MisplacedCowboy (10 page)

Dylan didn’t miss the bitterness in her voice. He tried to
imagine growing up without his family. When his dad had died of a massive
heartache while rounding up strays in the far western paddock, Dylan’s whole
life had turned upside down, but he and Hunter had drawn strength from each
other and love from their mum. What must it be like to not have that sense of
security?

He gave Monet a slow smile, wanting to take away the sorrow
he saw in her eyes. Wanting to make her laugh again. He loved her laugh. Just
as much as he loved her.

“Mum’s great,” he said. “And Hunter’s not that bad either,
if you ignore his smelly feet. I swear I’ve had to throw him into the cattle
dip more than once just so I could take a breath of fresh air.”

Her eyebrows pulled into a frown. “What the hell is a cattle
dip?”

He laughed, pulling at the waistband of his jeans as he
straightened in his chair. After their meal of roast lamb, baked potatoes,
pumpkin, steamed green beans and carrots—all smothered in rich brown gravy—he
was lucky he could even move. If he were truthful with himself, he’d say he’d
eaten so much so he didn’t have to think about his situation. About the damn
word
home
. And yet here he was, talking about it.

“A cattle dip is a long trough-like concrete tank filled
with a chemical solution that the cattle walk through to keep them protected
from ticks.”

Monet’s frown deepened. “And you threw your brother in
this?”

Dylan grinned. “Yep. Often. Especially after he’d gotten all
dolled up for a night on the town. He’d come out of his room stinking of
aftershave and, before he knew it, I’d crash tackle him, drag him outta the
house kicking and screaming and throw him in.” He scratched at his whiskers,
enjoying the stunned disbelief on Monet’s face. “Of course, Hunter being
roughly the same size as me meant I pretty much always ended up in the drink
with him. He’s a strong bloody bastard after all, but it was worth it.”

She shook her head. “You do actually
like
your brother,
don’t you?”

Dylan couldn’t stop his laughter. “Bloody oath.” A recent
memory of Hunter declaring he wasn’t responsible for filling Dylan’s boots with
cow manure—even as he washing his hands clean of the incriminating
evidence—came to Dylan, bringing with it a sudden jolt of homesickness. He
missed his twin. A lot. This was the first time they’d been more than a few
thousand kilometers apart and Dylan hadn’t realized just how lost he felt
without Hunter. Was it because he usually shared his happiest moments with his
brother, and Hunter wasn’t here in New York to share his happiness now?

He let out a soft grunt. “Yeah, I love my brother. But I
wouldn’t be caught dead telling him that.” He pointed a finger and gave her a
stern look. “And if you tell him, I’ll flat out deny it.”

Monet laughed. “In that case, what
should
I say you
told me about him?”

“Tell him I said he was as ugly as a hatful of arseholes.”

Monet’s eyebrows shot up. “As ugly as what?”

He grinned.

“Wait, didn’t you say you were twins? Identical twins?”

Dylan reached for the bottle of beer he’d been slowly
drinking throughout the night. “Yeah, but I’m the good-looking one.”

Monet shook her head again. “Okay, I cry uncle. I don’t
think I’ll ever grasp the way you Aussies talk.”

Dylan raised the bottle to his lips and dropped her a wink.
“No worries, love,” he said. “You’ll get the hang of it. Give us another month
or so…”

He trailed away, the realization of what he’d just uttered
robbing him of the ability to finish the sentence. A month or so. Not a day or
even a week, but a month.

A thick lump settled in his throat and he lowered the
bottle, knowing if he took a mouthful he’d have fuck-all chance of swallowing
it.

A month or so.

Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he’d obviously made up
his mind he and Monet were still going to be in each other’s company. But
where?

A tight vice clamped around his chest and he stared at the
woman opposite him. The American artist who should have been just a friend he’d
made through Annie.

He drew a breath. There wasn’t a fucking hope in hell Monet
could ever be
just
a friend. Not anymore. Not after she’d made him feel
so…so… Bloody hell. So damn complete.

He placed his beer on the coffee table, leaning forward to
rest his elbows on his knees, studying her. “Monet—” he began.

“It’s tradition here in America,” she cut him off, her gaze
falling to the empty dishes strewn across the table separating them, “to share
what we’re thankful for.” She picked up her wineglass, stared at the contents
and then raised her gaze to his. “I’m thankful for you, Dylan Sullivan. You’ve
made me laugh more times in the last five days than I think I have in a month.”

Her confession wrapped around his soul. His heart. He stared
at her. Wanted her. It was a predicament he had no solution for—she was a New
York artist and he was an Australian cowboy. And despite being from completely
different worlds, he wanted her. Loved her.

