Rough Riders Bundle 1(books 1, 2, 3) (44 page)

“Yes, whatever you want.”

“Right now I’ll take this warm, tight pussy since it is wet and ready for me. Turn, bend over and grab the slats.”

Gemma thought she couldn’t get hotter. But his hot words and hot breath and the wicked hot things he planned to do to her blanked her mind to everything but sexual greed. She spun around and curled her fingers through the space separating the wooden boards of the stalls.

His boots nudged the inside of hers. “Wider.”

She kicked her heels out as far as they would go with her jeans stuck around the middle of her calves.

He nuzzled the back of her head. “You trust me, sweets?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll let me do whatever I want to you, right?”

Her stomach swooped—excitement laced with fear. “As long as it feels good.”

“It’ll feel good.” He sank his teeth into the nape of her neck and gooseflesh broke out across her back. “But maybe not at first.”

Before she could demand specifics, Cash’s big, rough hand smoothed down her spine and over her butt. He slapped her ass. Hard. Twice.

She gasped.

He did it again on the other side.
Smack smack
.

“Cash!”

“Hush.”

Four more sharp smacks landed on each one of her butt cheeks. The sting morphed into a burning sensation that wasn’t unpleasant…just a hot reminder of who was in charge.

“Cash?”

“I love it when you say my name,” he growled.

“Why are you—”

“Because you like it.”
Whack whack whack whack
. “You like it because you’ve never had that bite of pain and you’ve always wondered what it’d be like, didn’t you?”
Whack whack whack whack.

“I-I—oh God. Don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me. You are dripping wet,
winyan
.” He inhaled. “I can smell it.” He spanked the same spot three times. And repeated on her left side. “You need a reminder that I ain’t a gentleman, Gemma.”

How had he known she craved a taste of kink? She moaned loudly when two hard slaps close to her anus made it clench.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, peppering her butt with little swats.

Her skin tingled and burned. She cried out even as her pussy wept for more. “No.” The cheeks on her face and on her backside were enflamed.

He spanked her until every inch of her butt bore the mark of his hand.

His harsh breathing reverberated in the humid space as a lover’s whisper. She felt his fingers circling her opening, spreading her wide for him, and finally the hot blunt tip of his cock was poised at her entrance.

Gemma held her breath for that first hard, deep thrust.

She wasn’t expecting the icy cold water he dumped over her burning ass. She screamed.

And Cash slammed into her cunt to the hilt and began to ride her. His fingertips curved into her waist as he kept her in place to take his thrusts.

Water dripped down the outside of her thighs. Her juices coated the inside of her thighs. Her butt cheeks were on fire, yet chilled. She couldn’t see him. She could scarcely suck air into her lungs that wasn’t filled with his scent.

But she could feel him. Lord. There wasn’t a single part of her body that wasn’t intensely aware of every inch of him.

“Touch yourself.” His voice was little more than a hoarse rasp. “Come when I’m inside you. Take me there.”

Although he was fucking her hard and she needed both hands for balance, she managed to reach between her legs long enough to coax another orgasm from her swollen clit, feeling her internal muscles clamp down on his cock.

He plunged into her three more times and stopped, letting loose a guttural groan as semen burst forth in hot spurts. She actually felt his heat. Her inner walls pulsed, keeping that supreme male hardness buried deep inside her.

After the sexual haze cleared from her mind, his legs twitched behind hers. Then his hot tongue zigzagged up her spine causing her to shiver anew.

“See? I think you smell good. You taste good too. Sorta like my own personal salt lick, eh?”

Gemma was too stunned to speak.

“You okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Cash pulled out and swore. “Shit. I forgot a condom.”

“I doubt I can get pregnant at my ripe old age.” She pushed herself off the stall into an upright position. “You know I haven’t been with anyone since Steve. I sort of missed the whole AIDS scare. What about you?”

He laughed softly. “Last time I had sex without a condom was the summer Macie was conceived. That’s why I ain’t got any more kids, a case of the clap, or anything else.”

“Good to know.”

Cash spun her and tugged her into his arms for a sweet, intense, exhaustive kiss.

“What was that for?” she murmured against his chest.

“For letting me be bold and bawdy. For bein’ the hottest, sexiest
winyan
I’ve ever put my hands on. You drive me wild, Gemma Jansen. There’s a million things that need to be done around here and the only thing I can think about is doin’ you. Over and over.”

“You sweet talker.” Gemma kissed his Adam’s apple. “I’m starved. Let’s go inside and get cleaned up before we eat. Where are my clothes?”

“Who cares? I prefer you half-naked. Or all naked.”

“Well, no matter what you prefer, I’m not strutting across the yard wearing nothin’ but my pants around my boots and a big-ass smile.”

“At least you ain’t crying this time.”

Gemma froze. “What?”

“Don’t try to pretend it didn’t happen. I heard you that first night. Up in your room.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Even though part of me understands why you were bawling, another part of me felt like you kicked me in the balls.”

“It wasn’t about you.”

“I know. Don’t mean that it changes the way it made me feel.” He kissed her forehead and draped her shirt and bra around her neck. “Get dressed. I’ll meet you up at the house.” And he was gone.

Cash was wrong. Gemma felt like crying all over again.

‡

M
acie woke up
and didn’t know where she was.

Seemed like that had happened to her a lot lately. Right. She was such a wild child.

She sat up and looked around. Ah. She was in Carter’s trailer.

But where was Carter?

Out in that run-down barn he called a studio? She called out, “Carter?”

No answer.

As she stood and stretched, she squinted at the clock. Five thirty? She’d slept for three hours? Dammit. Why hadn’t Carter woken her up?

Macie remade the bed and noticed nothing else was out of place. No dirty clothes scattered across the carpet. No dog-eared skin magazines stacked on the nightstand. The ceiling fan was even dust-free.

