MisplacedCowboy (6 page)

“Mmmm. Where’s your hat?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “My hat? Don’t life-drawing models
normally strip off their clothes, not put more on?”

It was a stupid thing to say. He was trying to be funny, to
forget how much he wanted to bury himself in her wet heat and instead, he
sounded like a desperate wanker.

For a long moment, Monet didn’t answer. Silence filled the
apartment, the only sound the soft noise of New York on the other side of the
window. And then he heard her let out a ragged breath and she was looking at
him from beside the easel again. “Take off your shirt, cowboy.” She paused.
“Please?”

Dylan’s pulse turned to a rapid hammer in his throat. He
studied her, knowing what he was about to do was dangerous. Dangerous and dumb
and wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong.

And he did it anyway.

Without bothering to unbutton his shirt, he hooked his
fingers under the hemline and pulled it over his head.

The apartment’s cool air licked over his exposed flesh,
pebbling his nipples to tight points.

He heard Monet suck in a swift breath.

He met her stare, the pit of his stomach clenching. “Okay?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at him, her lips parted, her
gaze roaming his chest, his torso.

And then she dipped her head in a single nod and stepped
back behind the easel. “Tell me about Farpoint.”

The command was uttered on a husky breath. Dylan looked at
the space she’d just occupied, wishing he could see her. “It’s been in our
family forever. My great-great-great grandfather established it when the new
Governor of New South Wales granted him the land back in 1815. Australia was
still a convict colony back then and the British rulers were running out of
food for the prisoners and settlers. Apparently he became one of the most
successful station owners in the country within a year.”

“Only cattle? Don’t you Australians grow sheep as well?”

He shook his head. “Only cattle at Farpoint. Well, if you
don’t count the ’roos we get all over the place. And the dingoes, snakes,
wombats—”

“Okay okay.” Monet’s snicker came from behind the board. “I
get the point.” She was quiet for another stretch, poking her head around the
side of the easel occasionally only to duck back behind it immediately. “Have
you lived there forever?”

“Yep. Born and bred, I’m afraid. Every time I go to Sydney,
Hunter reckons the gum leaves fall off me like a trail of breadcrumbs.”

“And what do you do on the ranch?”

“Station. Cattle station, remember?”

“Sorry,
station
.” He could hear her gentle sarcasm in
her voice. “What do you do on the station?”

He shrugged. “Everything. Round up the cattle, muster them.
Feed them in drought, sell and breed them. Build fences, fix fences. Go out
shooting wild pigs when they threaten our stock. It’s not boring, I can tell
you that. We grow our own feed for when the rains don’t come, so I even spend quite
a bit of time in the combine harvester. Gotta say, those days are pretty sweet,
sitting in a cushy air-conditioned space on a comfortable seat.”

“Do you ride a horse?”

“Bloody oath. I think I was on a horse before I could walk.
Had my first saddle sore on my arse at five, I reckon.”

She peeked at him from beside the easel, her lips twitching.
“What about kangaroos? Do you ride those as well?”

He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing around
the quiet apartment. “Absolutely. Hunter and I used to race ’em on the
weekend.”

When Monet didn’t snigger at his woeful joke, he looked back
at the easel, only to find her standing beside it. Staring at him.

Or rather, staring at his bare chest and stomach.

He drew in a slow breath, the undeniable desire in her eyes
making him straighten on the stool.

“Oh, don’t do that.” Monet’s low murmur met his ears across
the small space. “When you move, it just… You have an amazing body, Dylan. I
don’t think I’ve seen one like it, and I spent a lifetime at art school looking
at naked men.” Her gaze rose to his face, their stares melding. “The definition
of your muscles…the perfection of their shape…it’s like you’re sculpted from
marble.” She stopped. Caught her bottom lip with her teeth and took a step
back, looking everywhere but at him. “You’d make a fortune in New York as a
life-drawing model at all the art schools.”

Dylan studied her. His groin grew tight. “I’m very
particular about who I strip in front of.”

Monet’s stare jerked back to his face and he couldn’t miss
the way her breasts heaved as she hitched in a quick breath. “Really?”

