Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1 (20 page)

Not that she cared. What she cared about right now, at this very second, was Rebel undressing. Her clothes might have come off in a flurry, but his were going much slower.
This man
, she thought, stuck somewhere between amusement and irritation.
He drives me crazy.

The shirt was unbuttoned first, and she managed to keep her little noises to herself when all those muscles were laid bare again. She’d seen that before. But the pain of holding it in had her eyes fluttering, and she almost missed the best part.

God, he was so good with his hands, and he wasn’t even touching her. Just watching him undo the buckle and then the button fly was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Oh, it hurt, hurt so deeply that the pain took over and left her unable to do anything, not a single thing a mature, experienced woman would do in a situation like this. She couldn’t suggestively offer to remove those jeans for him, couldn’t tell him that she’d roll the condom on and a whole lot more, couldn’t even say that she’d never seen a man as physically gifted as he so clearly was.

He wasn’t circumcised. Bigger than Darrin was too, to say nothing of Bryce and his immaturity personified. Bigger, but not
too
big.

The pain rippled out from her center and threatened to rip her in two. It hurt so bad that she started to moan.

“Wait for me,” he scolded. And then he had the condom on and was spreading her legs out as far as they would go. He crawled between them, the bed shuddering as first one knee, then the second hit the sheets.

Come on
, she thought, surprised at her own impatience. She was splitting in two, right down the middle. Only he could make her whole again, and he didn’t seem to be in a huge hurry.

Come. On. Please.
But the words wouldn’t come

“My,” he grunted as flesh hit flesh without a moment to spare. “My Madeline.”

And then he was inside her, and she couldn’t tell if he just made her that much wetter than she’d ever been or if the condom was extra lubricated, but he slid in with no resistance.

Everything spasmed in a blinding flash of pleasure that erased any trace of the pain. Her muscles clamped down on any and every part of him she could touch. She tried to bite back the scream and managed just to bite his shoulder.

And then she was empty.

And alone.

For a hysterical moment, she was afraid she’d dreamed the whole thing, the most terrifyingly real wet-dream she’d ever had. But then her eyes decided to focus again and she saw that he was sitting on his heels, digging around for something on the floor.

What was he doing? Getting dressed?
Leaving?
One fucking thrust—literally—and that was it?

What had she done?

“Rebel?” Excellent. Even to her own ears, she sounded like she was going to cry. Hell, if he was leaving, she really would break in two.

Then he stood and turned, and she saw the two condoms in his hand. “I—sorry, Madeline,” he said, his voice in that low growl that had gotten her into this position. “I just—so sorry, babe. But give me a minute.” And he crawled back into bed, back between her legs, back to where she was still slick and wet. “Just a minute.”

The light bulb went off when his mouth found one breast as his hips began to move again, and she felt as foolish as she could while still experiencing this much arousal. Technically, that was a premature ejaculation.

“Been so long,” Rebel murmured as he moved to her other nipple. He licked, then sucked in a deep breath. The cool air rushed over the wetness he’d left on her skin, and she shook. Then his mouth fell on her again, like she was the perfect tip of a soft-serve cone and he was hungry. “You were so...” Another lick, another breath, another shaking shiver. “I wasn’t ready.” He reached down between her legs and hit the spot that hadn’t split in two, hadn’t healed whole yet. “I’ll be ready this time.”

She opened her mouth, wanting to tell him that it was okay, no really, it was—words she’d said before, on a semi-regular basis to Darrin. Words she’d maybe come to believe just a little too much. But she didn’t get the chance before those hands were being so very good to her. And nothing came out of her mouth.

As one, then two fingers rubbed in and his thumb rubbed out, the spasms shook her again and again. But this time, they didn’t hurt. This time, the spasms were nothing but warm waves of satisfaction, each leaving her limper than the last.

She felt so good, so much better than she’d ever felt. He hadn’t left her—no, instead, he’d come back with reinforcements and a promise of more, better, best. Neither of her previous lovers had ever come back for her. No one had ever given her what she wanted. No one had ever even tried to guess what she really needed.

Rebel did. And he was going to do it again.

The minute must have been up because he sat back on his heels and rolled on the second condom. Then he grabbed her legs and tucked her knees up under his arms.

“What—” What, what? Just admit that she had no idea what he was doing? That she’d never done anything more adventurous than the standard missionary?

He froze. She could feel him, just inches from being back inside her. “You trust me?”

Well, hell. She was in no position to argue otherwise. And she wanted him. She could only hope it wouldn’t be too weird. “Yes.”

“Then trust me.” With her legs still captive to his arms, he leaned forward, plunged in, and—and—

Light whiteness flooded her system, again and again, until she thought she would burn up from the heat. She wasn’t doing anything—anything but holding onto those biceps for dear life. He was doing it all, and, oh, God, he was doing it all so much better than she’d even allowed herself to think. Each stroke in was much tighter around him than even that first thrust. Each pull back hit something new inside her, something she was certain she’d never known was there before. And through it all, Rebel’s hips kept pace with the low moaning of her name, the sound of pure sex on the wind.

“Mad-e-line,” he repeated, over and over, leaning down harder and harder and thrusting harder and harder until he couldn’t say anything.

Until she couldn’t keep the scream inside. As it flowed out of her, everything—her mind, her hands, her legs, her everything—clamped down with enough force that even Rebel couldn’t stroke his way through it. But maybe he didn’t need to, because his head shook down, surrounding her in black silk, and he shuddered as she held him still.

And then they collapsed into each other, panting.

