Last of the Red-Hot Riders (14 page)

And all of a sudden, Saint realized he didn't give a damn. Didn't want to spend a hot-as-hell day training a stubborn horse that got blood in his eye every time he got on his back. His mood was too good—which was bad, because it meant he was falling in love.

He walked to the end of the pasture and opened the gate. Zeus watched him out of the corner of his eye again—and then, surprising the daylights out of Saint, he walked slowly toward him, hanging about two feet away, his whole attitude,
So? What's your next move?

Saint laughed. “You ornery son-of-a-bitch. You think you're the boss.”

Zeus eyed him.

“I'm the boss,” Saint said. “If you're coming with me, let's go. If you're not, piss off.”

Zeus gave him a regal stare and walked ahead so that Saint could put a lead rope on him. Zeus endured this ignominy with ill-concealed
dissatisfaction.
“Wasn't so bad, was it?”

Declan came back over, his hat mashed squarely on his head this time, his jaw jutting with determination. “I can't take it. Harper's not answering any of my texts. I'm going out there.”

“Just what exactly do you think Ivy's going to do to them? They're together, right? It's not like Cameron or Harper went by themselves.”

“I know. But Harper left Michael with Steel.” Declan took a wild breath. “Which means she's planning to be there awhile.”

“I'm not following. What exactly is the problem?”

“You know what the problem is, damn it, Saint! Nothing good ever comes of being at Ivy's!” Declan's posture was combative and annoyed. The man was tall, no shrinking violet, and the ladies loved his muscles. He was like brick all over, but his soul was sweet. Oh, he could be a mean son of a gun, and nobody was more loyal, especially in a war zone. But he definitely had a big soft heart for Harper.

Saint sighed. “Look, I can't go out there. I'm sorry.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

“Both, damn it!” He glared at his friend. “Try to understand my position.”

“The position of laziness?” Declan raised a brow. “What do you mean, understand your position?”

“It means I'm not going to crowd the girls. Not going to ride shotgun on them. Leaving them the hell alone. Okay?” Declan was just going to have to accept this.

“This new attitude of yours got birthed when you started training Cameron?”

“Maybe so.” He sighed. “I have to go show Zeus who is boss. Try to relax and not pop one over the girls leaving you out of their party.”

Declan glared at him, then his face cleared. “You asshole. You slept with Cameron. That's what all this new easygoing Saint is all about. You're hanging back!”

Well, there wasn't a whole lot to say to that. “Catch you later at Redfeather's.” He went off, holding Zeus by a lead rope, the horse remarkably stoic for the moment. Declan didn't say anything else, and Saint blew out a breath.

He wasn't going to do anything to screw up the amazing thing that had come into his life—not a chance in hell. For once, he had something that made him really happy. And if he was lucky, maybe she might hang around for a while, might sneak into his bed again. Declan couldn't really understand. He hadn't had a woman like Cameron come over and basically say,
Take me.

Which he had. Which he was afraid he would do again if he got the opportunity.

In fact, he wanted to take her every night for the rest of his life.

Saint wasn't exactly expecting the knock on his door around ten o'clock that evening—hoping hard, but not expecting—but when he did, his heart leaped. He told it to calm down, not to stroke out, and went to the door.

Cameron stood outside, looking saucy and cute in a white sundress and flat tan sandals. He told his instant erection to take a hike; a woman like Cameron wasn't going to want to be rushed. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He glanced past her outside, saw the borrowed truck. No Harper. “What's up?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Of course she could. She could come in, she could stay, she could do whatever she wanted as long as she kept smiling that sweet, sexy smile at him. “What's on your mind?”

She held up a small white bag. “Harper and I drove into town yesterday to look at wigs for Judy—or Ivy, rather. We went to show them to Ivy today. We also wanted to see if she'd heard from her beloved cousin. And it never hurts to tweak the competition between our booths,” she said mischievously.

Saint massaged his chest, hoping his heart would quit trying to jump out.

“I'm sure it was a pleasant trip, as it always is.”

“I guess so.” Cameron handed him the white bag. “These are for you.”

He took it, eying her. Opened the bag. A box of multicolored condoms was nestled inside, a label describing the pleasure the wearer would receive visible on the side of the box. His gaze met hers again, his brow raised.

“Just in case we used your only one last night,” Cameron said.

He didn't have a huge supply, that was true. It had been a long time since he'd had a reason for backstock. His brain calculated the dress, the condoms, the late night visit. “What's the dress for? You going out to the Honky-tonk?”

“The dress is for you.”

Dear God, she was trying to kill him. No other woman had ever given him dress sex before. Having several sisters, he knew what it meant when a woman put on a sexy dress for a man. It meant she wanted him to think she was beautiful, wanted him to see her as desirable.

All of which he did. He swallowed hard. “Do you want me to take you out dancing or something?”

“No.”

