Page 18 of Ride Me Cowboy (Coyote Creek Ranch #1)

Chapter Eleven

Beth

I KNEW I WAS playing with fire, taunting him like that, but I had no idea just how explosive it would be when he did actually kiss me.

I have very limited experience on the whole kissing front.

Even before Christopher, it’s not like I was hooking up with a heap of guys or anything.

I dated a few men, in college, but no one really set me going.

Then, there was Christopher, and you can imagine how it felt to be kissed by him.

This is unlike anything I’ve ever known, unlike anything I could have expected.

From the minute his lips crash into mine, it’s a kiss of dominance and control, and yet it’s not like that.

It’s the kind of control I am content to yield, because it feels so damned good.

It’s not like with Christopher. Nothing about Cole is.

His strength is comforting. His kiss and power are addicting and drugging, a heady combination.

I whimper into his mouth as his tongue duels with mine and his big, burly hands come around to my ass and hold me there, right up against his body, so through his shorts I feel his hardness and it sends a rocket through me.

My insides twist and moist heat slicks my sex, so I whimper again, something like his name, I think, or maybe it’s a plea. I don’t know.

“Fuck, Beth, if you don’t feel better than anything I’ve ever known,” he growls, the words wrapping around me like a coil.

One of his hands grazes up my back, over my spine, to behind my head, where he laces it in the top of the ponytail, so he can press me forward, against him, not letting me get away from him even a little bit—like I want to, anyhow.

His fingers pull at the elastic, releasing my hair, and then his hand cups my head perfectly, while the hand he has on my ass keeps holding me hard against him.

And then, he breaks the kiss, but just for a second, so he can move his mouth to the sensitive skin just beneath my ear, kissing me there first before dragging his mouth lower, to my décolletage, his stubble and the heat of his mouth making my pulse go crazy.

The hand he has on my ass moves, and I miss it, but when he brings it to my hip, and flexes slowly higher, to the underside of my breast, I tilt my head back and cry out, because it’s so intimate and so good—nothing though has prepared me for the electric spark that explodes in my body when he brushes his fingertips over one nipple.

The euphoria of this is like sunshine and starlight, all wrapped into one. A super nova of sensation, blinding, overwhelming, making me explode.

From the moment I met him, I could tell he was a take-charge kind of guy and in this respect, I feel his easy authority and confidence wrap right around me, flooding me with a thousand watts of desire.

I want to lift up and wrap my legs around his waist. I want to rip his clothes off with my teeth.

I want to eat him up. I want him to fuck me hard, to ride me like the cowboy he is.

I just want him, all of him.

The thought splits through me like a dry lightning bolt on a clear night.

Out of nowhere.

A sickening kaleidoscope of images spin, way too fast, through my mind, taunting me and pulling at me, reminding me of how it felt when I first met Christopher, and I mistook absolutely everything about him. How wrong I was about him.

But it’s not just that. Those feelings of confusion are bound with fear, and the number of times Christopher would tell me that I’d always be his. That I’d never get away from him. That he’d chase me through the ends of time if I tried to run. Hurt me, and anyone, I cared about.

He can’t hurt me anymore. I know I’m safe.

But at the same time, years of conditioning turn my blood to ice, so even before I know what I’m doing, I’m pushing away from Cole, with a cry ripped from the pit of my belly.

Because I’m doing the wrong thing, just like Christopher said.

Fear curdles my blood, and I lift a hand to my lips as though I can wipe away the last few minutes.

Cole stares at me, chest moving up and down with each ragged breath he draws, but he stands there, watching me warily, like he’s waiting for me to explain, to say something.

I’ve gone into a panic shutdown though. I recognize this feeling; I’ve known it before.

“I’m so sorry,” I stutter, split between time and place, one half of me back in New York, married to Christopher, terrified of putting a foot out of line, the other here, on the ranch, tethered to the real world—safe, far from harm.

“I shouldn’t have—that shouldn’t have happened.”

His eyes narrow slightly and that muscle jerks in his jaw, the way it does when he’s thinking hard, or trying to control his feelings, I don’t know which.

