Authors: Alysha Ellis
Tags: #Contemporary, #Erotic Fiction, #Ménage à Trois, #Romance, #Western
A Totally Bound Publication
Claiming the Cowboys
©Copyright Alysha Ellis 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2014
Edited by Sue Meadows
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing,
Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
CLAIMING THE COWBOYS
Two cowboys. One woman to rope ‘em and ride ‘em!
Two cowboys enjoying a passionate bout of sex in the living room is the last thing Sophie expects to see when she arrives to inspect the homestead she inherited from her grandparents. Outraged by what they believe to be trespass, the men insist the prosperous horse stud is theirs.
The confrontation catapults Sophie into a torrid sexual adventure. The only way for her to win is to round up her cowboys and ride ‘em.
“In three hundred metres your destination is on the right.”
Sophie slowed the hardtop sports car and searched for the cattle-gridded entrance she barely remembered. As a child she’d spent most holidays here. Then she’d become a teenager and her ageing grandparents’ remote property no longer held much appeal. It had been fifteen years since she had been a regular visitor to the farm nestled at the farthest end of the Hunter Valley.
When her grandfather died, and her grandmother moved away, Sophie never thought about what had happened to the farm. She had her life in the city, fast-paced and satisfying. Then in one horrifying car accident both her parents and her grandmother had been killed. In the aftermath, the parties, the alcohol, the superficial contacts that passed for her social life felt empty and meaningless.
Her parents’ death left her the sole heir to substantial assets including the Hunter Valley property. Memories of her childhood, of the peace and happiness, offered her solace in her grief.
Four months after the accident, she took extended leave from her job, packed her car and headed to the country. If the homestead was in disrepair, she could restore it, keep it as a holiday house, a reminder of happier times.
After seven hours of driving, she didn’t care what condition it was in, as long as there was a roof and somewhere to put a sleeping bag.
She made the turn onto the narrow gravel road. It was surprisingly pothole free, the paddocks on either side marked off by rows of fence posts, strung with taut wire.
She pulled up in front of the house. Built low to the ground, with verandahs on four sides in the Australian tradition, shaded by gum trees, it looked the same as it had when her grandparents were alive. The painted weatherboard sparkled white in the bright spring sunshine. The water tank still nestled up against the side of the house, the grass around it neat and freshly mown.
She grabbed her bag and fished around in it for the key she’d stored away in her jewellery box as a memento of some of the happiest times in her life. Not that she’d ever seen the door locked during her holidays with her grandparents, but the moment when they had given her the serrated metal shaped cut specially for her had been important, a mark of how much she belonged.
She walked up to the door, inserted the key and turned it. Although she pushed hard, the door stayed shut. She blew out a breath. In the years since she’d last been here, had someone changed the lock? She refused to believe crime had found its way to this little patch of serenity.
She squared her shoulders, flexed her muscles and turned the key again. This time the solid wooden panel swung inward.
She stepped across the threshold, instantly aware that the house smelt fresh, with a spicy, outdoors scent. The open plan living room was much as she remembered it. A hardwood floor led to a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Her grandparents’ antique, high-back sofa still faced inwards, just as it always had.
She took a few steps forward when she heard a soft noise she couldn’t identify. Something or someone was in the room with her.
The noise, a low moan, this time identifiably human, came again. She raised her bag like a weapon and prepared to swing, but her arm stopped, everything in her body, including her breath, frozen into immobility.
A man lay on the sofa, his head against the armrest. He was naked except for a pair of jeans scrunched around his thighs. The man sprawled on top of him was also shirtless. Their stubbled jaws were locked together in a passionate kiss.
The forearm of the man on top disappeared between their two bodies and… He arched up and her mouth dropped open. He had a fistful of the other guy’s cock. Not much doubt about what was going on here. If they weren’t having sex, they were damn close to it. She leant forward, prurient curiosity and building outrage compelling her to get a closer look.
Her bag slipped off her shoulder and fell to the floor with a clatter.
The man lying on his back leapt to his feet. The one on top reeled backwards, arms flailing. Unfortunately he still had a firm grip on the other guy’s erection.
“Fuck!” The bottom guy doubled over, clutching his groin, and their heads, one light, one dark, butted together. The blond who’d been on top fell to the floor.
A string of curses split the air. The dark-headed guy straightened then leant down and pulled the other man to his feet. Two pairs of eyes, one a smoky blue, the other a golden brown glared at her.
