holding her close, he sent up a prayer of thanks that he had found her again. And she had found him.

Hanna hummed as she sketched out her design on the bare, whitewashed walls of Logan's restaurant. She was determined to make this her masterpiece. Determined to prove to him, and his family, they'd made the right choice in hiring her.

And of course, her creation was inspired. Not just by the painting that had initiated this whole process, but by the man it was for. The man who had made love to her so magnificently last night. And again this morning . . . twice, before she'd headed across the road to work.

Her body still pinged with pleasure.

She stood back and looked at what she'd sketched, with one eye closed. Yes. It was perfect. Fluid and wispy, the gentle touch of dawn. There would be lots of purple in it—because Diane loved purple—but there would be reds and golds as well. A desert sunrise, fading from dawn to night along the long stretch of the restaurant wall. She'd decided she'd do morning next to the wall leading to the garden and on the other side of the curve, in the bar, it would be night with glimmering gold stars flecking the ceiling sky.

They'd already discussed where the painting would hang, there by the entrance. The first thing customers would see. That wall would be jet black, a frame of sorts.

Excitement bubbled within her. She couldn't wait to finish—to see the final product. But at the same time, she didn't want to finish. Because finishing meant leaving. Going home to Snake Gully.

She missed her parents—though she'd only been gone a day. But she didn't miss Snake Gully. And she didn't miss Zack.

That last altercation with him still haunted her.

She had to remind herself she was gloriously free of his influence and, thanks to Logan, always would be.

When she looked back, everything seemed so clear. How Zack had played her, controlled her, without her even realizing it. It annoyed her that she hadn't had a clue.

No doubt, that had been Zack's intention, to keep his true nature from her.

Ironically, she'd always thought herself savvy. Apparently she wasn't. She'd allowed him to delude her.

Well, never again. Never again would she be controlled like that.

A warmth suffused her as she thought of Logan, so gloriously dominant in the bedroom, but elsewhere he was nothing but gentle and respectful and—yes, it had to be said—loving.

Zack possessed none of those qualities and he never had. His idea of dominance was domination. Manipulative, cruel, self-serving.

How horrifying that, if Sidney hadn't forced her to attend Cody's party, she might well have married him.

And regretted it for all her days.

She shuddered at the thought. And not just the thought of marrying Zack. She shuddered at the thought of
not
meeting Logan.

He was her prince. Her hero.

And God help her, she loved him. Loved him with all her heart. Just the thought of him made her go all weepy inside and—

Damn.
She snorted a laugh. She really needed to pay attention to what she was doing. She used her sleeve to wipe away an error and started that section again.

The door swung open and heavy boots sounded in the entry way. The workmen were here, mostly preparing the exterior for the trademark
Wild West Tex Mex
stucco, but Hanna knew, without looking, it wasn't one of the workmen. She peered around the corner and her heart lifted. A smile tugged at her lips.

Logan.

He was gorgeous. He always was, but somehow he seemed even more delicious this morning. Probably because she'd tasted him earlier. Held him in her fist and worked him as he sighed and moaned and writhed beneath her.

He wore a checkered shirt tucked into tight jeans, which were, in turn, tucked into a pair of worn cowboy boots. His hair flopped over his brow and he had a smile on his face . . . and a white cardboard cup in each hand. There was a paper bag tucked under his arm.

His brow wrinkled when he didn't see her. “Hanna?”

“Here,” she called. Standing and wiping the charcoal from her fingers. She came around the corner. “What'cha got?”

He grinned. “Breakfast. Coffee and croissants.” He stopped. Stared at her. “You do like croissants, don't you?” They'd spent the better part of the night, when they weren't exploring each other's bodies, talking about likes and dislikes. For example, they both loved hot chili and the occasional beer. But he hated olives, which was fine with her, because she loved them. On the other hand, he was an avid Cowboys fan while she liked cowboys.

“Everybody likes croissants,” she assured him, taking the coffee he offered.

“Café Mocha. Two percent. No whip,” he recited.

She grinned. “You remembered.”

He set his coffee on the worktable and kissed her. “Of course I remembered. I'm not a fool.”

She chuckled and opened the bag, handing him one of the flaky pastries. She bit into hers, nibbling off the tip—in her estimation, the best part. It disintegrated in her mouth. “Mmm,” she moaned. “Perfect.”

