Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 Page 7

  “I’d like that, Dean,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I want you. Every way. Every way you want to give it to me. I want it too.”

  Who is this woman?

  Every one of his muscles was twitching from the effort of holding back. Slowly, Dean withdrew his thumb, reached down, grabbed her hips and took a deep breath.

  “I’m going to come,” he said softly.

  “Do it.”

  He fucked her hard. After two-dozen strokes, his orgasm bucked out of its chute, tearing him up like a monster that was too wild to ride and too big to handle. He came in endless hot shots of come that shredded him from the inside out. When he finally collapsed onto the bed, Dean felt vulnerable and raw, trampled by lust.

  In the darkness, Monica reached for him and held him tightly. The words came out before he knew what he was saying.

  “I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”

  He almost flinched when he heard himself. But the expression of naked emotion didn’t scare her. Nothing seemed to scare her.

  “I feel the same way,” she whispered.

  * * * * *

  Homemade potato salad and fried chicken. The paper plate that Dean’s mother handed to him drooped under the weight of a double portion of each.

  “Looks good, Ma,” he said, “but I can’t eat all this.”

  Cecilia MacKinnon was wearing a sparkly red-and-blue T-shirt and a dazzling smile to match. Her long brown hair was coiled into a neat bun decorated with rhinestone stars. “In high school you would’ve come back for seconds.”

  “Must’ve had a tapeworm or something.”

  “Aw, hush. Don’t be gross.”

  “Sorry. Thanks.” He kissed the top of his mother’s head before she turned to feed the rest of his brothers.

  Dean looked around at the crowd gathered on the track at Oleander High School. Familiar faces, grown older. New kids he hadn’t met before. Everyone was in attendance, from migrant workers in town for the season to families who’d farmed the Central Valley for generations. All had come out for a picnic and to watch the annual Fourth of July fireworks launch.

  He sat down in a camp chair next to his father and started on his supper.

  “Look at her,” Dale MacKinnon said with a grin. “Your mom is a stunner, ain’t she?”

  Dean’s parents had always been affectionate, so to hear his dad doling out sugar was nothing new. Dean took a bite and watched his mother handing out plates, surrounded by family. She looked happier than she had in months. Then he looked at his dad. The big bear of a man he’d grown up with looked thin and pale, worn down by chemotherapy and illness. But Dale’s clothes were neatly pressed and his boots and belt buckle were polished to a high sheen. In his new white hat, he carried himself with the same pride he always displayed, in sickness or in health.

  “So I heard you’re part of the show tonight,” Dale said.

  “Yeah, but nothing special. Before the fireworks launch, the rodeo association’s raffling off some prizes.”

  “What kind of prizes?”

  “Passes to Oleander Rodeo Days and a meet-and-greet with Dandelion Wine at Walker Ranch. They want me to pick the tickets.” He grinned. “I feel like I should be in an evening gown or something.”

  His dad snorted. “That’d cause a splash. Is Bo here tonight?”

  “He’ll be on stage with me.”

  “I’m surprised.” Dale took a drink from a bottle of water. “Fourth of July is hard for him. Always has been.”

  Dean nodded. “Opening ceremonies at bull-riding shows—he’s the same way. Too many pyrotechnics and stuff.” He knew his old mentor had struggled with anxiety for years. According to Dean’s father, Bo had come back from Vietnam a changed man. It was one of the reasons he’d retired from bull riding and took up stock contracting instead.

  “Dean!”

  He looked up. Tottering her way through a minefield of picnic blankets and beer coolers, Monica headed straight for him. Her long black hair was loose and wild. She wore a modest but form-fitting navy-blue dress and sky-high red heels that made fireworks go off in funny places inside him.

  Next to his mother, Dean’s brother Clark raised his beer can toward Monica. “Hot damn. God bless America.”

  “Shut up, Clark,” Dean said. He put down his plate and stumbled toward her like an idiot, but not before placing a small, well-placed kick to the underside of Clark’s forearm. Beer splashed all over Clark’s crotch.

  “Oh, you fucker!” said Clark, hopping up.

  “Watch your language!” their mother barked.

  “Sorry, Ma.” Clark corrected himself. “Oh, you gosh-darned fornicator.”

  Dean met Monica halfway and together they headed toward the event stage as she briefed him on what was going to happen. Using every excuse he could to touch her, he held her hand and put his other hand on the small of her back to steer her over the crowded field. With his thumb, he strummed the waistband of her panties through the fabric of her dress and fantasized about pulling her under the bleachers, yanking off her underwear and sinking himself balls-deep inside her.

  She stopped talking. Maybe she asked him a question. She was looking at him like she expected an answer.

  “Huh?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I said, after I give my spiel, you turn the crank, open the little door and pull out the tickets. I’ll announce the winners. After that, you and Bo sign autographs and take pictures until the fireworks start. The table is set up by the lemonade booth. Can you handle that?”

  His hand crept a little lower and he gave her ass a tiny squeeze. “I think I can handle that, Miss Kaur.”

  A half-smile formed on her lips. “Behave yourself, please.”

