How to Break a Cowboy (12 page)

I moved some hangers around without hope when I caught
sight of a shirt I’d completely forgotten about. It was a deep V-neck knit in a
pretty wine color that I’d bought to go to an anniversary party. On the hanger
it didn’t look like anything special, but it was one of those rare items that
felt as if it were made just for me, flattering my attributes while covering up
my flaws. The color was nice too. It complemented my dark skin tone.

God, when was the last time I’d worn it? The anniversary
party, probably.

“Are you coming down anytime soon?”

I jumped. John stood in the doorway with his arms crossed
over his chest.

“Yes, I’m just getting dressed.” I pulled the shirt
carefully over my head so I wouldn’t mess my hair. Then I stood back, turning
this way and that, modeling the shirt for him.

He nodded appreciatively. “I like that shirt. It makes you
look hot.”  He waggled his brows and lunged for me, pulling me in for a kiss.
“Maybe too hot,” he murmured against my neck.

“Okay, okay, enough,” I said, pushing him away.

But John didn’t let go. He slid a hand beneath my shirt and
whispered, “Where’s the woman who was trying to seduce me on the kitchen table
the other morning? I want
her
back.” He dragged me out of the closet and
pushed me back onto the bed.

“Jonathon!”

He straddled me and held me down. “You are so sexy when
you’re angry.”

“I’m so
angry
when I’m angry. Get off me. We’ve got
a guest, for heaven’s sake!”

“He’s busy looking through your book collection. He won’t
mind,” John started to nuzzle my neck, tugging on the vee of the shirt,
stretching the material out of shape.

I slapped at his hands. “Stop it! Now is not the time. If
you wanted to have sex you should have stayed home from work the other day.”

John stopped what he was doing and gazed down at me, his
eyes hooded. “You weren’t ovulating were you?”

“Ovulating? No! Jesus, why would you think that?” I pushed
myself into a sitting position.

John rolled off of me. “I thought maybe…oh, never mind.
Stupid me.” With a shake of his head, he left the room while I gaped after him.

What the fuck? John was such a fucking man with his fucking
bad sense of timing. Now was not the time to have this fucking discussion.

The fact that I was using fuck as a verb, an adjective and
a noun was
not
a good sign. I picked up a pillow and threw it against
the wall. Yeah, I know, big fucking deal throwing a pillow but I had to do
something and I didn’t want our new neighbor to know I was having a minor
tantrum above his head.

It took me at least another five minutes to calm down
enough so that I could descend the stairs. I found John and Martin in the
living room, drinking beer and talking sports.

Beer? Where the fuck was the wine?

Okay, so apparently the pillow didn’t quite do the trick
because I still had ‘fuck’ firmly lodged in my vocabulary. My scowl turned into
a smile, however, when Martin turned his head to acknowledge me. He stood and
smiled appreciatively. “Good evening, Claire.”

Holy hell. There is was again. That little pause right
before my name. I hoped no one noticed the way I wobbled.

“Hi. Martin. I’m so sorry I didn’t greet you properly but I
spilled something on my shirt and was trying to get it out.”

“It looks like you managed.” His eyes swept over my body
and I flushed with the intensity of his gaze. “I thought maybe you were putting
your boys to bed.”

“Boys?”

“Yes. You have two boys, don’t you?”

I realized he was referring to Dane and Dillon. Yes, they’d
made enough noise that Martin surely heard them outside all afternoon. “No, we
don’t have kids. Those were our nephews here this afternoon.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “It was delightful to hear the sound of
children’s laughter.”

I wondered if he was being sarcastic or polite. But his
sentiment seemed genuine and for some reason I blushed.

C’mon, Claire. Get it together. He’s your neighbor for
Christ’s sake. Oh, and in case you’d forgotten, you’re married
!

I went directly to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of
wine. After downing it in three gulps, I refilled my glass and went back out to
the living room. “Dinner will be a few more minutes.”

“Whatever it is, it smells wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Picking up the cheese tray, I offered him
some. He sliced some pear and topped the artisan cracker with the pear and a
hunk of brie. How refreshing! A man with a little culture and class.

I held the tray for John who sliced the pear and ate it
plain. At least he didn’t grab it and bite into it. Sitting on the other end of
the sofa from my husband, I pulled a handful of grapes from the bowl on the
coffee table and listened to the men discuss the Stanley Cup playoffs. Quickly
the conversation turned to the fact that Martin had played hockey—goalie—for
the McGill Redmen when he was in college and that John had played for Dalhousie
right around the same time.

I couldn’t believe how well they were hitting it off. It
was weird. What was even weirder was that John was suddenly calling Martin,
Marty, and Martin didn’t seem to mind.

I left the men to talk hockey while I brought out the food.
When I called them to the table, John sat across from Martin and I sat at the
head of the table between them. By now I was getting a little tired of the
hockey conversation.

“So you’re from Montreal,” I asked as I dished the food
onto the plates.

“I grew up in a small town just east of Montreal, but I
went to school there.”

I loved the way he said Mont-re-al.

“What did you study?”

Martin helped himself to some roasted vegetables and salad.
“Philosophy. Art History.”

“Really?” I leaned toward him, my food completely
forgotten. “I studied Art History too, at Boston College.”

“Ah, so that’s why you have all the art history books.”

We talked art for a while and then Martin held up his fork.
“This dish, it reminds me of something my mother used to make.”

It was meant as a compliment, I think, but somehow being
compared to his mother did little for my self-esteem. “Oh. I’m glad you like it.”

“So, Marty,” John said. “What brought you to our little
neighborhood?”

