The Fantasy Factor (10 page)

“One more time,” he gasped.

Hank eyed him for a long moment, as if he saw Houston’s thoughts. As if he understood. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is back off for a little while.”

The man was right. As far as the bull riding went. Houston wasn’t in any shape to keep getting his ass beat.

As for Sarah…forget backing off. That’s what he’d been doing the past few days. Whenever she pulled back, so did he. She shut him out and he let her.

No more. It was time for him to step up, to get close. So close she couldn’t pull away.

Maybe then he could stop wondering what she would look like completely open and uninhibited in his arms. He would know, his curiosity as satisfied as his lust. Maybe then he could regain his precious focus.

He had to, otherwise he was certain to make a poor showing in Vegas, and Houston never made a poor showing. He gave it his all, no matter how angry or fed up or just plain tired he was. He thrived on winning and he wasn’t going to stop now.

That would mean following in his father’s footsteps, and Houston wouldn’t do that.

Not now. Not ever.

S
HE WASN’T GOING TO SHUT
him out tonight.

Houston made that promise to himself as he walked into the football stadium where the Cadillac Comanches were playing their arch rival, the Hondo Hogs, in a summer practice game. It seemed as if the entire town had turned out for the event. The stands overflowed. People crowded around the concession stands.

He spent a full ten minutes searching before he finally spotted her near the Sno-Kone stand. She sat behind a large table. A white banner was draped along the front, Cadillac Chamber of Commerce printed in navy-blue script. Platters of plastic-wrapped cookies, cakes and pies crowded the top.

If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it.

Sarah Buchanan, wild child and the most exciting woman he’d ever had the pleasure of sipping homemade wine coolers with, was hosting a bake sale on behalf of the fine, upstanding citizens who used to gossip about her.

An act. A carefully played act to fit in and fulfill a promise.

That’s what he told himself. But the truth of the matter was, she didn’t just play the part of the classic good girl, she looked it with her khaki slacks and white no-nonsense button-down blouse. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, her face devoid of makeup. And she wore a huge, pleased-to-meet-you smile.

She looked as fresh and wholesome as a glass of milk.

Nothing like the girl she’d been, yet he knew the real Sarah lay just below the surface. She’d told him as much that night at the dance hall. And over the past few days, he’d seen proof in the shower and the movie theater. But while she’d taken her pleasure, there’d been a measure of control to her actions. And her reactions. She’d gone only so far, and then she’d pulled back. And then she’d held back. Like last night when she’d come apart at his fingertips without letting out so much as a whimper.

Nothing that would alert anyone that Sarah was anything but the straitlaced lady she appeared to be. As he watched her hand out samples of cookies to a group of seniors who’d come over from the local retirement home, he couldn’t help but wonder if she truly had straightened up her act the way everyone seemed to think.

Maybe.

As if she sensed his presence, her gaze lifted and locked with his. Her cheeks colored and her backbone stiffened and she actually looked nervous.

Nervous? Nah. She’d never seemed nervous, no matter what they did, how far they went, or how hard he pushed her. She’d reveled in every emotion, eager for more.

Or rather, she used to.

She would again. Tonight.

Houston had made up his mind to prove to himself that all the years he’d carried her memory with him hadn’t been for nothing. He needed to know that she truly was different from all the other women in his life. While she had a wild streak, she also had heart. And in that heart, she felt something for him that went beyond lust.

He wasn’t sure what that something was—compassion, kinship, affection…maybe all three. He didn’t know, but he wanted to know, to feel
connected,
the way he’d felt when they’d sat on the hood of his Corvette, sipped homemade wine coolers and talked.

That night had been only the second time in his life he’d revealed his dreams of riding the pro-rodeo circuit.

The first had been when he’d been just a kid. He’d wanted to be a cowboy like the next four-year-old. But for him it had been more than a child’s fantasy. He’d felt the calling even then when he’d stared at the belt buckle his father had kept on the top of his scarred dresser. It had been shiny and big, and Houston had wanted his own more than he’d wanted anything, even the red wagon Miss Marshalyn had given him for Christmas that year.

He’d told his father as much, but the old man had merely taken a swig from his bottle of Jack Daniel’s and said the words that would haunt Houston for the rest of his life.

