The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 (29 page)

John had no experience with artificial insemination in horses. On his parents' ranch, horses bred naturally. As a practical matter, he could see the advantages to AI that Isabelle had pointed out and he supposed if somebody owned a horse worth six digits, he would take every measure to keep it safe from injury and free of infection.

When Isabelle called and said Luke's hired man had delivered a mare to the clinic, John dropped everything and went to help her. He had already picked up his two-horse trailer from the Lazy B and taken it to her to be used for transporting Dancer to the vet's clinic. At the clinic, he found she had hauled Dancer and Polly both.

The McRae mare was a rare grulla color and she was beautiful. Luke's man explained the mare had been bought from a horse farm in Montana that bred for the unique blue-gray color as well as for conformation and performance. Her name was Smokey Jane, but they called her "Janie." She had foaled once.

Excitement glowed like a bright light around Isabelle. Anybody could see she was in her element.

When they collected semen from Dancer, John saw that the stud could be hard on a mare. They used Janie to tease him into readiness and by the time he reared and mounted the dummy, he was ready to tear up the barn. John had seen well-seasoned mares abused by an anxious stallion, so an inexperienced mare like Janie might indeed kick and injure a stud as aggressive as Dancer.

The whole process, from semen collection from Dancer to insemination of both mares, was completed by noon. The vet expressed his belief that pregnancy would result. That breeding Polly was a long shot went undiscussed.

Even with the vet's positive attitude, an inexplicable sadness welled within John. Something was missing. All of it was so sterile and artificial. It was possible a valuable stud like Dancer could spend his entire life siring foals and never physically touch a mare. John couldn't get past feeling that the horses were treated like machines, though he knew that notion was unfounded in Isabelle's case. She loved her horses and would allow only what was best for them.

Still, animals as beautiful as Dancer and Janie and Polly should be able to mate and procreate the way Mother Nature intended.

* * *

I can't John.... I'm dyslexic.

For the next few days, when he had free time in the office, he logged on to various Web sites and read about Isabelle's handicap. He couldn't remember hearing the word "dyslexic" when they were kids, but he could remember talk of Izzy being dumb.

She was the least dumb person he could think of. Besides being some kind of wizard with horses, she was a loving, responsible mother and the most interesting companion he'd had.

And she was articulate. John marveled at how well spoken she was and how she had been able to function so successfully despite a limited ability to read and write. Now he had the explanation for the bookcase filled with audiobooks, the explanation for Ava's puzzling remarks about reading to her mother.

He didn't know how he could admire Izzy more, but knowing the impediment she lived with and overcame daily and the effort she had invested through the years to become knowledgeable of words and books only elevated her in his eyes.

And, he feared, in his heart.

He couldn't remember being happier. Thoughts of her used so much space in his head, they left no room for him to worry over his uncertain future or his lack of money.

He walked around in a perpetual state of sexual awareness. Sex flowed like a deep, swift current between them, punctuating and underlying even simple conversation, though they managed to maintain a dispassionate facade in Ava's presence. John wondered if, as smart as that kid was, she had her mother's relationship with him figured out.

Today, he felt horny as a billy goat. Isabelle had been having her period for nearly a week. Six days. It was too weird, considering that until her, he had gone without sex for a long time. He went to sleep Wednesday night wondering if he would be spending the next morning in her bed or working her horses.

A call from her awakened him early. "It's over," she said.

A prayer answered. He couldn't stop a wicked laugh. "Is this a come-on?"

"What do you think?"

"It'll take me about twenty minutes to shower and shave."

"Don't," she said. "Come as you are. I'm waiting."

He threw on his clothes, left his apartment with a hard-on and drove like a madman all the way to her house. She answered his knock on the back door, naked as the day she was born.

A burst of pure testosterone shot through his blood. His dick turned to steel.

As he shed his jacket she took hold of his waistband and tugged him into the mudroom. Giggling, she unhooked his belt buckle and undid his jeans.

Laughing with her, he threw his jacket on top of the washing machine. His pulse pounded in his dick and he gave the washer and dryer a second look. The top of the washing machine was good, just the right height.

"Don't even think about it," she said, as if she read his mind. She pulled him on into the kitchen and pressed her bare body against his, wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, shoving her tongue all the way to his tonsils.

He peeled her off him, laughing and swearing. "Damn you, woman."

She giggled more, sliding both her hands into his shorts and grasping his straining erection. "Hmm, I knew you'd be glad to see me."

"Oh, Jesus, don't pump."

She didn't, but she stroked with her fingers. "I've been thinking about this all night," she said huskily.

Too late to go slow. He groaned and shuddered and kissed her again. When they stopped for breath, he gripped her ass, lifted her feet off the floor, half stumbled and half carried her up to the hall to the bedroom, kicked open the door and tumbled her onto the bed.

Still laughing, she scuttled backward, up to the headboard, and flopped back against the blue pillows. For a moment he just looked at her, stopped by how he loved seeing her. Flaming hair draped over the pillow like a beckoning hot fire, rosy nipples, peaked and ready for his mouth, perched at the tips of perfect round breasts. A glint of a gold earring peeked from beneath her flurry of hair. His gaze moved down to her smooth, flat belly, to the triangle of red curls at her groin.

"Christ, Isabelle," he choked out, "you take my breath." He bent over and pried off his boot, hopping on one foot while he kept his eyes on her.

Her mouth curved into a lazy smile. She raised her arms and gripped the headboard, cocked her legs and let her knees fall open, exposing the pink petals of her sex, glistening with moisture.

Oh, Jesus.

He hopped on the other foot, tugging at the second boot, nearly losing his balance.

"Watch," she said, running her hands over her breasts. She plucked at her nipples with her fingers. While one hand continued to play with one nipple, the other moved down her belly. Her palm covered her mound, her middle finger pushed into her opening and he thought his brain might explode. With a sly smile, she withdrew her finger and began to rub herself.