  “Behave myself, huh?” He squeezed her again. “Let me ask you something. Did you wear this to embarrass me?”

  She looked genuinely offended at that. “How is my outfit embarrassing?”

  “No, princess. It’s not the outfit.” They finally made it backstage past the security guard. Performers and stage crew filled the small space, so Dean couldn’t do what he wanted, but he did pull her close enough to whisper in her ear, “It’s the giant hard-on you’re giving me because you look so damn fine in it.”

  She said nothing, but a slight tremor ran through her, an aftershock to all the soul-shaking secret sex they’d had in the last three months.

  Up on stage, the high school marching band finished up its spirited performance of Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA”. Dean leaned closer. “When can I see you again?”

  Her breathing quickened. “Wait for my text.”

  “Bakersfield? Same place?”

  She nodded and squeezed his hand. Dean remembered the feeling of both her hands in his as he pinned them up above her head. Tangled up in crisp motel sheets, they kissed as he drove into her like a madman. The old air conditioner struggled to keep up with them, the room sweltering with the heat of their fucking.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “Down, boy. You’ll be on stage soon.”

  He let go of her hand, took a step back and blew out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. You’re right.” He adjusted himself in his jeans. “Shit.”

  “Calm yourself,” she said. “I’m going to go get Bo, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The raffle went exactly as Monica had planned. It had been a shrewd promotional stunt for the rodeo—the eyes of the entire community were on them, and all the proceeds from the raffle went straight to the high school music program. Dean sheepishly admitted to himself that it felt nice to be in front of a crowd again. Maybe he was a closet attention whore. He hoped not.

  To his surprise, a long line of fans waited at the table for autographs when he and Bo sat down. Monica stood quietly behind them, his little mastermind, eyes on everyone and
everything.

  Somewhere around his fifth autograph, some kids waiting in line began to throw handfuls of poppers onto the asphalt. The explosion startled Bo, who dropped his marker on the ground. When Bo stooped to pick it up, Dean saw that his old mentor’s hands had begun to shake.

  “You okay?” Dean said quietly.

  Bo looked up at him, an unfamiliar angry expression on his face. Anxiety ghosted his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he grumbled.

  The fireworks display was going to be a big one—hundreds of explosions, the biggest in Oleander’s history. Monica and Dean exchanged a look. She nodded at him, a slight nod filled with subtext, and Dean realized she was about to take control of the situation yet again.

  Without hesitation, she stumbled forward slightly and caught herself by placing her hand on Bo’s shoulder.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple with her thumb.

  “Whoa, there,” Dean said, playing along. He stood up at once and offered her his chair. She sat down.

  “What’s going on?” Bo said. He still looked agitated, but his tone softened when he saw that something was wrong with Monica.

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “I just got really lightheaded there for a moment.”

  “Did you have anything to eat today?” Dean asked.

  She nodded. “Breakfast. But…I’m on this new medication. Plus the heat and the crowd. I think everything is just getting to me.”

  Bo opened a bottle of water and handed it to her. “Drink this, honey.”

  She drank and made a face. “I hate to say it, but I don’t think I can stay for the rest of the event.”

  “Dean, take her home,” Bo said. “She’s not well.”

  “No,” she said. “Dean has to make sure we get all the information we need from the raffle winners and then he has to deliver the ticket money to Mrs. Martinez at the school. Could you take me home, Bo? I don’t live far from here.”

  Chivalry trumped anxiety, and Bo stood up at once. “All right. Let’s go. Take that water with you.”

  A grateful look on her face, Monica threaded her arm through Bo’s and let him lead her out towards the parking lot. They were gone only minutes before the first rocket went off, a huge explosion of red-and-gold sparkles that lit up half the sky.

  Dean greeted the last of his fans and took care of the odds and ends that Monica had assigned him. When he was finished, the fireworks show had already ended in a dazzling cascade of glitter and fire. Most families were packing up and ambling home. A few stragglers danced drunkenly on the grass, red cups in hand, while the grounds crew tried to shoo them away.

  Dean walked up the empty bleachers and took a seat.

  Years ago, he’d found an empty prescription bottle in Bo’s truck. Lorazepam. Dean had looked it up. Doctors commonly prescribed the medication to veterans who suffered from PTSD. Dean had struggled with this knowledge. It took him a long time to understand that his tough-as-nails friend and mentor carried heavy burdens in private—deep wounds, decades old.

  But Monica, as smart as she was, had understood at once. And even more than that, she knew how to protect Bo without damaging his pride.

  Dean took off his hat, leaned back and looked up at a night sky still filled with the smoke and haze of spent fireworks. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  He’d never met anyone like her. She was amazing.

  And just his luck that both of them were stuck here only in passing, two roads intersecting in the middle of nowhere on their way to somewhere else.

  He took his phone out of his pocket and tapped out a text. You’re slick as hell.

  Her response came back a few seconds later. I know.

  Dean stared at the screen, trying to think of a funny rejoinder. He couldn’t. Something warm and heavy had lodged in his chest, something deeper than affection, something stronger than respect. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long, long time.