It was as simple as that.

“You know what I’m thankful for, Monet?”

She shook her head, her gaze never leaving his face.

He gave her a slow smile. “I’m thankful Annie and I got our
wires crossed. I’m thankful she went to Australia and I came here. I’m thankful
Qantas lost my luggage and took so bloody long to find it and I’m thankful I
finally pulled my finger out and called my brother.”

Monet’s chest rose and fell on a shaky breath. “Because?”

Dylan straightened to his feet, rounded the coffee table
and, with a gentle tug on her hand, drew Monet up to stand before him, thigh to
thigh, hip to hip, chest to chest. “Because it means I can do this.” He lowered
his head and brushed his lips over hers. “And this,” he murmured, a heartbeat
before he slid his arms around her back and under her knees, scooped her off
her feet and carried her to her bedroom.

He had no fucking clue what was going to happen after
tonight, but he knew one thing beyond doubt. He was deeply in love with Monet
Carmichael, and right now, he was going to make love to her.

The way he’d wanted to the moment he’d first laid eyes on
her five days ago.

Chapter Nine

She should have stopped him from lowering her to her bed and
undoing her fly with sure fingers. Stopped him from stretching on top of her
and kissing her senseless.

She should’ve stopped him from exploring her mouth and lips
with his tongue as his hand ran over her flesh to cup her sex, his fingertips
stroking the seam of her pussy with gentle pressure.

Yes, Monet should have done all those things.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she planted her feet on the bed and shoved her ass
off the mattress so she could wriggle her jeans over her hips, all the while
continuing to kiss Dylan with a hungry greed she should be embarrassed by.

But she wasn’t. Because she couldn’t fight this anymore. And
if Dylan’s hands on her body and his tongue in her mouth were anything to go
by, neither could he.

Annie…

Her best friend’s name whispered through her mind. She
moaned, part in guilt, part because Dylan’s fingers dipped into her sex and
stroked the throbbing button of her clit.

Annie. You can’t do this to Annie.

Fresh guilt rolled through her, threading through the sheer
pleasure of Dylan’s fingers in her pussy. Tainting it. She moaned again, this
time from misery, and pressed her hands to Dylan’s chest, giving him a shove.

“We,” she panted against his lips, “we can’t, Dylan. Can’t
do this to Annie.”

He lifted his head, and for a split second Monet’s breath
caught in her throat at the raw desire in his green eyes. And then the corner
of his mouth curled into a slow smile and her breath left her on a shaky
whimper of utter want.

“Apparently Annie and my brother,” he murmured, teasing her
clit with gentle pressure, “are doing their bit for foreign affairs.”

Monet gazed up into Dylan’s eyes, heart thumping a little
harder at the way he’d stressed the word
affairs
. “Do you mean…” She
couldn’t bring herself to say it. What if she’d misunderstood?

Dylan gave her one slow nod. “I do, and they are. Which
means I can do this…” He slipped one finger, then another into her sex. Deep
into her sex. And wriggled them. “Without feeling like I’m a deceiving
bastard.”

She hissed, arching her spine as ribbons of pleasure
unfurled through her body.

“And this.” He lowered his head to explore the base of her
throat with his lips.

“And this,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand from her wet
pussy to inch her shirt over her belly, her rib cage, until he’d exposed her
breasts to the room and captured her tight nipple with his teeth.

He nipped the pebbled tip of flesh, sucked on it through the
silk of her bra and then nipped it again. Monet gasped, the squirming tension
in her core escalating quickly. She pressed her thighs together, the ache
inside her—the need for Dylan to finally fill her with his cock—almost
overwhelming. There was no guilt anymore. No fear of being traitorous to her
best friend. No self-doubt or disgust. With Annie and Dylan’s brother doing
their own for the U.S.-Australia relationship, there was no reason for Monet to
hold back on her desire for Dylan. Her response to Dylan.

And by the way Dylan was suckling her taut nipple, he wasn’t
holding back anymore either.

He kneaded her breasts with sure, strong fingers, the
calloused texture of his hands scratching on the silk of her bra. It was a
minute detail, a tiny sensory recognition in an ocean of stimulation and
pleasure. She could hear the roughness of his palms catching the material every
time he raked his hands over her breasts and it aroused her even more. That his
hands were roughened by a life of hard manual work, that his fingers were
calloused from roping cattle and riding horses… The sheer masculinity of his
touch sent waves of raw need through her and she succumbed. Willingly let
herself get lost in every sensation.

“Oh yes, Dylan,” she murmured, fisting her hands in his
hair. “That feels so good.”