The brown-haired man, stockier of build and maybe a bit older, shoved his abused penis into his pants and pulled up the zip. “Who the hell are you?” His low voice carried the suggestion of menace, of power that could be dangerous if unleashed.
“And what are you doing in our house?” the other male asked. He sounded more curious than aggressive, but Sophie didn’t underestimate the danger. These men were trespassers. Criminals.
Then his words made their way through the fog of confusion in her brain. He thought it was…”
house? That’s a total lie! This was my grandparents’ house, and now it’s mine.”
“I don’t care whose house it
,” the dark-haired guy shouted. His chest rose with the furious breath he took. “This is our stud, our business, our home.”
Before she could reply the blond cut in, calmer, but no less determined. “If you
the owner of the property, you’re entitled to inspect but you have to give us notice. And you have to go through the agent. You can’t just walk in unannounced.”
Sophie was too angry to give him a fair hearing. How dare they tell her what she could and couldn’t do in her own house? At least
hadn’t been nailing someone in the middle of the living room. “I can do what I like! This place is mine. Get out.”
“We’re not going anywhere.” The dark-haired one folded his arms and stared at her grimly, as if the force of his will alone could send her flying backwards out the door.
“There’s obviously some misunderstanding.” The blond was once again the voice of reason. He looked directly at Sophie, his eyes framed by the hair falling loosely on his forehead. “How about we start over. I’m Hamish Maguire. This is Jackson Blake.” He held out his hand.
Sophie stared at him. For a moment she forgot he was a trespasser. He was just so beautiful. His chest was hard and firm. The muscles in his arms were delineated by the slanting light. His jeans hugged his lean hips. The hint of a hollow V disappearing under the blue denim made her mouth water. Was it some kind of rule that the gorgeous ones
had to be gay?
He looked at her, holding her gaze, his lips curved up into a lop-sided smile, one eyebrow raised in query. Liquid heat pooled in her groin. Gay or not, he was as sexy as hell.
He tilted his head, and that devastating eyebrow rose a little higher, as if he were waiting. In her peripheral vision she saw something move. His hand. It was still there, waiting for her. Her brain finally kicked in to remind her of social protocol. Hamish wanted to shake hands. And he wanted to know her name.
“Sophie Driscoll. Yes. I’m Sophie Driscoll.” Great. She sounded like a fool who wasn’t even sure of who she was. And once she grasped his hand she seemed to lose the ability to let it go.
“I hope I can say it’s nice to meet you, Sophie,” he said, eyes twinkling. “How about we sit down and find out?” He bent down and snatched a blue chambray shirt from the floor then led her to the table at the far end of the room.
She finally released her grip then rubbed her palms together to ease the surprising tingling sensation that remained. Hamish pulled out a chair for her then shrugged into his shirt.
The other man, Jackson, hadn’t moved. Then he spun on his heel and walked out through the still open door onto the front verandah.
“Jackson can be a bit difficult,” Hamish said. “He’ll be back.”
Proving his guess correct, the screen door slammed against the outside wall. Jackson strode back in, a fur-felt stockman’s hat jammed on his head, tucking a fully buttoned khaki shirt into the waistband of his jeans.
“Hamish, find out what she wants, then get rid of her. I’m going out to check the horses.”
“Can’t it wait?” Sophie asked. A vision of what she’d interrupted danced in her head. She had to resist the urge to fan her face. “Nothing was so urgent a moment ago.”
Hamish laughed. “It was getting that way.”
Sophie’s face flamed in total humiliating embarrassment. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t talking about that!”
Every word tightened the tangled knot she was creating. She shut her mouth with an audible snap.
“Maybe you’d better have a drink,” Hamish said. “What would you like?”
“The biggest scotch in the world,” she replied. But she wouldn’t be able to drink it. It was obvious the two men lived in the house. They had a lease. And an agent. She sighed. She’d packed bedclothes and pillows into her car, but she wasn’t going to be using them because she couldn’t stay. And if she couldn’t stay, she couldn’t drink.
The nearest hotel was at least an hour and a half’s drive away. Since it was dusk, she’d have to proceed very cautiously to avoid the kangaroos and wombats that came out at night to feed and seemed to invariably end up in the middle of the road at the worst possible time. Driving was risky enough without adding alcohol to the mix.