  Thank you, princess.

  He smiled at her reply. You’re welcome, cowboy.

  Chapter Three

  Wildflowers

  “If dreams were lightning and thunder was desire, this old house would have burnt down a long time ago…”

  —John Prine

  Dean stood at the foot of the bed with his arms folded. “How’re you doing?”

  She smiled. “Never better.”

  He’d bound Monica’s arms behind her back with rope. Completely naked, she sat on the mattress propped up against a pile of pillows, legs spread wide open.

  They were in Bakersfield for another nooner. So far, they’d made love back at the river and deep in the woods, in the hot springs off the Kern River south of Lake Isabella, in his family’s old pole barn, in his childhood bedroom while the rest of the family was at church, in his brother’s truck, in his father’s truck, in the back seat of her Prius, even behind the Silver Spur one drunken night when they were both feeling brave. But the hotel was home base—the place they came to play hard.

  Dean found Monica’s body endlessly fascinating. He loved her soft, graceful curves, her brown skin and wild black hair, her dark nipples and the silken hair that grew at her sex. He suspected that he was becoming addicted to her pussy, if that were possible—he could spend hours touching her, stroking her, looking at her, tasting her.

  He knelt down, spread her open with his fingertips and stared at her with what he suspected was a mooncalf expression on his face.

  “You act like you’ve never seen one,” she said.

  “Not like yours.”

  It was true. Her pussy reminded him of a sweet plum with a shiny, cherry-pink center.

  She tried to wiggle out of his knots—no luck. Vulnerable and earthy, she was the woman of his wickedest dreams, all trussed up and ready to play.

  “What do you want, princess?” he asked, undoing his belt buckle.

  “You, cowboy.”

  He undressed in a hurry and climbed into bed with her. He covered her neck with kisses and feasted on her beautiful breasts, leaving her nipples erect and wet, loving her up until she was squirming. The ropes creaked as she pulled on her bindings.

  “You tryin’ to get away from me?” he asked, kissing her throat.

  “No. I want to touch you.”

  “Too bad.”

  He reached down and began to stroke her delicate clit. Soaking wet, her tight pussy gave way to one finger, then another. He bent his fingers slightly and massaged her G-spot. The ropes went taut as she curled into herself. Her sex began to throb, the pulses of her body speeding toward release.

  God, he loved to make her come like this, giving it to her as hard as she gave it to him. After weeks of endless, ecstatic practice, he could make her body do all kinds of things.

  But today, he was trying something new.

  Gently, he withdrew his fingers and picked up the toy on the nightstand.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

  “San Francisco.”

  “Why’d you choose this one?”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him as he switched her vibrator on and off. It was expensive, a sleek pink silicone job with four speeds. “It was quiet,” she said.

  He nodded. “Quiet toy, loud woman.” He put the vibrator down on the bed and picked up the bottle on the nightstand. With a generous hand, he doused her with lube. He could sense her excitement as he spread himself with more lube before capping the bottle and putting it back on the nightstand.

  “Tell me if—”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll tell you if it hurts,” she said impatiently, twisting in her bindings.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her as he began to jack himself off with languid strokes. “You in a hurry to be somewhere?”

  She stared at his cock in his hand. “I’m in a hu
rry to feel you inside me.”

  Her hunger mirrored his. She captivated him with her sensuality, her eagerness to explore. She was nowhere near as sexually experienced as he was, but she was eager to close the gap, and fast. He slipped on a condom and picked up the toy.

  On its lowest setting, the vibrator purred softly as he ran it over the tender, flared lips of her pussy. Slowly, he slid it into her, thrusting in rhythm to the pumps of his hand around his shaft. She whimpered and shut her eyes tight. Dean kept his eyes open, thrilled by the sight of her sex wrapped hungrily around the smooth pink toy.

  With a soft pop, he pulled it from her and pressed its tip to her clit. Monica gasped and arched her back.

  “Open your eyes,” he said, and she did.

  With his free hand, he guided the head of his cock into her tiny ass. As soon as her tight ring of muscle gave way, he slid his hips forward and thrust into her inch by slow inch until he was buried inside her as far as he could go. He pulled out halfway, then gave her a quick, brutal thrust, tapping her with a wet smack. She shut her eyes again and groaned.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “I’m okay.”

  He was breathing like he’d run a race. He thrust again. Then once more. Goose bumps rose on her skin and her nipples grew harder. Insane with lust, he turned up the setting on her vibrator and slid it back into her pussy. Her snug ass clenched wetly around him. The feeling drove him out of his mind. He adjusted the angle of the slick little vibrator until its shaft rubbed against her clit. When she threw her head back and began to breathe between her teeth, he started to fuck her hard, stretching her to her limits and pushing himself to his.

  “I’ll never get enough of this,” he snarled. He shoved the vibrator in and out of her like a piston. Sweat blurred his vision. His blood had turned to fire. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, “Dean, I’m gonna come.”

  He looked at her as she balanced on the precipice, lips parted, eyes glazed. So beautiful and alive. His Monica.