“I thought you'd like them. There's a great pastry shop a couple miles down the road.” He patted his belly. “Makin' me fat.”

“Right.” She'd tested that belly last night. Not an ounce of fat to be found. She sipped her coffee. It was perfect too. Everything was perfect.

“Why are you smiling like that?” He pulled her close again and held her. Just held her.

“No reason.” She tipped her head. Challenged him to call her on the lie. He didn't. “Do you want to see what I've done?”

“Of course.”

But neither of them moved.

Their gazes tangled. She could have stared into those blue eyes forever.

But he had other ideas.

He took her coffee and croissant and set them on the table and tugged her back around the corner where she'd been working, backed her up against the wall and sealed her mouth with his. There was surprising urgency in his kiss, considering the fact that they'd both been sated—several times—this morning. But Hanna couldn't resist his insistence. She welcomed it. Hungered for it.

Croissants and coffee were wonderful and all, but this? This was ambrosia.

As their passion rose she raked her fingers through his hair, reveling in the silken mass. She tugged him closer, though there was no such thing. They were as close as they could get, melded together against the genesis of her mural. Her ode to him—

Her heart froze.

“Logan, back up!”

He ignored her so she pushed at his chest. He grumbled a protest.

“Logan! We're smearing it.”

He glanced over her shoulder at her painstaking work, and then back at her lips, as though torn. The consternation in his expression made her laugh, which made him kiss her again, and this time, she didn't stop him. It was only a morning's work. It could be redone. Or not.

His hand, large and warm, caressed her breast. Warmth rained through her. Her pulse ratcheted up as he scored a nipple.

“Here?” Her voice broke on the word.

His eyes glimmered. “I have to admit, the thought of christening the place has occurred to me.”

Horror, and an impish arousal, danced through her. “Logan. There are people everywhere.”

“They're working on the façade. Outside.”

“They could come in.” Manically she glanced around. “To use the restroom . . .”

He cupped her thigh and lifted her leg. “We have porta potties.”

“But—”

He silenced her with a kiss. A scorching, raging, ravenous joining.

Hanna couldn't help it. She melted into him. He was gorgeous. Delicious. Irresistible. And though she'd had him already today—twice—she wanted him again.

He chuckled as he tasted her surrender. “Oh, baby. Do you know what I want to do to you? Right here? Right now?”

“Tell me,” she panted, rapt with anticipation.

“I'll
show
you—”

“Yoo hoo!”

They both froze as an annoyingly familiar voice echoed through the empty structure.

“Shit,”
Logan spat, angling a glance around the corner.

“Which one is it?” Hanna whispered.

His face puckered up. “All of them.” With a sigh, he lowered her leg and straightened her shirt, then saw to adjusting his own . . . discomfort.

“Are you here?”

“Are they in here?”

“The foreman said they were in here.”

“Well, where are they? Say, I like what she's done here . . .”

“Very, I dunno, fluidy?”

“Is that a word?”

“It is now.”

Hanna stepped out into the main room to see Ben—or Brandon—waggling his hand in a rolling motion as the brothers studied the rough sketch she'd done on the back wall. “I was going for a river of purple,” she reminded them.

They all whipped around.

“Oh, there you are!” Rafe crowed, as though he'd discovered something.

“Here we are.” Logan's low voice rolled around her, tinged as it was with a hint of cynicism.

The brothers, unrepentant and utterly remorseless, grinned. “We thought we'd stop by to see . . . how things are going.”

“Things are going fine.”

Rafe was immune to Logan's growl. “We brought breakfast.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest. “We have breakfast.”

Hanna glanced from one to the other. They were brothers. This . . . bristling was probably normal. Probably.

“Well, we brought more,” Rafe said. With a wicked grin he dragged a couple spindly chairs around the worktable and tossed a big bag down. It landed with a thud.

“You brought rocks?” Hanna asked.

One of the twins frowned at her, but there was no heat in it. “Bagels,” he corrected.

“From Triny's,” the other twin added.

Logan grunted. “Triny's bagels are inedible.”

Rafe shrugged. “It was on the way.”

“Awesome. You eat those bagels. Hanna and I have croissants.”

The twin's eyes lit up, but Logan growled. “They're ours,” he snapped. “Go into town and get your own. In fact, just go into town.”

Rafe batted his lashes. “We didn't interrupt anything, did we?”

