Page 37 of Cowboy in Colorado
I’m trembling again, this time with need. It’s been months since I’ve felt the touch of a man, and weeks since I’ve even taken the time to relieve sexual tension on my own, which only goes so far in the first place, and now I’m naked in a shower with a prime specimen of virility and masculine sexuality.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll move first.
He wants a piece of this, he’ll have to take it; I give nothing away for free, not to anyone.
Well…I did strip for him, but that wasn’t for him, that was for myself, proving a point. What point that is, I haven’t quite figured yet, but I’ll work out the particular mental gymnastics of justification later.
“God damn it,” he snarls. “I knew you were trouble from the moment I saw you.”
“Blame your sister. She’s the one who put me on that horse.”
“You should’ve just taken the hint when I told her to tell you I’m not interested.”
“I don’t take hints, and I don’t take no for an answer.” I smirk up at him, with a pointed glance at his straining manhood. “And it seems to me youareinterested.”
“Not what I meant and you know it.”
He tilts his head back to douse his hair under the stream of hot water, rolls his shoulders forward to bathe them in the spray, and then reaches behind his back, twists off the water, and steps out of the stall backward. His hand latches onto mine, hauling me after him, and I tumble at the unexpected action. Tripping out of the stall, my wet feet slip on the wood, and I topple forward. My face lands against his chest, and I’m sprawled in his arms, off-balance and at his mercy yet again. His hands wrap around my waist, haul me upright. Even though I’ve regained my balance, now, he doesn’t remove his hands.
And so it begins.
His touch is fire. A match licking against the wick of a stick of dynamite.
A whole room full of dynamite.
I lick my lips and suck in a breath at the sting of his hot rough hands on my skin, rest my palms on his chest, and then curl them into claws, raking them down his firm flesh and over the ridges of his abs. Lower, lower, and his belly sucks inward, in anticipation of my touch—which I withhold, my grazing palms missing his engorged sex and sliding across the bunched quads.
His snarl of frustration makes my skin break out in goose bumps, or maybe that’s the warm air of the fire from across the room mingling with the cooling water dripping down my skin and pooling on the floor at my feet.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs.
There’s no warning, no lean in, no telegraphing of his intentions—one moment he’s towering over me with his hands around my waist, just above my hips, and the next his palm is wrapped around the back of my neck and his other hand is clawed on my buttocks, and I’m bent backward into his arms, off-balance entirely and his lips crash against mine. Rough, forceful, masterful. Taking. Demanding. He slides his tongue against my teeth and inside my lips and slithers it against my tongue and his fingers tangle in my hair and scratch my scalp. He’s holding me upright with those hands, his fingers digging hard into the generous flesh of my ass, squishing the cheeks together under his grip. I gasp into his kiss, but he doesn’t relent, only sucks in my breath and gives me oxygen from his own lungs and kisses me harder, scouring my mouth with his lips and tongue until I’m utterly breathless.
This isn’t a kiss—it’s a ravaging.
Thoughts—all capacity for rational thought is blasted away by his assault, and when he finally releases me and stands me up on my feet, I stagger, dizzy and off-kilter and stunned.
“Warned you, girl,” he growls.
And then his hands latch onto my waist once more, but instead of merely gripping, he lifts me bodily off the floor and literally tosses me like a rag doll onto the bed. I land hard, but the mattress is thick and springy, and absorbs my impact with a creak. I barely have time to blink or breathe, and then Will is kneeling on the bed between my knees, bending over me. One hand reaches past me, under the bed, brings out a box of condoms. Ripping one off the string, he slides the box back underneath the bed.
“You’re the only woman I’ve ever had in this cabin,” he says, by way of explanation I neither asked for nor had even considered.
“Okay?”
He tears the condom open with his teeth, spits the wrapper aside and rolls the protection on in a smooth motion. Still kneeling above me, I think for a moment he’s going to just go for it without so much as a how-do-you-do of foreplay—not that I need it, I’m so wound up and turned on right now, but still.
I even open my mouth to say something about foreplay, but instead of driving into me as I expect, he dives down between my thighs. And even this, he doesn’t do as I expect—his tongue doesn’t drive against my sex, but instead, despite the forceful dominance with which he seems to do everything, his kiss to the tender flesh of my inner thigh is exquisitely gentle—eliciting a shocked gasp from me instead of whatever I was going to say. Kiss after kiss, all over my inner thighs and over the top of my sex, missing the sensitive center of it again and again, ratcheting my need higher and higher with each narrow miss. My fingers claw into his hair and my thighs fling apart—I lift my hips and tilt my sex to his mouth, demanding without words what I need from him.
“Quit fucking around, dammit,” I snap.
He laughs, then, a wry, amused, aroused rasp. “If you insist.”
His tongue lashes against my clitoris in a sudden and frenzied assault, and my resulting shriek is loud, unabashed, and breathless. I writhe against his mouth, and he moves his head side to side, up and down, tongue stiffening to circle me, and then softening to lap against the seam of my sex. One hand scrapes against my hipbone and soars over my stomach and drifts up to my breast, and for the first time, he cups one globe. I gasp at his touch, which is reverential and gentle, again unexpectedly gentle for all that he warned me. His tongue continues to drive me to spasmodic, back-arching screams, and his other hand splays under my buttocks, half supporting me and half caressing me.
His thumb brushes my erect nipple and his hand encircles my breast, and he kneads the flesh, massaging and exploring. Then he moves to the other breast, with the same awed reverence, and all the while his tongue and lips are mad against my sex, lashing my throbbing clitoris and lapping my dripping seam. I can’t even scream for the ache inside me, for the building, burgeoning explosion.
“Oh, fuck—WILL!”