That left only one thing. And maybe it was the obvious thing, but a guy never liked to take a woman like Cameron for granted. Declan had been wrong—he wouldn't be getting this visit if he'd gone running out to the Honky-tonk like a pansy-ass worrywart. “It's a pretty dress.”

She looked at him, her blue eyes huge. “Thank you.”

Her springy red curls danced from her head down her shoulders in a wild array. God, he loved her hair, her
mouth—everything.
But that fire-engine-red hair got him every time. Even the light dusting of hair between her legs was red. His whole body was screaming with lust and desire and a sudden burning need to get inside her.

He tossed the bag onto the sofa. “So I'm going to take the pretty dress off you now.”

She watched him silently as he approached her. He backed her up against the wall, slid one hand under her skirt, ran his palm along her thigh. Kissed her long and slow and deep, leaving no part of her mouth untasted. Made sure she felt his desire for her pushing up against her body. Ran his other hand under her skirt to find the other thigh, softly stroking the delicate skin there. Ran his palms up under her buttocks to crush her against him—and was stunned when he didn't encounter panties. Just rose-petal-soft, bare ass cheeks.

He paused, taking his mouth from hers, gazed into her eyes. She stared back, waiting. He moved to her neck to kiss it, then bite it gently, massaging her ass in his hands, feeling her nearby heat so close and sweet. She moaned, moving against him, but he wasn't about to let her draw him in so fast tonight. If she'd come here for loving, he was going to make sure she left happy.

“Saint,” she murmured, and it was a request. He liked hearing his name on her lips; he planned to hear it a lot tonight. She was going to be hot and wild, and by the time he was done he'd have made sure she knew he was branding her as his.

He moved down to the lace that just caressed the top of her breasts. Moved one hand up long enough to shove the strap down, freeing a hard, rosy nipple for his mouth. She let out a gasp, her body coming off the wall. He pinned her there again, keeping her tight to the unyielding surface so he could torture her inch by inch. She whimpered when he sucked the delicate bud into his mouth, crying out his name again as he crushed her ass against him. He liked her this way, unable to get to him, unable to tease him. He nibbled lightly at the extended, swollen bud, then nipped at her breast, kissing away the torment.

Moved down to her waist, where the bodice molded her curves in a buttoned path to her hips. Ignored that, and got on his knees, pushing the skirt out of his way. Sucked in a breath. “God, babe, you're beautiful.” Maybe he wasn't going to make it all the way through this tease-and-torture fest. Maybe he was only torturing himself. He'd known what he would find—delicious peachlike nakedness, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. But seeing her made him throb, a tight hardness that begged to get inside her. Hard, fast.

He slipped his tongue inside her, and she yelped his name in a plea for release. But she wasn't going to get that release yet. He drew his tongue back and forth slowly on the underside of her clit, teasing it into a hardness that begged for mercy.

“Saint,” she pleaded, and it was music knowing how much she wanted him, how much she loved what he did to her.

He kissed her gently, taking his time, drawing her into his mouth, rolling the sensitive tip lightly between his lips and tongue. She dug her fingers into his hair, her legs buckling slightly. But he had her, his hands reaching up under her buttocks to keep her a still prisoner. He teased her opening, her wetness signaling how ready she was for him. Slid his tongue inside her velvet heat, hearing her gasp, cry out, beg him. He was about to burst, didn't think he could stand another second, would go mad if he didn't have her. Gently, he drew her clitoris completely between his lips, suckling it—and slid two fingers slowly inside her, growing hard as a rock himself when she came fast and violently, shrieking out his name.

“I've got you, babe,” he said, and she slid down the wall. He caught her, laying her gently on the floor. He tore off his jeans and she helped him, her hands reaching for him before he was even naked. They both grabbed for the bag, ripped out the box of condoms, spraying them everywhere in their haste to get it on him—hot neon orange, but he didn't give a shit at the moment. At last he slid inside her, gasping with relief as her hot sex enveloped him. She was searing, her heat wrapping around him, a pleasure he couldn't stop driving into. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him deep inside her. He tried his damnedest to hold on, wanted to hear her scream his name several more times, but she was too hot, too sweet. He came, and from somewhere inside a dark tunnel he heard someone groan, “Oh, God, babe. You drive me mad.”

It was him, his voice. Somewhere outside of his head, blinding him to anything but the pleasure and the wonder of her. His body was in hers, buried deep inside. He never wanted to let her go—he was doing a terrible job of resisting this woman, when he knew very well he should be.

Hellfire. She was going to kill him—death either by awesome, mind-bending sex, or when she finally left him.

Either way, he had a bad feeling pain was in his future.

“So I hear,” Declan said at Redfeather's a week later, “or rather,
we
hear—”

“No you don't.” Saint shook his head. “You don't hear a damn thing.”

It had been quiet far too long. His friends' silence had been deafening; he'd sensed them storing up their curiosity for days. How could they not be curious—when Cameron's borrowed truck was parked in his drive every night? Somebody was bound to notice, and when they did, the new topic of Hell would be Cameron and him. Trace grinned at him, the sheriff had a wry smile on his face—probably sympathizing with his position—and Declan's brow was raised so high it was reaching for his hairline.