Christ, he was shaking all over. He shucked his jeans and shorts in one motion, didn't take time to tear off his shirt or his socks. He crawled onto the bed, between her knees and crouched over her. "I'm not gonna last a minute," he said.

"In that case..." Her hands fisted in his hair and she pushed his head down.

Oh, yeah.
He slid his hands under her ass, lifted her to his mouth and plunged his tongue into her silky sweetness.

"Oh!" Her body arched up and she pushed herself against his face. "Oh, John..."

Before his blood pressure burst his skull, he forced himself to calm down to a slow tongue-fuck, suckling and titillating, deliberately teasing her, deliberately avoiding the magic button.

She whimpered and squirmed against his mouth. "John... please..."

He was too lost in delicious pursuit to reply. He knew what she wanted, but he clutched her hips and thwarted her attempts to relocate his mouth until she began to beg in earnest. Only then did he slide his tongue upward and answer her plea. She came long and hard, sobbing and clawing his shoulders. He hung on the painful edge, his balls drawn clear up in his belly.

Then her hands were pulling at him, urging him upward. "Inside me," she panted. "Hurry!"

He climbed her body, frantically trying to lick and touch her everywhere at once. When he reached her mouth, he kissed her savagely and she matched his ardor.

Then, all at once he was there, hovering above her, braced on his elbows, his cock throbbing and ready. And she was wet and slick and open and lifting herself to him. Her hands reached between them and steered him into her. Her lazy-lidded eyes locked onto his and all he had to do was push.

He barely glided into her before her hot flesh tightened and swallowed him. Searing pressure swelled in his belly.
Rubber! Shit!

She came again, panting and humping him hard, her muscles milking his cock.

He gritted his teeth and tried to pull out, but her legs were locked around him. "Izzy, let me—I'm not wearing—"

Release charged through him like a mad bull. He held his breath and tried to fight it, but lost the battle. On their own, his hips pumped once, twice and on a guttural cry, he plunged and spurted every drop of his essence inside her.

His trembling arms gave way and he dropped on top of her, gasping in short bursts against her shoulder. "Oh, shit.... Oh, God, Isabelle. I'm sorry.... I didn't intend—"

"Oooh, John.... That was sooo good."

Their bodies were slick with sweat. He could feel her breath hot against his neck, her legs still wrapped around his hips.

Her hands smoothed over his shoulders and down his back. "You're sooo good. I feel like lightning struck me."

"Izzy, you didn't let me—I couldn't pull out." Breaking free, he rolled off her, still struggling for oxygen. He threw the back of his hand against his damp forehead. Shit, what had he done?

She curled to her side and began unbuttoning his shirt. "You've got too many clothes on." She grasped his arm and urged him to a sitting position.

Spent of energy and strength, he allowed her to slip his shirt off, then his T-shirt.

"Isabelle, we have to—"

"Shh." She placed fingertips that smelled sexy and earthy on his lips, then moved down and stripped off his socks. "Come into this bed"—she scooted between the covers and opened them into a tent—"and put your arms around me."

He did as she ordered, stretched along the length of her and drew her close, placing his wet, sticky, flaccid penis against her wet, sticky belly. The scent of sex ballooned from beneath the covers. He gave a deep sigh. He was home. "Damn, Isabelle. You turn me into a crazy man."

She buried her face against his armpit and inhaled deeply.

"I love how you smell," she whispered. "That's why I didn't want you to shower." She brushed his mouth with her lips, then settled into a long, slow kiss with lots of tongue. He didn't participate as much as he might have if he hadn't been sick with concern.

"Stop worrying," she said softly. "It's okay. It's only the seventh day."

As a man who had fathered two unplanned children, the information gave him no comfort. "Hah."

"My cycle's very regular."

Years had gone by since he'd had sex without a rubber. He had even been sheathed in latex when Cody was conceived. He had always heard careless foreplay could be as risky as penetration and the conception of his second child proved it. "I should have had more sense."

"I'd rather hear you say you were insane with desire." She ran her tongue around one of his nipples.

"I did say that. My God, Isabelle, I am.... And you're doing it again." He couldn't believe, after what had just happened, that he already wanted her again. "I don't know what I'm gonna do. I think about you day and night. I went without for over a year, didn't even want it. Now, I walk around with a hard-on half the time."

She smiled with rosy and swollen lips, laid her cheek on his chest and covered his swelling penis with her hand. "I sort of like you, too."

He looked down at her tousled curls draping his chest astonished at how quickly life-altering events occurred. At this very moment, his little swimmers could be penetrating one of her eggs. As fraught with difficulties as the prospect was, some macho part of him was having trouble not being thrilled by that. "You're a brat." He cupped her head with his hand. "If you get pregnant, Isabelle"—he drew a deep breath—"you don't have to worry. It's not a problem."

A total lie. He could scarcely feed himself and pay his child support, much less provide for a wife and another child. But at the same time, the notion of a part of him growing inside Isabelle didn't scare him. Nor did taking on responsibility for her and Ava.

"It'd be a huge problem. I'm not going to get pregnant. But even if I did, I'd deal with it."

What the hell did that mean?
"No.
We'd
deal with it. The two of us. Promise me, Isabelle. No sudden moves."

"I promise."

* * *

Isabelle nuked leftover tuna casserole for lunch. They were quiet as they sat side by side at the table and ate. He was upset, she knew, over the risk they had taken. With her consent and even at her encouragement, they had made love a second time without protection. Long and slow and wonderful. With his hot, bare flesh melded with hers, it had ended with a tangle of heat and profound emotion, each intensifying the other to a point that bordered on pain and she had wept in his arms. Something between them had changed.