Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 (12 page)

“Did you love her?”

“I did. And I loved the idea of being a husband. Of having a wife.” He took a deep breath. “When things got really bad, she convinced me that the problem between us was that we hadn’t started a family. So. We started trying for a baby. She got pregnant right away.”

Monica’s throat tightened. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know you had kids.”

Dean’s voice lowered. “I don’t.”

She was confused. “What?”

“Halfway through the pregnancy, she up and left with the real father of her baby. Colorado somewhere. I was back on the road before the ink on the divorce papers was dry.” He rubbed his beard. “I was probably in some buckle bunny’s bed the day that little boy was born.”

“Dean,” she whispered, feeling his heartache as though it were her own. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“Sex numbed the pain for a long time. Got a taste for it, as free and easy as it is on the circuit.” His temple twitched as his jaw tightened. “Being back in Oleander, I’ve had to face those memories. That pain. My dad isn’t getting any better. And my brother Daniel is the one with the wife and kids now. He runs the ranch. That could’ve been my life. I’m proud of him, but…there’s always a part of me that wonders what would’ve happened if it’d all worked out the way I’d planned.”

She was silent. All the pieces of the puzzle fit together now except for one—the relationship between her and Dean.

“I’ve done a lot of soul-searching since you left,” he said. “For a while, I wondered if the time we spent together wasn’t just me trying to numb the pain again. With sex. The thought scared me.”

Was he just using me?
That can’t be true. It was real. It
felt
real.
Panic stabbed the pit of her stomach, but Monica forced herself to sit still.

“So,” she said calmly, “what’s your conclusion?”

Dean leaned forward in the plush armchair to get a better look at Monica. The cloudy sky filled her office with a soft diffusion of light. Her dark skin glowed. She was dressed in a pale gray blouse that showed off her cleavage and a narrow gray skirt that showed off the deep curve of her hips. Her dark hair was piled into a big messy bun. She was wearing black high heel shoes that were open at the toes. Her neat little toenails—red as a toreador’s cape—played peekaboo with him. Very distracting.

He blinked slowly, trying to memorize this image of her in case things went south and this gambit turned out to be a great big failure.

“You said to me once,” he began, “that the best we can hope to find is beauty in imperfection. In the things that don’t turn out right. In the things that are damaged or incomplete. But I don’t agree with you. All of our imperfections as a couple, whatever you think they are, form one picture for me. And that picture is perfect. Perfect and beautiful.”

He made himself a little ill with all this love talk. But Monica’s eyes had gone misty. And every word he’d said was true.

“Princess, I believe in you and me. My family needs me for now, but I’ll do anything to make this work. I’ll drive up and see you every weekend. I even bought a brand-new truck. You won’t have to ride around in my Dad’s old dinosaur or in Caleb’s monster truck anymore. Ain’t that cool?”

She was quiet, so he soldiered on.

“I know I don’t have a lot to offer. And you’re an earner, so this probably won’t impress you. But I’ve been working as a professional bullfighter for almost twenty years. I’ve socked all my contest winnings and earnings away. Bo helped me set up an investment portfolio right after I graduated high school. Ain’t got no house, no expenses, no debts. Hell, that truck’s the first thing I’ve had in my name for a long, long time. Paid cash for it. Felt good.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I’ve been talking with your father.”

That got her. She put her hands flat on her desk as if to steady herself. “What do you mean you’ve been talking with my father?”

He nodded, trying to appear nonchalant even though winning over Monica’s family had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his entire life. “Yup. Talking, fishing. I took him riding on the ranch. Cool guy, your father.”

Her eyebrows rose. “This is surreal.”

“Now, I’m not religious,” Dean said. “I never have been. But talking to your Dad, I’ve learned a lot. He even took me to the
gurdwara
. And I’ve thought about it on my own. If it is important to you, I’ll convert.”

She was incredulous. “Are you kidding me?
You
would become a Sikh?”

He smiled. “If that’s what it takes.”

“What it takes…to what?”

Dean put his hat on her desk, stood up and walked to her. His bad leg creaked like an old pirate ship as he got down on one knee. He reached into his pocket. His sister-in-law Georgia had helped him pick out the ring—with lots of opinionated input from Monica’s mother.