Talk about being a neat freak.

She made a pit stop in the bathroom and wandered into the living area. Not the bachelor pad she expected with leather couches, a big screen TV and neon beer signs. He’d shoved an ugly green and orange plaid sofa beneath the windows. A brown corduroy recliner sporting several silver patches of duct tape was kitty-corner to the door. The pressed wood coffee table didn’t host a pile of remote controls. Or an empty beer can. Or a discarded newspaper. No personal objects covered the scarred surface.

The temporary feel to the place made her sad. Mostly because it reminded her of every place she’d ever lived.

As she walked to the kitchen she realized the trailer wasn’t completely devoid of decoration; an entire wall was devoted to pictures. Family pictures.

In the largest one, eight smiling faces stared back at her. The infamous McKay family. Five men, one girl and a couple who didn’t look old enough to have so many kids. By looking at younger Carter, she realized the picture was several years old. She scrutinized each person. All of the men were tall, with broad chests and shoulders. Three of the sons resembled their father: dark brown hair, rugged features and indigo eyes. Carter and another brother looked more like their mother: curly, lighter hair made up of every shade from red to blond, eyes as blue as the Wyoming sky, and their bone structure ran more to chiseled than rugged. The only girl inherited the best from each of her parents: her father’s dark hair and eyes and her mother’s angular face and blindingly beautiful smile.

Macie inched closer to scrutinize the dozens of snapshots. A picture of a young Carter and his dad dressed in camouflage, sitting next to a dead buck. A photo of one brother on the back of an enormous bucking bull. Another pic of a man in Army fatigues, squinting into the desert sun. A studio picture of his sister in a formal pink ball gown. A McKay man holding a baby and grinning proudly at the camera. A shot of a two-year-old boy standing beside a Christmas tree wearing brand new cowboy boots and a diaper. A dark-haired brother waving from the seat of a John Deere tractor with jagged mountain peaks towering in the background. Carter wearing a cap and gown sandwiched between his parents. A photo of all five McKay sons mounted on horses.

There were more. The McKays fishing. The McKays hunting. The McKays working in the garden, the fields, the barn. The McKays kicking up their bootheels at a pig roast. The McKays gathered around a table piled high with food—laughing, smiling, happy. Normal pictures of a normal family with fond memories.

Something like jealousy twisted in Macie’s gut. She didn’t have any pictures like that. She had a few happy memories from her childhood, but no documentation.

What would it be like to have that connection? To people? To a single place? To have a history?

Someone like Carter would never understand that even as she craved that kind of bond, the idea of permanence scared her to death.

As she studied the second row of pictures, her face burned like she’d peeked into a forbidden window to the subject’s soul. She knew without a doubt Carter had snapped these photos.

The first one was a close-up of his parents. His mother’s hand rested on his father’s weathered cheek. An intense love was apparent on their faces and they seemed unaware of anything but each other.

The second photo was of a dark-haired brother, wearing the duds of a rodeo cowboy. He hung on a metal fence watching the action in the arena, a far-away look in his eyes. The next one was of the man with the baby, except he was alone, exhaustion lining his face as he threw a hay bale from the bed of a beat-up truck, oblivious to the beautiful pearly orange glow of the sunset behind him. The black and white picture of his sister showed her grinning in pigtail braids, not yet woman, not quite girl, innocence and deviltry mixed with an innate sensuality. The last snapshot was of the brother who was probably the source of the bad McKay reputation, given he had a gorgeous blonde stripper perched on each knee, a big cigar clamped between his teeth and a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

No other pictures of the soldier. No intimate glimpses into Carter either. She wondered if any members of his family had such introspective pictures of him? Or did he hide behind his art? Use the camera and his sketch pad as a shield? Was there a deeper reason for the distance she glimpsed in him when others were around?

So what would the pictures he’d taken of her reveal? Would her face, her heart, her soul, be an open book?

Did he intend to showcase her frailties and failings as part of his art? What would she do if he did? Although Carter claimed to know her, how much did she really know of him? She shoved the paranoid thoughts in the back of her mind.

Macie exited the trailer. The air was muggy and humid, heavy with the promise of rain. A light mist created banks of fog, hiding the beautiful landscape and the enormous sky. She’d forgotten her shoes, so she picked her way to the barn across the pea-sized gravel, one barefooted step at a time. She stopped when she saw the barn door was ajar and she heard a strange noise from inside.

Déjà vu.

Or a repeat of the sexy dream she’d had of a trio of hot cowboys?

Dammit. The blurry line between reality and fantasy was making her nuts. To ensure she was fully awake, she pinched the inside of her forearm. Hard.

Damn that hurt. But at least she knew she wasn’t dreaming. Macie took a deep breath and quietly slipped inside.

Artificial light shone in the main room from a large metal cone-shaped fixture. Soft, twangy music drifted from an unseen boom box. An explosion of art supplies—jars, paints, brushes, jumbo rolls of paper, machinery, long pieces of wood, sticks—covered every available flat surface. Carter might keep his living area immaculate, but his workspace resembled a pigsty. The irony wasn’t lost on her, as the man had set up shop in a barn.

She allowed her gaze to focus on him. Good God. The man was nearly naked. A ratty cowboy hat on his head was about the extent of his attire. He’d changed out of jeans and wore a stained pair of sweatpants hacked off above the knee. Few men looked better out of clothes than in them, and Carter McKay was one of those lucky men.

Lucky her. She swallowed the puddle of drool forming in her mouth.

Carter hadn’t noticed her. He was working an enormous chunk of greenish clay, adding smaller blobs. She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear him singing along with the radio. She smiled. Who would’ve thought he could carry a tune? Keith Urban had nothing to worry about, but Velma might have a new contender for the open mic contest next Friday night.