“Of course not—”

“Because you seem pretty grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy.”

“He seems pretty grumpy.”

“Damn near took my head off.”

“And here we went and brought him breakfast and all.”

“Bagels, even!”

“All polite-like and everything.”

“What would your mother say?”

“Shame, shame, shame.”

Hanna couldn't help it. Amusement rose within her and erupted in a bubble of laughter. It was ludicrous. It was adorable. It was frustrating as hell. She could feel Logan's irritation coming off him in waves. But they were his brothers. They'd probably be around a lot. They'd just better get used to it.

She shook her head and patted Logan on the shoulder. “You all have a nice chat,” she said. “I'm going to fix, um, I am going back to work. I have a mural to finish.” And even though a chorus of dissent swelled behind her, she went back to her corner and surveyed the smudged mess she and Logan had made of her sketch.

It should have annoyed her. It had taken an hour to do. But as she studied it, she saw in it something primal and profound, this swirl of chalk and smudges. An eddy, a whorl of passion there against the wall.

And she decided to keep it.

The first day in Red Oak formed the pattern for the days to come. And the first night replayed itself as well. Although all the Wilders did not descend each evening. Sometimes it was just the brothers. Occasionally Sam and Diane came by with Louisa in tow, but most nights, it was just them.

Just Logan and Hanna. Together. Alone.

The mural began to take form. Once the sketch was finished, she began to block in the colors. Each day, she returned to the little bungalow after work, covered in whatever hue she'd been exploring.

The work wouldn't match the painting, she found, but it was an echo of it, like a call down a canyon. Sometimes receding and sometimes swelling in a great crescendo of resonance. Her daytime world became those walls, but her nights belonged to Logan.

When the mural was close enough she could bear to share it, she invited Sidney, Porsche, Amy, and her parents to come down and check it out. While her mom wandered through the cavernous great room wondering aloud when they would be heading home, her father, sister, and friends oohed and ahhed over the beauty of her work.

“Baby girl,” Daddy said, pulling her into a warm hug. “I'm so proud of you.”

“It's a damn shame,” Amy added, “that I can't put this in the gallery.”

Porsche and Sidney were equally effusive.

“They loved it,” Logan said to her after they'd all left. He kissed her forehead.

“Of course they loved it,” Hanna said. “They have to love it. They're my family and friends.”

He gaped at her, his only response a snort.

“It's true.”

“You're crazy, you know.” He tugged her close.

“I am not.”

“You're amazingly talented. Haven't you noticed how all the workmen are coming in here for lunch now?”

“It's air-conditioned in here.”

He growled. “It's heaven in here. Look at that.” He swept his hand along the length of her work, the purple and plum fading to violet to blue as dawn broke on the wall. “Heaven.”

“You're biased.”

“I know. I am. But that doesn't change the fact that you have real talent.”

He shook a finger at her when she opened her mouth to respond. She intended to say “thank you,” but he didn't allow it.

“No sass, missy,” he insisted with
that
look in his eye. “It would be a shame if I had to give you a spanking for back talk.”

“Mmm.” She nodded and glanced away, back at the mural she'd created, a smile tugging at her lips. A shame, indeed.

***

She finished the mural the next morning, fighting back the swelling regret. Oh, it still needed work, touch-ups and shadings here and there, but the bulk of it was done. She would be leaving soon.

And she didn't want to go.

She'd come to love her evenings with Logan, even when his brothers were there, egging her into a game of poker or going into raptures over her apple pie. And she loved when Diane and Sam came over—though the conversations were far more sedate and, it had to be said, civilized. Far less belching. But as much as Hanna enjoyed his family, she treasured her time alone with Logan more. She knew they were on a short clock. When this project was finished there would be decisions to be made.

Oh, she knew what she wanted, what she needed, what she craved. There was no doubt in her mind.

More.

All of it.

Everything.

He'd snuck into her heart and nested there and she knew, even if he didn't feel the same for her, he'd always be there, with her, forever. She missed her home, but that ache had receded, been replaced by one far larger, more all-consuming.

He was always loving, but he'd never said the words.

Then again, neither had she.

She wiped off her hands and stood back, staring at her work with a critical eye, cataloguing all the tweaks and refinements she wanted to make. The mural was exquisite, sweeping from the dark shadows of the bar toward the bright colors on the roll-up wall, which she'd opened to let in the sun. She'd known she'd finish this leg today, but hadn't expected it to be so soon. Logan hadn't even returned with their coffee and croissants.