“Monica Kaur,” he said, opening the box. He’d spent the entire drive to Cupertino memorizing what he’d say. He looked up into her beautiful dark eyes, saw his future and the words flew free. “You are brave, fearless and beautiful. I’ve never met a smarter or sexier woman. I would be honored to spend the rest of my life doing everything I can to make you happy. Will you marry me?”

She said nothing.

Fear narrowing his vision, Dean cleared his throat and brought out the big guns. “I love you.
Meh tenu pyaar karda hai.
”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Who…who taught you that?”

“Your brother.”

Monica didn’t just embrace Dean. She
launched
herself at him. When she threw her arms around his neck, he lost his balance and they crashed to the carpet in a heap of limbs and laughter.

The ring—God help him, the ring that had cost him hours in the arena, torn ligaments, sore muscles and gallons upon gallons of bull snot—rolled under her desk, momentarily forgotten.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Dean. I love you too.”

When she kissed him, Dean finally understood something that had been eluding him for years. There was no outrunning the truth. Drinking, brawling, working, even lovemaking couldn’t keep the truth away forever.

The only thing to do was face it.

The truth was, he was made to love one woman. This woman. And in loving her, he’d found in himself a man worthy of love.

They spent a long time on the floor getting lost in one another’s kisses. When at last they were done, breathless and disheveled, Monica crawled under her desk, retrieved her ring and slipped it on her finger. Dean lay back with his hands behind his head, watching her as she admired it.

“I’ve got a surprise for you too, MacKinnon,” she said.

She lifted the bouquet of poppies on her desk and pulled out her tablet computer.

“Jesus, not that thing again,” he said.

“Shush.” She lay back down next to him and started it up. She opened an untitled folder and showed him the file. “I’ve been working on this for a few weeks now. Tell me what you think.”

He looked at it. There were some profit and loss tables, a timeline and what looked to be a detailed business plan for some kind of school. “What is this?”

She reached forward and swiped to a logo and design.

He read it aloud. “Walker-MacKinnon Bull Riding and Bullfighting Academy.”

“Now this is all in the early stages of development, but I ran some numbers, and I think this is an incredible opportunity for you and Bo,” she said excitedly. Dean faked a skeptical expression, but his little gypsy horse trader wasn’t deterred. “Before you say yes or no, just let me show you—”

Dean cut her off with a long, passionate kiss that made her go slack beneath him. When he broke the kiss at last, she opened her eyes and blinked at him.

“Just let me show you,” she whispered, stroking his chest with a dreamy look in her eyes, “how taking the academy on the road half the year increases your profits by almost thirty-five percent.”

“You don’t quit, do you?” he asked, smiling.

“I’m bullish,” she said. “I think you can appreciate that.”

Monica handed in her notice before lunchtime. By three o’clock, she and Dean were on the road back to Oleander in his brand-new truck.

Dean kept one hand on the steering wheel. With his other hand, he stroked her smooth, warm nape. “I know what Kaur means. It means princess.”

“Did you know that when you started calling me princess? Back when we first met?” she asked.

“No. Just a coincidence, I guess.”

“Why did you start calling me that anyway?”

He grinned at her. “Because you probably wouldn’t have liked the other thing I wanted to call you.”

Monica smiled to herself and looked out the window. “We don’t
have
to be home tonight, do we?”

“No, not really.”

She turned back to him. “There are lots of places to stay in Fresno. We’re about half an hour away.”

“Come to think of it, I am pretty tuckered out.” He faked a yawn.

* * * * *

Their room was on the third floor of yet another anonymous business hotel. Monica wondered if she was developing a fetish for places like these. Every time she saw one, she got wet on flashbacks of Dean and the no-holds-barred way they devoured each other in quiet, air-conditioned rooms just like these.

When he stuck the keycard in the door, she embraced him from behind and gave his rock-solid torso a squeeze.

“Have you been thinking about me?” she whispered.