In response, he drew harder on her nipple, laving its tip as
he did so, soaking her bra. She closed her eyes and pushed her hips high, her
pussy pulsing with urgent demand.

His hands rasped over her skin, down to her hip. They dipped
beneath the waistline of her panties and cupped her ass. Her heart rate
quickened, tripping over a beat when the tips of his fingertips brushed the
clenching ring of her anus.

A soft gasp escaped her and Dylan lifted his head, his green
gaze an inferno of desire. “I won’t touch you there if you don’t want me to,
love.”

The low words stroked over Monet like a caress. She
shivered. There were many things she’d done in her sex life. She wasn’t a
prude, but her ass had always been off-limits. There were other parts of her
body that enjoyed being touched, sucked, licked and fucked, thank you very
much. Other orifices. But when Dylan’s fingers feathered over her puckered
hole…

Another shiver rippled through her and she shifted in his
cupping hands. Heat filled her cheeks and she caught her bottom lip with her
teeth. “I…I’m not…”

Dylan shook his head. “Shhh. When,
if
, you’re ready,
you tell me. Otherwise it’s a no-go zone. Promise.”

I’m ready.

The words almost slipped from her lips. There wasn’t a
molecule in her body that didn’t trust Dylan. That didn’t want to go with him
to whatever plane of pleasure he took her to.

She studied his face, her pulse wild in her throat, her
mouth dry, her pussy a hot throb, and nodded. “When I’m ready,” she said, her
voice a husky whisper.

Dylan’s nostrils flared. “Until then, there’s always this.”
He smoothed one hand between her thighs and dipped two fingers into her folds.

Shards of wicked sensation sank into Monet’s very center.
She whimpered, lifting one leg to hook it around Dylan’s back. Deeper. She
wanted his fingers deeper.

No, that wasn’t right. She wanted
all
of him. Now.

“Dylan,” she murmured, sliding her heel up his back as she
tried to draw his cock closer to her sex. “Inside me. I want…” His fingers
wriggled within her heat and she released a shaky moan. “Please fuck me. I can’t
wait…any longer.”

“Yes you can.” His lips grazed the cleft between her
breasts, up her throat to her earlobe. “I want you so fucking much, love, but
I’m not rushing.” His lips nipped at her earlobe. “I’m going to take this slow.
Make you come over and over again. With my fingers…” He stroked her g-spot with
two purposeful swipes and, as if to prove his point, liquid heat unfurled
through her cunt. “With my mouth, my tongue.”

He nibbled on her neck, each gentle bite sending fresh
moisture to her pussy.

“Oh God.” She couldn’t stop her moan.

He explored her neck with his lips, all the while seeking
the sweet spot within her sex time and again with his fingers. Just when she
didn’t think she could survive much longer, when the orgasm building in her
core threatened to detonate, he withdrew his hand and eased down her body.

Dylan stripped her jeans and panties completely off with
excruciating slowness before, with a low groan, he captured her clit with his
mouth.

She cried out, the abrupt change in stimulation providing a
wicked jolt of electric sensations. He continued to work her body that way,
building her climax to an exquisite crest with his mouth and then swapping to
his fingers, letting her orgasm ebb to a thrumming need before returning to her
pussy, her clit, with his mouth and tongue again. Over and over, layering
pleasure upon pleasure. Building tension upon unbearable tension until even the
slight kiss of his breath fanning her inner thighs was enough to almost make
her scream with release.

And all the while, she begged for more. Begged for
fulfillment. Pleaded with him to bury himself to the root in her cunt and fuck
her.

She’d never used such words before, but the raw want Dylan
had awoken, the utter craving for his turgid cock and the completion it would
bring pushed her there. She scraped at his shoulders with her nails, a distant
part of her mind recognizing he was still fully dressed.

It didn’t detract from the rapture claiming her. He had
reduced her to a being of pure want. A creature who existed for one reason
only—to be pleasured by him. When he hauled her roughly to his face, her knees
draped over his shoulders, his tongue lapping and rolling over her clit, it was
all she could do not to drown in elemental need. She fisted her hands in the duvet,
stared blankly at the ceiling of her bedroom and hung on, just hung on until,
toes curling, a keening sound tearing from her throat, her climax smashed into
her. Pummeled her. Made her cry out and buck against his face.

He lashed at her sodden pussy and swollen clit with his
tongue, blunt nails digging into her hips. She closed her eyes, wordless pleas
of mercy falling from her parted lips, her breath shallow and rapid.

He gave it to her. A reprieve from the mastery of his touch.