But even as she thought of him, his footfalls sounded on the flagstone entryway and her heart swelled.

“I finished,” she called as she spun around, her arms wide.

And then she froze.

Because it wasn't Logan.

It wasn't one of his brothers or a workman or even a curious passerby who'd come in to see what kind of business was opening soon.

It was Zack.

His features were tight, his nostrils pinched. His eyes zeroed in on her like a bullet through the barrel of a gun. “Here you are.” Though it was low and silky, something in his tone sent shivers down her spine.

She tried to contain her cringe. “What are you doing here, Zack?” she asked.

He didn't answer, merely strode inside like he owned the place and skated an insolent glance around the messy interior. “So this is it? This is where you ran to?”

“I didn't run.”

He ignored her, taking in the tarps and brushes and the accoutrements of her work. He kicked over a pot of paint. It seeped over the floor like a black tide.

Hanna took a step back. She didn't want to be here with him, alone like this. She never wanted to be with him, ever again. His menace reached out to her with sharp claws. Her gaze danced around the room, looking for something, a weapon, should she need one. The worktable was littered with her tools. Brushes, clean and dirty, rags, turpentine, a spackle knife. She edged closer.

Where had she left her cell phone?
Damn.
Over by the window. Too far away. Not that it mattered. If Logan wasn't close, calling him wouldn't help. Not if Zack decided to try something. Which seemed like a distinct possibility.

He put his hands on his hips and dropped his head, shaking it slowly. It was the demeanor of a defeated man. Hanna wasn't fooled. “I told you,” he said, again in a deceptively smooth voice. “You'll never be free of me. I'll never let you go.”

A cold shiver trickled down her spine as he fixed her with a dark look. Something maniacal flared in his eye. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to find you?”

“How-how did you find me, Zack?”

She didn't care. Really she didn't. She just needed to play for time until Logan got back. Until
someone
came.

He snorted a laugh. “I followed your pa. I figured he was comin' to see you. And I was right. And here you are. This . . . this shit . . . is what has been keeping you from me.”

Annoyance flared inside her. “It's not shit. It's art.”

“It's goddamn shit.” To her horror, he picked up the near-empty can of paint and flung it at the back wall, spattering her exquisite plum sunrise with ugly black spiders.

Oh, that annoyance? It turned into anger pretty damn quick as she stared at the damage to her creation. It boiled in her veins.

“You know what's wrong with you, Zack Pucey?” she snarled. She knew she shouldn't do this, but she couldn't stop herself. Her fury—over years of repression at his hands, at the way he'd manipulated her and cheated her father and nearly ruined her life the way he'd ruined her mural—overcame her common sense. “You're a
small
man.”

“What did you say?” His wrath crackled and spat through the room. She did not care.

“You're a petty tyrant. Nothing more than a bully. And you can go to hell for all I care.”

He lunged at her then, but she was ready for him. She feinted to the right then dove to the left, grabbing the spackle knife. Edging back, she held it before her.

He laughed, a harsh cackle. “Really?” He smirked. “That's gonna hold me off?”

It was shaped like flat spoon, but it had damn sharp points. Hanna had no doubt, if he rushed her, he'd feel it. Her confidence seemed to infuriate him.

“You know what I'm gonna do with you?” he sneered. When she didn't answer, he continued on. “I'm going to take you back to Snake Gully and marry you. And then, every day, I am going to thrash the piss and vinegar right out of you. When I'm through, you won't dare defy me.”

Her belly congealed into a hard ball. No. No. That was not going to happen. She'd kill him first. She'd—

“Beating women now?” The tightness in her chest released, everything released as Logan's low, lazy tones engulfed her. She wanted to collapse, collapse into his arms, but couldn't. Not yet. She held the knife higher, ignoring the fact that it shook. Logan came to her side and took it from her with a smile. Then he tipped her chin and kissed her, deliberately. For a long, long time. Until, in fact, Zack started to snarl.

“The fuck!” he howled. “Get your goddamn hands off my woman.”

“She's not your woman,” Logan said. Clear and calm. His voice echoed in the room.

“Are you sayin' she's yours?” Zack spat.

Hanna fully expected him to say,
“Yes damn it, she's mine,”
but he didn't. What he said was even more beautiful.