The light turned green on the lock. “Let’s just say my right hand is mighty glad we’re back together,” he said.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Dean was all over her. Eyes on fire, he ripped her blouse open like some hero in a cheesy romance novel. The buttons flew. As she kicked off her shoes, he unhooked her bra, unzipped her skirt and, in a breathless rush, threw her backwards onto the bed.

He took off his hat and jacket, then stripped off his shirt. His white cotton undershirt strained against his muscular shoulders and chest.

“I’ve never gone this long without sex, Monica,” he said, unbuckling his belt as she gazed up at him. His voice was a low growl resonant with pent-up lust. “I feel like I’m gonna jump out of my skin.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Fuck.”

He bent down, grabbed her hips in his big hands and buried his face against her pink lace panties, filling his lungs with her scent. She should’ve been embarrassed. But with Dean, this was how it was—they were animals in heat, addicted to each other’s bodies, high on the hunt.

Quickly, he pulled down her panties and dropped them on the floor. He put his hands on her thighs and spread her legs wide. His eyes feasted on her as he stood up. He began to unbutton his fly. “Touch yourself. Get that pretty pussy ready for me.”

Monica reached down between her legs. She ran her middle finger up and down her seam, stopping to dip the pad of her finger in the liquid heat pooling at her opening. As Dean watched her, she spread the slickness all over her pussy lips. They had begun to swell and flare in anticipation of his touch—his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

“Yes.” He pulled the undershirt over his head. She never got tired of ogling his beautiful body—scarred, tatted, hairy, muscular, he was a fucking specimen, that Dean MacKinnon. Her walking fantasy. Her wet dream. Her goddamned
fiancé
.

On that thought, she dragged her fingertip over her swollen clit. Her pussy clenched at the sharp spike of pleasure.

He took off his boots, his jeans and his boxers all at once. His monster of a cock sprang up, swollen and dusky. Her mouth watered.

Standing above her, he stared at the finger working her clit.

“You’re magnificent,” he murmured. He took his cock in his fist and gave himself a single, slow pump. “Spread some of that candy on your nipples for me.”

Her clit was already twitching under her trigger finger. She was only a few breaths away from coming. But she stopped fondling herself long enough to plunge her finger back into her hot pussy. She pulled it back out, then spread her juices on each of her hardened nipples like some kind of depraved nymphomaniac, which wasn’t too far from the truth when it came to how she acted around Dean.

“Touch that pretty clit again,” he ordered. Her hand slid down her stomach and she went back to pleasuring herself, making sure to hold back whenever she got too close to the edge. Dean had taught her that—edging. Orgasm denial. The technique had added nuance and intensity to both their lovemaking and her solo time. But she’d been so long without him that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold back.

He climbed on top of her, his imposing body curving over hers. Heat poured off his skin. He kissed her—a slow, lingering lover’s kiss, restrained but hungry. When he kissed her neck, she closed her eyes. And when his hot lips landed on one of her nipples, she hissed with pleasure so pure, sparks formed behind her eyelids.

He suckled her hard, strumming her nipple with the hardened tip of his tongue. When he released her, the nipple was rosy and erect. Her skin almost hissed when it touched the cool air-conditioned air.

“I missed the taste of your cunt,” he murmured against her breast.

He was filthy. She loved it.

Dean gave her other nipple equal treatment, but finished by tugging at her gently with his teeth. She arched her back, the sweet pain tempered by pleasure.

He kissed down her belly, then gently took her hand and moved it away from her pussy.

“My turn.”

He stuck his middle and index fingers in his mouth, wet them and pressed them into her soaking heat. He wasn’t gentle, but she was so turned on that shock turned to pleasure as he began to fuck her, working against the tight resistance of her body. She was so wet that the room filled with the sound of his fingers sliding in and out. Her nipples tightened even further and her lungs began to draw more air, sending fresh blood to her core.

When his hot lips found her clit, she was already airborne. Three swipes of his tongue and she flew apart at once, the orgasm ripping through her like an exorcism. Her pussy squeezed him but he pushed back, scissoring his fingers and drawing out that first wild climax until she was screaming with pleasure, grabbing at his rock-solid arms like she was about to get swept off the face of the earth.