Holding her gaze, he rose slowly to his feet, released his
buckle, unzipped his fly, pushed his jeans down and kicked them aside.

“Oh god, Dylan.” An expression flickered across her face,
like pained torment. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

He swallowed, unable to look away. “No contact. No touching.
Just drawing…or whatever you’re doing behind the easel. We’re adults, Monet. We
can control ourselves.”

A short, sharp snort came from her. “Speak for yourself,
buster. Looking at you naked…I don’t think it’s drawing I’ll be doing behind
this easel.”

“Do you want me to put my jeans back on?”

His question seemed to scratch at his throat like sandpaper.

She shook her head, lifted her chin and then stepped back
behind the easel again.

Fifteen minutes later, Dylan swore he’d never boast of being
able to control himself again. Every time Monet looked at him, her inspection
moving over his naked form, he had to grit his teeth. His cock was already
semi-hard. It was all he could do to keep it in that state. Conversation became
stilted. He knew why. They were both fighting it, the attraction they felt for
each other. They may be talking about Farpoint and Australia, but they were
thinking about sex. With each other. Taking off his jeans had been—

“Finished.”

He started at Monet’s soft proclamation.

She was standing beside the easel again, one hand resting on
the edge of the board, the fingers of the other gripping a stub of charcoal. A
black smudge streaked across her right cheek and above her left eye. Her hair
tumbled about her face in a cascade of waves. Her color was high, her teeth
worrying her bottom lip. He’d never seen her look so sexy.

He straightened from the stool. “May I look?”

She took a step backward and nodded.

His heart thumped fast. The hairs on the back of his neck
prickled. Snatching up his jeans, he shoved in one leg and then the other.
Being beside her naked would only be asking for more trouble than he was
already in. Jesus, he couldn’t even tuck his dick into his jeans without ropes
of pleasure unfurling through his body.

It took him forever to zip up his fly. His hands shook, for
fuck’s sake.

Jesus bloody Christ, Sullivan. Get a grip.

Monet waited. Silent.

Six steps later—she counted them in an attempt to calm his
charged state—he stood at the easel and let out a long, ragged breath.

“Damn, Monet.” He stared at the drawing before him, his
image captured with such powerful, confident strokes he was at a loss for what
to say. “That’s incredible.”

“Thank you.”

Heart wild in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, he
turned to her.

She was studying her work, an expression of revelation
lighting up her face. “I was wrong,” she said suddenly, her voice hushed. “It’s
not your accent, it’s your grin.”

“What’s my grin?”

“What
gets
me so much about you. I thought it was
your accent but it’s your grin. It’s the sexiest, most infectious, most honest
smile I’ve ever—”

He kissed her before she could finish. He simply had no hope
of stopping himself.

No fucking hope at all.

His mouth laid claim to her lips with savage greed. He
buried his hands in her hair, held her head still and plundered her mouth with
his tongue. He nipped at her bottom lip, flicked at her teeth. When she
whimpered, unable to keep the wanton sound silent, he kissed her with greater
ferocity.

It was as if he was branding her with his kiss. Staking
claim.

She melted against his body and surrendered to his
possession.

His kiss.

When he pulled away from her, she let out a cry, dismay
tearing through her pleasure.

“Shh, love,” he murmured, a second before he hooked his
fingers under the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up over her head.

“Oh god. Is this…should we…”

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He cupped her breasts with his
hands, his stare devouring her exposed flesh as he drew the pads of his thumbs
over her taut nipples. “So gorgeous.”

“Dylan!” She reached for his fly, needing to feel the
pleasure in his body that she saw in his eyes. “I want—”

He shook his head. “Not yet, love. In a moment.” Without
warning, he scooped her off her feet, carried her to the sofa and lowered her
to its cushioned seat. “I want to worship your body with my mouth and tongue
first.”

And with that, he kneeled over Monet and captured her right
nipple with his mouth. One hand cupped and squeezed the pleasure-heavy swell of
her breast, the other smoothed down her rib cage, over her hip to her thigh. He
tugged her leg upward, off the sofa, wrapping it around his hip as he settled
between her spread thighs. Something long and thick and hard nudged at her
folds and Monet gasped, knowing it was his erection, still contained by his
jeans.