“Pretty sure I’ve been sayin’ that,” he responds, voice gruff, but not angry.

“It’s not you.” My words are trembly and my brain is mush, which explains why I blurt out, “It’s me. It’s my—it’s Christopher.”

Something flecks in his eyes, but he stays perfectly still. “And who’s Christopher?”

“My husband,” I say, numb, cold, wrapping my arms around my chest. And then I sob, dropping my head on the harsh reality of that, on the fact that on some level, that’s still how I think of him. Because he made me feel it, every day, that he would always be my husband. That I’d never escape him.

So much for freedom.

I sob again and when I lift my head to explain, Cole is gone. I can’t really say I blame him.

Cole

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, she tasted better than sun-warmed peaches right off the tree. I’m so angry at her for goading me into that, for pushing me, for making it almost impossible to walk away, but that anger got quickly sidelined by a whole heap of other feelings that are a hell of a lot nicer.

Because kissing Beth was about a thousand kinds of rapture all wrapped into one.

Until it wasn’t.

My husband.

She’s freaking married?

And she’s been here, begging me to kiss her? Flirting with Beau? Or at least, letting him flirt with her?

Hell, I think of myself as a pretty damn good judge of character, but I clearly missed the mark with Beth and I’m not gonna lie, I don’t much like that.

“Cole?” her voice comes from behind me. “Wait up.”

I don’t stop. I’m so mad I could just about bust something—mad at myself, mostly, for ignoring my instincts and kissing her, instead of keeping a wide-ass berth.

“Let me explain,” she says, and she’s closer now, like she’s running again.

The sky’s turned a striking mix of dusk colors, from purple to violet to navy blue smudging to orange.

I don’t break my stride, but Beth’s clearly got the bit between her teeth because she breaks even with me and then runs past me, stopping right in my path and holding a hand up, pressing it into my chest.

“Let me explain,” she says, and the tears running down her cheeks pull at something in my core, so sympathy briefly tumbles through me, before I remember how despicable it is to do what she’s just done. Even then, though, the last thing I want is to see her cry.

“Please,” she says, as I clamp my jaw and cross my arms over my chest, dislodging her palm.

“Only if you don’t touch me,” I mutter, frustrated by the whole situation.

She flinches, reminding me of the way she was when she first arrived here. I haven’t consciously realized it, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen her act all timid like that.

“Okay,” she says, voice trembling a little. I resist the urge to reassure her in any way, even when I want to.

Christopher. My husband.

“Well,” I snap, waiting. “How are you going to explain the fact you’re married to some poor guy while you’re out here kissing me? No, no,” I waggle my finger in her face. “Begging me to kiss you. Not once, but twice,” I remind her.

She pales visibly and a hint of compunction washes over me.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, really? ‘Cause I’m pretty damn sure you just told me you’re married. And you know what I’ve got less than zero interest in? Messing around with another man’s wife.”

“Would you just listen?”

“I’m listening. I’m standing here, waiting for you to say something I want to hear, but so far, nothing. So, what is it, Beth?”

She stares at me, those big eyes of hers shifting and blinking like she’s trying to telepathically communicate something.

Anguish twists her pretty features and I’m torn between feeling glad, because she deserves to feel like shit right now, and wishing there was something I could do to make her feel better, because no matter what, I don’t want Beth to suffer.

“Do you know what woulda happened if you hadn’t stopped us just then, Beth? Do you have any clue what I wanted to happen?”

She blinks quickly, fresh tears forming a shimmering layer on her eyes. I look away. Women crying is my Achille’s heel, and Beth crying is like that on speed, but no way am I going to make the mistake of feeling pity—or anything like it—for this woman again.

Maybe she’ll turn out to be the exception to the rule. The one person on Coyote Creek Ranch I don’t feel like I need to take care of. Good riddance.

“Forget it,” I snap, when she still doesn’t say anything. I sidestep her easily and keep walking, but she follows after me.

“I should have said—,” her words trail off into a soft mumble, lost on the breeze and under the sound of our footsteps on the gravel.