“I wanted to move to the Boston area, but couldn’t find
what I was looking for downtown. The place next door was already set up for my
needs.”

“Needs? What do you mean?”

“With studio space, lighting.”

“Oh, you’re a photographer?”

“Yes.” He nodded as he dipped a roll into his Coq au vin
sauce.

“What sort of pictures do you take?”

“Boudoir photography. High end.”

I spewed wine all over the table. It even came out my nose.
I know this because my nose stung for the rest of the evening.

“Claire!” John cried.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, leaning over the table, using my
napkin to wipe the red wine off Martin’s shirt.

He took the napkin out of my hand. “It’s okay,” Martin
grinned as he dabbed at his shirt. “I usually get some sort of response but
that is the first time I’ve been sprayed.”

I was appalled with myself. Honestly, I had to get a hold
of myself. I forced a smile and tried to explain my embarrassing reaction.
“It’s not that there’s anything wrong…You just took me by surprise and my mouth
was full, and…”

“Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

“Boudoir?” John leaned forward, looking way too intense.
“Isn’t that like…porn?”

“Non.” Martin held up a finger and his word took on a
completely French sound. “Boudoir is not porn.
Erotica,
maybe. Porn no.”

“What’s the difference?”

He shrugged one shoulder while he chewed thoughtfully.
“Porn is meant to elicit a sexual response. It is, ahh, how do you say it?
Fucking for fucking’s sake.” He finished chewing and swallowed. Then he looked
directly at John. “Erotica is something else altogether.” He took another bite.
Once done, he wiped his lips. “Erotica is meant to evoke something. Arousal?
Partly. But also emotions. Deep human emotions. Sometimes dark emotions. My
photos, they tell a story. A story about humanity. Beauty, love, power,
submission, everything together, all wrapped up in desire and emotion. Desire,
to me, it is the most base yet compelling of human emotions.”

“And then you sell it?” John asked, sitting back and
crossing his arms over his chest.

“No. I don’t sell my work commercially. My clients use the
photos for their own purposes.”

“Who are your clients?”

“All kinds of people. Sometimes couples like you,” he
paused to look at each one of us directly.

I cleared my throat. “And this is how you make your
living?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit. You must charge a bundle,” John said.

“I charge what my work is worth.”

“Have you ever worked with anyone famous?” I asked.

His smile was enigmatic. “All the time. I am the best, you
see.”

L
ATER, AS WE
were getting ready for bed, John slid his arms around my waist while I stood in
front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my hair. “So what do you make of our
neighbor?”

“Interesting,” I said, trying to sound as if I hadn’t been
thinking about him all evening long.

“So you fell for his cocky, arrogant shtick?” He turned me
to face him and with a heavy lidded, smoldering gaze, repeated Martin’s words.
“I am ze best, you zee…” Then he caressed my cheek and ran his thumb across my
lips.

I closed my eyes and drew his thumb into my mouth. Then I
bit it.

“Ow!”

I laughed, releasing his thumb. “I didn’t fall for
anything. I just thought he was interesting.”

“Interesting, hmm?” John worked his hand beneath my
nightshirt and circled my nipple with his wet thumb. “So,” he leaned forward
and whispered in my ear, “You didn’t think he was hot?”

“Hot?”

“Yes, my darling wife. Hot.” He pinched my nipple gently
between thumb and forefinger and then pressed his forehead to mine, our mouths
mere inches apart. “Don’t tell me you were all flustered and blushing because
of
me
tonight.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” He flicked his tongue along the seam of my lips and
then moved lower to nibble on my ear lobe. “Tell me, my love. Do you spy on him
because you think he’s
interesting
?” The hand that cupped my breast
squeezed as John whispered, “Or because you think he’s sexy?”

“Don’t be silly.”

With a swiftness I was unprepared for, John lifted me onto
the bathroom counter, pulled my legs apart and stepped right between them. “Do
you know what I think?” he asked as he slid his thumbs beneath the band of my
panties, pressing them into my warm and already wet pussy.

Holding onto his shoulders for dear life, I panted, “What?”

At the same time his thumbs penetrated, he whispered, “I
think you want to fuck him.”

“John!”

John’s thumbs penetrated further. “Don’t lie, Claire. I saw
it in your eyes, in the messages your body was giving off all night long.”

Oh God. He hit my spot and I threw my head back in
surrender.

“Do you know what else?” John asked, his voice husky and
harsh, one hand still between my legs, the other working its way up my midriff.

“What?” I helped him in his quest by pulling off my
nightshirt.

He found my breast and flicked my tight nipple with the
rough pad of his thumb. “Watching you blush, lick your lips, smile? All that
shit? It was a huge turn on.”

I almost came. Right then. But I didn’t. Instead I ground
my hips into John’s hand and arched my chest toward him so he would take my
nipple in his mouth. But instead of giving me what I wanted, he stepped back,
breaking all contact between us. I nearly toppled right off the counter. “What
are you doing?”

John’s eyes flashed with a wild and wicked light. “You’ve
been a naughty girl, Mrs. Marshall."

Through my lust-logged brain, it took me a moment to
process what John was up to.

“Do you know what happens to naughty girls?”

I licked my lips and smiled. Then I caught myself and
pouted instead. “They get punished?”

“That’s right.” John pointed to the bedroom. “Get on the
bed. Now.”

Holy hell! When was the last time we’d played this game? A
year ago at least. Maybe longer. My pussy throbbed just at the thought of what
we were about to do. I hopped down from the counter and scurried into the
bedroom, climbing up onto the bed and positioning myself on my hands and knees.
John came toward me—slowly. He stood there beside the bed for a few moments,
lording his height over me.