“She's her own woman, Pucey. And never forget it. She doesn't belong to you. She doesn't belong to anyone.”

Such a concept flabbergasted her erstwhile fiancé. His lips flapped. But not for long.

“Did you say Pucey?” Rafe stepped into the room with Ben and Brandon behind him.

“As in
Zack
Pucey?” Ben rolled up his sleeves.

Brandon merely practiced making fists.

Hanna had never realized before how tall they all were. Which was: much taller than Zack. At the sight of them, he seemed to shrink.

“Yeah. What of it?”

“
The
Zack Pucey?” Rafe stepped closer. He had never frightened Hanna before, not once, but now, his expression was chilling. “The Zack Pucey who—along with his big bad football buddies—jumped my brother and put him in the hospital?”

Oh. God.

Hanna glanced at Logan. A muscle worked in his cheek. A flush stained his neck. “He did that to you?” she whispered. He responded. A tight nod.

“Well, lookie here.” Ben picked up a fat dowel and swung it like a baseball bat. “It's payback time.”

Zack paled. His gaze tracked from one bristling brother to the next. He swallowed heavily and glanced shiftily around the room as he backed away.

When Brandon lunged with a wild whoop and a “Yee haw,” Zack might have soiled himself. That didn't stop him from sprinting for the side door, ducking through the open roll up and haring into the parking lot.

Brandon and Ben followed him, but only to watch as he hopped in his pickup and spun out of the lot.

“Well, that was fun,” Ben said, slapping the dowel into his hand.

“Could've been more fun,” Rafe muttered.

“He can dish it out, but he can't take it,” Brandon snorted. “Damn coward.”

Hanna swallowed. “You . . . wouldn't really have beaten him up, would you have?”

The brothers all stared at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Why, no, ma'am.” Rafe said after a too-long pause.

“Of course not, ma'am.”

“We're not savages, ma'am.”

Hanna snorted. Though she'd only known them for a few weeks, she knew them better than that. They were always lying when they called her
ma'am
. She turned to Logan, wrapped her arms around him. “I am so sorry.”

“For what?”

“That you had to go through that. Back then.”

“Aw, honey, I'd do it again. In a heartbeat.”

Her brow wrinkled. He'd ended up in the hospital. Why would anyone be willing to go through something that horrific
again
?

And then it hit her. Ah. Then she knew.

The “fight” he'd mentioned? The one that put him in the hospital? It had been with Zack and his buddies.

He'd interfered the night Zack had accosted her, and Zack had taken his revenge.

Logan had nearly died.

Why hadn't she seen it before? She'd been so clueless. So self-absorbed. So naïve.

“You saved me,” she said.

“Naw,” he responded. He riffled his fingers through her hair. “You saved me.” He kissed her then. Kissed her long and hard, and she loved it. Didn't want it to ever end.

Throats cleared. Several times.

She ignored them. So did Logan.

“Well, this is all romantic and shit,” Ben drawled. “But you do realize that asshat is coming back, right?”

Logan lifted his head with a frown. Hanna wanted to pull him back down. Wanted to sink into that bliss again.

“He's not coming back,” she insisted.

Brandon snorted.

“Guys like Pucey?” Rafe crossed his arms. “They always come back.”

“And keep coming back.” Logan nodded.

“I'm gonna call Grant.” Ben pulled out his phone and tapped in a number.

Hanna glanced at Logan with the question in her eyes.

“Grant's the sheriff, honey,” he said. His lips brushed her forehead.

“I think it's time for the two of you to skedaddle,” Rafe suggested. “We can handle this.

Logan's muscles bunched. “I'm not leaving.”

“I think it's best if you do.” He nodded meaningfully at Hanna. “Take her to the Double H. We'll talk to Grant and see what he suggests.”

It took some talking, but his brothers finally convinced Logan it was time to pull up stakes and head for high ground. Their argument was that they were far less emotional about the situation—which Hanna doubted. Their secondary argument was that she was in danger, if and when Zack came back. She didn't buy that either—she had her spackle knife after all—but that was the argument that convinced Logan.

He bundled her into his truck and, leaving his brothers to the task of coordinating with the law, he took her away.

She'd wanted to clean up the mess on her mural first, but they'd pointed out it was evidence of vandalism, which wasn't tolerated in these parts.