“Take a good look, boy, ’cause this is as close as you’re ever gonna get to one of these. You ain’t goin’ nowhere and you ain’t goin’ to do a dad-blamed thing with your life. This small shit-ass town is it. There ain’t no sense wantin’ more. You just ain’t good enough. You’ll never be good enough.”

Worse than the words had been the sick feeling in his stomach. The doubt. The fear. That maybe, just maybe, his old man was right.

Houston forced the notion away. His old man was wrong. He always had been and he always would be, and Houston intended to prove it. He intended to accomplish the one thing his father had always talked about doing—breaking the standing record of ten consecutive PBR championships.

Funny, but the notion didn’t make his heart beat nearly as fast as the sight of Sarah when she handed over a plate of chocolate cupcakes to one of the old women from the seniors’ group.

Her smile widened. Two dimples cut into her cheeks and her nose crinkled and her eyes lit with warmth. The sight hit him like a good kick to the middle and his breath caught. He had the crazy thought that he would trade every one of his championships if she would smile at him like that just once.

Hell’s bells, he’d definitely hit the ground one too many times. The
last
thing he wanted from Sarah was a smile.

He wanted to shake up her calm, conservative exterior and bring out the wild woman he remembered from their first three encounters so long ago. She’d moaned with satisfaction down by the riverbank that first night. She’d cried with it during their second time together. And she’d practically howled during the third. She’d been vocal and out of control and completely uninhibited.

While she’d come out of her newly constructed shell enough to proposition him and hold her own in the shower and the movie theater, she was still holding back. Still maintaining her control. Still putting up a front.

No more.

He wasn’t going to let her hold back, nor was he going to let her name the time and place for their sexual encounters.

Houston was taking matters into his own hands the way he always did, and going after what he wanted. And he wanted Sarah Buchanan. The
real
woman. Under him. Pulsing around him. Screaming her pleasure.

And there was only one way to do that. He intended to make her hot enough, hungry enough, so that she lost her precious control and unleashed the wild woman within.

Starting right now.

“I’
LL TAKE ONE
.”

The deep voice slithered into Sarah’s ears. Her hands froze near the cash box where she’d been organizing change. Her head snapped up, and her gaze locked with a pair of brilliant, whiskey-gold eyes.

Her mouth went dry and her lips parted and her stomach fluttered. The urge to taste him hit her hard and fast, regardless of the fact that they were surrounded by crowds of people and she was not the sort of girl who went around tasting men. Even handsome men like Houston Jericho.

Especially handsome, wild men like Houston Jericho, who made her cheeks flush and her nipples tingle and her thighs ache.

He was just so close. And so warm. And he smelled so good. And her lips couldn’t help but tingle at the prospect of sampling his.

“Cake, pie or cookie?” she blurted, eager to keep her traitorous mouth busy. “I have all three. And then, of course, you have to pick what kind you want. If it’s a cake, I’ve got coconut cake, red-velvet cake, carrot cake, chocolate cake, apple spice cake—”

“A kiss. I’ll take one.” He handed over a five. “Maybe two if the first one is really good.”

“This is a bake sale.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “I thought you forfeited the bake sale idea in favor of a kissing booth. Isn’t that what you said to Wes at the wedding reception?”

“I said I would
consider
the idea of a kissing booth as a possible fund-raiser. The bake sale was already scheduled.” She drew a shaky breath and tried to calm her frantic heartbeat.
Not here. Not now. No.

He shook his head. “That’s a shame. I really wanted that kiss.”

She reached for a nearby platter and held it up. “You’ll have to settle for a dozen chocolate chippers courtesy of Camille Skeeter—she’s our secretary—from Skeeter’s Pharmacy. That, or you can pick out a cake or a pie. I’ve already told you most of the cakes we have. As for pies…” Her gaze dropped to the two sitting nearby. “All I have left out here is apple, but I do have some peach and strawberry over in the storeroom.”

“I’m sort of partial to strawberry.”

“Then hold tight and I’ll be right back.” Sarah thanked the powers that be for a convenient escape, snatched up the cash box for safekeeping, and turned and hightailed it for the small storage area located behind the concession stand.

She pushed inside the small room that housed the concession stand’s dry goods, flicked on the light and slumped against the door.

She set the cash box on a nearby shelf, then closed her eyes and drew in a lung full of air that wasn’t filled with the intoxicating scent of horse and leather and
him.
There. Now she could breathe again. And think. And remember the all-important fact that while she wanted Houston, she wasn’t supposed to want him in front of anyone. That meant no blushing or trembling or kissing.