I want to ignore her, to show her I don’t care what she’s said, but the truth is, I am kind of invested in her explanation, even though I have way too much pride to show it.

“What did you say?” I ask, glancing back at her without slowing down.

“Can you just wait up a second,” she asks, seeming out of breath.

“If you wanna tell me, then tell me. I’m not waiting around for you.”

“I said he’s dead!” she shouts, and the words cut clear through me like a branding iron. It is the last thing I expected. I stop walking and turn around, staring at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“My husband died three months ago,” she says, twisting her hands in front of her, miserable, with guilt, like she’s aching. Hurting.

Hurting because she’s a widow. Newly widowed.

And in her grief, she turned to me, wanting something physical. And I gave it to her. But she couldn’t go through with it because she’s in mourning. Grieving the man she loved enough to marry, planned to spend her life with.

It explains everything.

Why she’s been so skittish, so quiet, so hard to read.

“Oh, Beth,” I say on a rough sigh, not even knowing where to start and what to say. “I wish you would’ve told me.”

She flinches again at the criticism. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. I don’t mean…I just wish I’d known.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.” She looks away, her face awash with feelings. “I didn’t want to talk about him.”

I grind my teeth. That’s understandable. Three months ago, she buried some poor guy she was head over heels in love with. Not exactly the sort of thing you announce when you start a new job.

All this time, I’ve been wondering why a twenty-five-year-old woman from New York would move out here, cutting herself off from everything familiar, but now it makes sense.

She’s running away from the grief of her old life, trying to heal. Maybe she thought the wild, rugged plains of the ranch would be the spot for that, I sure as hell don’t know. But I do know she’s all kinds of messed up, and hurting, and that she didn’t do anything wrong after all.

“Listen,” I say, glad my voice sounds calm and relaxed.

“It was just a kiss,” I lie. “It didn’t mean anything.

We can draw a line under it, let it go. Never speak of it again.

” I swallow down the horrible sense of regret, the bitter ache of loneliness spreading through me.

“From now on, you’re just someone who works here. ”

Her eyes drop to the ground and there’s such a crestfallen expression on her face that I could kick myself, frankly. I don’t know what she wanted me to say, but I don’t think it was that.

“Thank you,” she whispers, though.

“But if you change your mind and ever wanna talk, I’m here,” I say, knowing that’s all this can ever be.

A friendship. She’s missing her husband and I’m not going to be some guy who takes advantage of that.

I’m not the kind of man who preys on the broken heart of a woman he’s just met.

“I mean, as a friend,” I clarify. “If you want.”

I swear I hear her stifle a sob, but she nods a little uncertainly. “I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything?—,”

“You didn’t owe me an explanation,” I repeat. “It’s your life. Your grief. Your journey. But while you’re here, if you need anything, you just let me know, okay?”

Beth

I didn’t actually think I could hate Christopher more than I already did. I mean, this guy ruined my life and made me live in fear for a long, long time. I despised him with every fiber of my being.

But now, having him so deep in my head that he’s screwed with something new, something with Cole…I am enraged. With him, with myself, with Cole for listening to me and for being such a gentleman.

If you need anything, you just let me know, okay?

I try to imagine tiptoeing to his bedroom now, in the middle of the night, and saying, ‘Actually, I do need something, would you mind doing whatever it is you wanted to do outside earlier?’.

But I know Cole, and I know he’ll never touch me again.

Not while he thinks I’m all torn up about Christopher.

And of course that’s what he thinks. That I’m a grieving widow, rather than a monumentally confused woman who’s come out of a relationship pocked with violence.

My husband might be dead, but the shadows of his abuse live on in me.

Memories of him, fears that he drummed into me, over and over again.

I don’t know if I’ll ever truly escape.

I turn onto my side and stare at the French doors that lead to the courtyard. I lie here, wondering about Cole. Is he still awake? Is he thinking about me?

I fall asleep, really hoping that he is. That we’re both just as tormented by what could have happened this evening as each other. Because I don’t want to suffer this alone.