He didn’t say anything, She felt like she should be saying—doing—something, but what? Thank him for the amazing orgasm?
Thank you
—please. It would sound like he’d washed her car or something. Tell him he was the best she’d ever had? Shit. Could that get any more trite?

Tell him she loved him?

Did she love him?

Rebel rolled off her, which was a condom-driven necessity, she knew. But she wanted to hold on to him in an irrational sort of way that had nothing to do with proper usage of prophylactics. Even as he sat on the edge of the bed, she kept her hand on the small of his back until he stood and headed for the bathroom.

Yes. Right. She needed to get cleaned up too. Using the bathroom after intercourse helped flush the system, reducing urinary tract infections. She knew that, had told countless teenaged girls that.

But she didn’t want to get out of the bed, most especially if he got back in it.

She didn’t have a choice. “Your turn, beautiful,” he said as he walked around her cabin, art in motion.

And still, she couldn’t say anything for fear the wrong thing would come out, starting with, “Will you still be here when I get out?” and ending with, “I love you.” She couldn’t tell which one would be worse. She only knew they’d both come out wrong.

She hurried, thinking,
please be there, please don’t leave
, even as she was fully aware she was being ridiculous. He’d already sent that horse home. He wouldn’t get far, right?

She came flying out of the bathroom faster than she knew was prudent, but she couldn’t help herself. When it came to Rebel, she was increasingly unable to help herself, she realized.

He was on his side in bed, thank God, the sheet draped just so around his waist and nothing else. “I haven’t slept in a bed in a long time.” He was half asleep, she realized, his accent a whole lot thicker than normal. “If it’s okay with you...”

“Stay, stay.” Finally—she’d not only said something, but given the smile that managed to tug his lips up, it had been the right something.

She slid in next to him, and his hand draped over her waist until it was nestled between her breast and the bed. His skin, pressed along her entire back, felt cool against hers. “Madeline,” he murmured in her ear. “My love.” And then his body relaxed and his breath evened out.

My love.

She lay there a long time, feeling him twitch through dreams of God-only-knew-what, repeating those two words over and over.

My love.

His.

Rebel stood in the shower. Well, it was supposed to be a shower, he guessed. He remembered that the British had once called the first bathrooms water closets, back when he cared enough about British art to take three whole classes on it. That’s what her bathroom was, a water closet. The concrete shower floor was a step down from the bathroom floor, which led him to suspect someone had cut a hole in the floor to wedge this thing in here. He had no idea what kept her pipes from freezing in the winter—but then, she probably didn’t know either. He had just about a foot and a half of elbow room, front and back, so he kept banging into the caddy full of smoothing shampoos and taming conditioners Madeline had hung over the showerhead.

But the water was hot, so he had nothing to complain about. It was a piss-poor shower, but it beat the hell out of the one he didn’t have. And, after all, he thought with a shake of his head, his hair would be smooth after this.

He grinned again. Maybe he should have awoken her before the shower. He’d thought about it for a long time this morning after the birds started singing. But, frankly, he probably needed a day or two to recover from last night. His groin muscles felt like they’d run 26.2 miles by themselves, although his dick was not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. Besides, she’d been too pretty to wake up.

Madeline liked to sleep on her back. When he’d woken up this morning, the sheet had been down around her hips, leaving the canvas of her flesh bare for him to study. She had faint tan lines around her wrist and neck, but not on her face, which was most likely explained by the different lotions with various SPFs she had crammed around the bar sink in the bathroom. The hair below her belly and on her arms was pale and faint, just catching the morning light that filtered through the window above the kitchen sink, giving her a little bit of an ethereal glow.

Her mouth had been open, just a little, and the corners had curved up with a delicateness that seemed at odds with the toughness with which she normally carried herself. Add in that natural blush that gave her cheeks a hint of rose, and she looked like a woman who had gotten exactly what she wanted in bed.

He hadn’t picked up a paint brush in a long time, not since he’d left New Mexico, but he was unexpectedly itching to paint her, nude like this, something between Titian and Marilyn Monroe. A beauty for the ages.

He found himself staring at that sink of lotions and makeup. Maybe a third of what Anna had constantly cluttered up their apartment bathroom with. The bathroom said low-maintenance.

But it didn’t say no maintenance.

Wrapping himself in the only towel he could find, he tiptoed out. She was on her side now, but her eyes were still closed and, after a minute of watching her, her chest still rose and fell evenly. So she wasn’t a top-of-the morning kind of person.
Or maybe
, he thought with proud grin,
she’s just a little more tired than normal.

Nothing some coffee couldn’t fix.

Except that meant he’d have to make some coffee. He stood in front of the contraption and tried to remember how to make coffee in something that didn’t involve an open fire. Well, first, a man had to locate the various parts.

He had his head poked under the sink, trying to find a filter or something, when the coffeemaker above him beeped, startling him so that he hit the back of his head on the counter. The coffee was brewing automatically.
How about that
, he thought, staring at the darn thing. Who knew? Coffeemakers that made their own coffee.

Sure, this cabin was cramped, but really, it wasn’t too bad. Hot water, automatic coffee pots, soft bed with a soft woman in it. It was the kind of thing a man could get used to, especially when the winter winds began to blow.

But if he got too used to this, then that would mean no more tents, no more rivers, no more forests. And, as low maintenance as Madeline seemed, she didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who would give up automatic coffee, hot showers and soft beds on a permanent basis.

His gut sank a little.

He heard the bed squeak at the same time she said, “Good morning.”

Yeah, it had been good, right up until reality smacked him in the face. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around and see her right now, because an ethereal beauty like her was just that, ethereal. So light and delicate that she would float away on the breeze.