Especially kissing.

Another deep breath and she opened her eyes. A bare bulb hung overhead, illuminating the small room that housed everything from gallon cans of chili and cheese sauce for the
frito
pies, to five-gallon jars of pickles. Large silver cylinders filled with carbonated soda dominated the far corner of the room. Monstrous bags of corn chips and cases of candy bars lined the metal shelves that ran the length of one wall.

She scooted past several boxes filled with paper plates and napkins and made her way to a six-foot table where she’d left the rest of the goodies the chamber members had donated for tonight’s sale. There were dozens of pies and platters of brownies and a few cakes. She was busy reading the masking-tape labels on the tops of the plastic wrap when she heard the door creak open.

“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” she called out to whichever concession stand employee had come to retrieve supplies.

“Actually, I’d rather have you in my way.” Houston’s deep voice slid into her ears and sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. She whirled, bumping the table. Plates clattered and a pie slid dangerously close to the edge.

“What are you doing in here?” She caught the aluminum pie pan a half inch shy of diving over the side.

“I changed my mind.” His eyes glittered with a hungry light that sucked the oxygen from her lungs and made her hands tremble. The pie slid from her grasp and tumbled over as she tried to retrieve it before it hit the floor. Crust and filling covered her fingers as she caught the inside rather than the edge.

“You’re supposed to be selling those pies, not feeling them up.”

“You’re really funny.” She put down the pie and glanced around for a napkin, but there was nothing except a roll of plastic wrap.

“Actually—” his gaze darkened “—I’m really hungry.” He reached for her hand.

Before she could draw her next breath, his tongue flicked out and he licked one finger. Once, twice, before sliding it deep in his mouth and suckling for a breath-stealing moment.

“I…” She swallowed and tried to think of something to say, but with his lips so firm and purposeful around her finger, his tongue rasping her skin, she couldn’t seem to find any words. “I—I thought you changed your mind,” she managed to say several moments later after he’d licked her hand clean.

“I did.”

“But that was peach, not strawberry.”

“I didn’t change my mind about the flavor. I changed my mind about the pie altogether.” He licked his lips, and she had the sudden image of him licking other parts of her body. Lapping at her neck and her nipples and her belly button and the wet heat between her legs.

“I’d rather have the kiss,” he continued.

“I’m not selling kisses.”

“Even better. While I don’t mind paying for one, I never pass anything up that’s free.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She licked her lips and instantly regretted the action. His gaze darkened, and pure sin gleamed in his eyes, and she knew he wanted a lot more than just a kiss.

He wanted inside of her, and she wanted him there.

Just not
here,
and certainly not
now.

The local high school fight song played in the background. The crowd cheered and the announcer’s voice came over the P.A. system as the guest team made the kickoff and the game officially started. Even closer, the
pop-pop
of the popcorn maker drifted from the front of the building, along with the hum of the soda fountains and the whir of the cotton candy machine and the noise of the people. There were people just beyond the thin walls of the storage room. People who could walk in at any moment and find good-girl Sarah getting her fingers licked by the town’s bad boy.

Her fingers, or other more needy parts of her body.

She stiffened and forced aside the stirring images. “Look, this isn’t a good idea.”

“What isn’t?”

“You and me and, you know, us. We can’t do anything here.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can’t. This is a storage closet, for heaven’s sake. It’s not even on the list.”

“No, but a public rest room is,
public
being the key word. There’s a stadium full of people on the other side of these walls.”

She shook her head. “It’s not on the list.”

“It’s close enough.” He kissed her then, his lips wet and hungry, his tongue greedy as he devoured her.

“I really can’t,” she breathed, when he finally pulled away. “Not here. There are people—”

“That’s the point, Belle. It’s a
public
place. We could be discovered any minute. That’s the excitement of it. It’s all in the risk.”

But it wasn’t. Her heart pounded at the thought of kissing him, touching him,
feeling
him, regardless of the surroundings. It wasn’t her desire to finish the list and fulfill her fantasies about the last four that fed her attraction to him. It was simply him. They could have been anywhere in any situation—alone on a deserted island or smack dab in the middle of the town square during the annual Cadillac Car Cruise—and she would have been just as turned on. As eager. As desperate.