Oh God, I should…Dylan…stop…Annie…

The unhinged thought had barely finished whispering through
her mind when Dylan’s mouth left her breast, scoring across the skin of her
chest to lay claim to her other breast. He suckled hard on her nipple, his hand
finding her abandoned breast and kneading with increasing pace. His cock jerked
in his jeans and he pressed it against her sodden sex. She didn’t need to swipe
her fingers over her pussy to know her juices slicked her folds. She’d never
been so aroused. So ready to be fucked.

“Want…” The word tore from her throat in a choked cry. “Want
you inside me.”

Dylan hummed against her flesh. “Not yet, love.” He sucked
on her nipple again, mimicking his mouth’s rhythm on her other breast with
pinching fingers. She moaned, pulling him closer to her heat with her leg.

Or trying to. He wouldn’t let her. Instead, he slid down her
body, his mouth charting a path down the center of her belly to her navel. He
lingered there, his tongue dipping into the shallow well, sending tickling
waves of pleasure radiating out from the point of contact.

She closed her eyes, trying not to giggle. Giggling simply
wasn’t done in such heightened moments of forbidden pleasure, and that’s what
this was—forbidden. Dylan wasn’t hers and what they were doing shouldn’t be
happening. But the way his tongue explored her bellybutton, the teasing flick
it delivered to her sensitive flesh…it was deliciously wonderful. It tickled
and there was nothing she could do but laugh.

Dylan hummed his appreciation. “I love the way you laugh,”
he said, his voice deep and husky. As if to show her how much, he dipped his
tongue into her navel again, holding her firm as she squirmed beneath him. She
didn’t just giggle this time, she laughed outright, arching her back as the
most surreal waves of bliss rolled through her. Bliss forged not just by
Dylan’s hands and mouth on her body, but by his humor and personality. She’d
never had a lover want to make her laugh during sex before and she reveled in
the uninhibited, unabashed joy of it, even as her clit throbbed for attention
and her stomach knotted in anticipation.

“I love the way you
make me
laugh,” she panted back,
fisting her hands in his hair. She thrust her hips upward, wanting his lips on
her flesh.

“What if I do this?” he asked, a second before he tugged her
track pants over her hips and off her legs—and lapped at her pussy with his
tongue. From her perineum to her clit. “Do you love that?”

She wanted to answer him. She really did. She wanted to say,
Oh yes, I definitely love that
. But she couldn’t. All she seemed capable
of was making some sort of whimpering, hiccupping moan of acquiescence. Especially
when, without waiting for her answer, he did it again.

Monet rolled her head from side to side and held on tightly
to the sofa. She needed an anchor, a fix point, something to keep her from
washing away in the pleasure rolling through her.

He circled her clit, flicked it with the tip of his tongue
and then circled it again. All the while, his hands pressed with gentle force
on her inner thighs, spreading her wider. She lay naked before him, a man she’d
known less than twenty-four hours, and couldn’t stop her smile of rapture.
Couldn’t stop her hips rising up to his masterful mouth. Offering herself to
him completely.

“Don’t stop.” She heard the rising urgency in her voice.
“Please, don’t stop.”

His tongue swiped over her clit again before dipping into her
sex. She whimpered, the invasion too sweet for words.

“
Fuck,
you taste good, Monet.” His groan vibrated
against her pussy. “I could stay here forever and just eat you out. Fuck you
with my tongue,” he murmured, said tongue delving in and out of her sex with
wriggling, stroking thrusts. “Paint my lips and chin with your come.”

His words caressed her senses, building the squirming
tension deep in the pit of her belly.

“Make you come over and over again on my face,” he continued
on a hot breath before nipping her clit then sucking it. “Make you scream my
name.”

He thrust his tongue back inside her, his hunger evident in
the fierce groan she felt rumbling in his throat. In the way his fingers
gripped her inner thighs.

“Dylan! Oh Dylan, I’m going to…” She pushed her hips higher,
pushing her pussy closer to his mouth. Her head swam, the soles of her feet
tingled. “To…come! I’m going to…”