A brief reprieve.

Before the throbbing pulses of her orgasm could begin to
fade, he slid up her body and covered her with his weight, his thumb on her
clit, his flesh on hers.

Flesh. Skin on skin. At some point he’d removed his shirt
and Monet’s mind detonated with the velvet perfection of his warmth sliding
over her. His chest was finely dusted with hair, the strands tickling her
nipples through the thin barrier of her bra.

“Do you have any fucking clue how good you feel against my
body?” The question left him on a growl, his lips working the sensitive area of
her collarbone, her shoulder.

She laughed out a ragged breath, shoving her hips upward
into his incredibly talented hand. “Do you have any fucking clue how good your
fingers feel on my cunt?”

Her cheeks flooded with heat at the vulgar word. Dylan’s
cock nudged her inner thigh. She could tell by the way he groaned he liked the
sound of it passing her lips.

He thrust into her with three fingers, wriggling them within
her tight feminine walls. “I’ve had
your
fingers wrapped around my cock,
remember?” His grin was carnal, hungry. “I know exactly how good it feels.”

“D-Dylan,” she gasped, the mounting pressure in the pit of
her belly telling her she was going to come again. Soon. “I want…my…”

Dylan’s jaw bunched. “Want what, Monnie?”

The request wouldn’t leave her. But nor would the ache in
her core.

He thumbed her clit, one long leg entwining with hers, his
cock a thick pole in his jeans, and it was only then she noticed the tiny beads
of perspiration forming at his temple. How strained must he be, to still be in
control? The realization only made her unspoken desire burn hotter.

“What do you want, Monet?”

She gazed up at him, blood roaring in her ears, her pussy
throbbing, her breasts heavy, her anus contracting. “I-I want…I want you to
fuck my ass with your tongue. Please?”

The plea burst from her in a gushing tumble of words, the
last lost to the mattress when Dylan flipped her onto her belly, hauled her
hips off the bed and ran his tongue over her anus.

New pleasure speared through her. Pleasure Monet had never
experienced before. Forbidden. Wanton. Debauched.

She moaned, loving every sinful lick of rapture claiming her
body as Dylan swiped his tongue over her back passage. She buried her face in
the duvet, her hands bunching the soft material. Dylan’s tongue laved her anus
in hungry swipes, each time pressing with firmer strokes. She whimpered, the
very core of her sex twisting and contracting. Her pussy dripped; she could
feel her juices slicking her flesh. How could a tongue on her ass make her
so…so…aroused? How could Dylan licking her hole feel so good?

Was it the salacious contact? The man responsible for it? Or
both?

With a low groan against her flesh, Dylan smoothed one hand
up her leg, over her inner thigh and dipped a finger into her pussy, all the
while wriggling the tip of his tongue against her anus.

“Oh fuck!” Monet cried into the duvet. “Fuck, that feels…”

He stabbed at her hole again, his fingers inside her in
perfect harmony with the thrusts of his tongue. Tight ribbons of pleasure
whipped through her, threading together, turning into thick fingers of
sensation she could barely fathom.

“So good,” she moaned. Her legs trembled, her belly hitched.
She pushed her ass back toward Dylan’s face, the firm strokes of his tongue,
the wriggling penetration of his finger driving her wild. “So…so fucking…oh,
oh,
oh yes
!”

Her orgasm exploded, a detonation of unexpected, delicious
heat and pulsing tension. She writhed on her knees, her hips bucking
uncontrollably, Dylan continuing to fuck her ass with his tongue as his fingers
plundered her gushing sex.

Throb after constricting throb claimed her pussy. She clawed
at the duvet and whimpered into its silken softness as Dylan took her to a
place of sexual release and awareness she’d never known before.

Monet’s climax pulsed through her, tight and absolute. She
cried out, her legs trembling harder as Dylan withdrew his finger from her
pussy and gently lowered her to the bed.

She rolled her head to the side, the fading force of her orgasm
still beating in her sex. “I…” She stopped, licked her lips and pushed her hair
from her face. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Dylan chuckled behind her, the mattress shifting as he
pushed himself off the bed. “How ’bout ‘more please’?”

Monet snorted. “I think you tongue-fucked me into paralysis.
I can’t feel my limbs.”

She waited for him to laugh. When he didn’t, she twisted on
the bed, looking over her shoulder to find the bedroom empty. “Dylan?”

Silence.

Monet frowned. She righted herself on the bed, settling onto
her knees as she chewed her bottom lip. Where did he go? Should she go after
him? What was he—

The question died in her mind as Dylan strode back into her
bedroom. Naked. Completely naked.