“Well, we do hear
something,
” Declan said, and Trace nodded. Saint merely waited for the ribbing to commence.

“We've decided to pitch in and buy Cameron a new set of tires,” Trace said.

He looked at his friends and lounged in the booth as if he wasn't aware that something was about to be sprung on him. “Why?”

“So that squatty old truck I lent her isn't an eyesore in front of your house every night,” Steel said.

Ah, the trap. They were digging for information like seasoned
archaeologists.
He shook his head. “Hope you think of a way to gift her with tires without upsetting her; she's got a lot of pride. And besides, I don't mind the truck. However she gets to my house suits me just fine.”

The truth was, she was driving him mad. They never made plans. He never asked her if she was coming by. She never asked if she could.

She'd just shown up at his door a couple nights, and then when he'd realized he might be on a lucky streak, he'd left the door unlocked. He kept food he knew she liked and beverages he knew she preferred in the house. He trained her in the mornings, and she claimed he also instructed her at night.

It was he who was getting an education. He didn't know what to make of a woman who seemed to want only his time. No commitment, no hassle.

Some nights they just sat and watched TV, eating popcorn, petting Lucky. Most nights, she curled up in his arms, worn out from her day. He knew she was spending afternoons schooling Charlie, then heading over to Steel's, going over training manuals. Some mornings she fit in lessons for Ivy's girls, just as she'd promised, and held meetings to plan the parade. So he never took it for granted that she was coming by, but he always hoped.

He knew one day it would be over. On her terms, when she decided she was ready to move on.

But right now, he was grateful as hell for the ride. He loved holding her, loved the scent of her hair under his chin, adored the feel of her ass tucked up against his crotch when she slept with her back to him, his arms cradling her.

He was permanently stiff, that was for sure.

“So is it serious?” Trace asked.

“Of course not.” Saint drank his beer, eyed the plateful of steaming something Stephen put in front of each of them. When Stephen walked away, they glanced at one another. Clearly Harper wasn't cooking in Stephen's kitchen tonight.

“What the hell is it?” Saint asked.

“Chicken meat loaf?” Steel guessed.

“Spam lasagna?” Declan lifted a piece of it. “Nope, no noodles.”

“Maybe pork hash,” Trace said.

It was pretty unappetizing, as usual. “We never know anyway,” Saint said. They all took tentative bites, chewed, gulped beer. “Ask Stephen to bring us some whiskey. This is going to require a whiskey chaser.”

Steel waved him over, put their order in for something stronger. Saint dug in for another bite.

“Never does taste like chicken,” Declan said.

“We wish it tasted like chicken, or even a squirrel that was run over by a car where the license plate had at least been seen and the animal hadn't been lying in the road for a week,” Trace said.

“It's not half bad, if you pretend it's chicken cordon bleu,” Steel said, and they all glared at him.

“What the hell do you know about chicken cordon bleu, Steel?” Saint demanded.

“Not a damn thing, really, but I use my imagination.” He waved his fork. “It's better to use your imagination than to try to guess what you're eating.”

There was truth to that. Saint dug up another forkful, thinking how great Hell was. Here were his friends, the hot needles that liked to jab him every now and again, making him appreciate the camaraderie and the good times.

“You look like a man who's pretty happy these days, Saint,” Steel observed.

“I'm the same guy I was last week. Although I might not be the same man I was once I finish eating this.” He swigged down a generous mouthful of whiskey and sighed. “What do you hear from Judy?”

“Not much. Barely anything.” Steel looked destroyed. “Says she's doing fine, enjoying her visit with her sister.” He sighed heavily. “Every hour she's away seems like a day.”

A couple of months ago, he would have thought Steel was a bit whipped to have said something like that. But now, when he compared his feelings for Cameron with the sentiments Steel was expressing, he totally got it. And his friends were right: He was changing, thanks to Cameron.

“She'll be back, Steel,” he said. “She's just having a catch-up with her sister and her kids.” Saint's gaze went to Trace and Declan, who were keeping the same guilty secret about Judy's illness that he was.

“I know. Doesn't make it any easier. I miss that bright smile and the trouble she stirs up.”

The Outlaws glanced at one another, went back to digesting the indigestible on their plates.

“You know,” Declan said, “I now realize that all those MREs in the Navy prepared me for coming home to Stephen's cooking.”

They laughed because it was true, and because there was no place any of them would rather be at this moment.

Except bed. I'd rather be hitting the sack with Cameron. Or the sofa, the floor, anywhere.

I'm crazy about her.

He just hoped he didn't end up like Steel, with only a Saturday Night Special to show for his troubles.

Which was why he'd made it his holy grail to make sure that Cameron never left his bed without a damn good reason to return. He was
not
a once-a-week kind of guy.

He was beginning to think he might be the kind of guy who settled down—for good.