The Rodeo Cowboy’s Baby Page 8

  This was nothing to do with Jonas Blackstone. That bastard didn’t control him anymore. This was about a beautiful woman who had been driving him nuts for twenty-four hours. And who he didn’t want to let go of again tonight. If he could help it.

  They’d been beating around this bush all morning. And then she’d avoided him all afternoon. So now his patience was at an end.

  If she told him no, he’d let go—he’d have to. But he was through pretending he didn’t mind whether she said yes.

  “Don’t I get a choice?” she said, but her eyes fixed on his, the smoky-eye makeup only making him more desperate.

  “Do you want one?” he said, flatly.

  She seemed to consider the question but as she blinked slowly, he saw the arousal pounding through his system reflected in her lust-blown pupils.

  “No, I guess not,” she said.

  He nodded and dragged her back toward the supper tables. Although he doubted he’d be able to eat much, with his heart high-fiving his tonsils.

  *

  A flirty Flynn had been difficult to say no to, but a forceful Flynn was impossible to resist, Evie discovered as he piled a plate for her with steak and potato salad and corn bread and then led her to a secluded table.

  She choked down a few bites of the succulent meat, and watched him pick at his own meal. The thought that she wasn’t the only one finding it hard to concentrate on food had the fraught nerves in her stomach relaxing a tiny bit.

  She knew this was madness. But when he’d strode toward her through the crowd, and led her out onto the dance floor, in front of the whole town, she’d felt something crack open inside her that had been locked up tight for a very long time. Maybe even forever.

  Why did this have to be about emotional intimacy, or rebound sex, or even about all the shitty things that had happened to her over the last few years as her uterus declared itself defunct and Dan and she had declared their marriage defunct, too?

  Why couldn’t this just be a moment out of time? A wild night with a hot cowboy? During which she got to live a few of the fantasies that had kept her awake last night? It had been so long since she’d been the focus of a man’s attention. So long since she’d felt this attractive, this excited, this whole. And it had been forever since she’d had a wild night with any guy, because her mother had drummed it into her as a girl that wild wasn’t what good girls did. But she didn’t want to be a good girl tonight. For the first time ever, she felt courageous enough to be a bad girl. And risk taking what she wanted. And damn the consequences. And she did not want to waste that feeling, because she was unlikely to have it again.

  Maybe she was using Flynn, objectifying him, and she could berate herself for that tomorrow. But he didn’t seem to mind. He’d come on to her after all. Plus Charlie had already told her he didn’t do long term, so there was no way this would get complicated after the fact.

  She forked another bite of potato salad into her mouth, but the creamy taste was like chalk on her tongue, the pheromones charging through her system making her want to lick his skin instead.

  Flynn’s gaze met hers and he pushed his plate away. “How about we get out of here?” he said.

  “We’re not going to dance again?” she asked, surprised that she still had the ability to tease when all the moisture in her mouth had already headed south.

  He stood and kicked back his chair, then took her hand and hauled her out of hers. “Sure we are,” he whispered into her hair as he buried his lips against her neck. The tiny bite made her shudder, hideously aware of the eyes of the other diners around them. When had being a bad girl become exhilarating rather than mortifying? “But the kind of dance I’ve got in mind,” he murmured, “is going to get us arrested if we do it here.”

  He pulled back, his gaze steady on her face.

  Her pulse pounded against her collarbone, the delicate chiffon of her dress like chainmail, the excitement surging through her like a river in full flood. Had she ever felt this young? This carefree? This reckless?

  Nope, never.

  “What d’you say?” he asked, giving her one last chance to do the smart thing, the sensible thing. “Are you with me, Irish?”

  Feck it.

  “Yes,” she breathed, and an actual honest to goodness giggle came out of her mouth when he grinned back at her.

  “Awesome.”

  He led her back through the crowd, and as they left the park and headed over the bridge toward the rodeo grounds—the single arc light illuminating the mostly deserted structures—everything inside her exploded with yearning. A yearning she’d kept buried ever since she was a teenager and her mammy had smacked her across the face for coming back from a school dance with Davey Ryan’s hickey on her neck.

  You little slut, do you really think he’s going to respect you in the morning if you drop your knickers for him the first chance you get?

  She hadn’t dropped her knickers for Davey, or any of the other boys. And even when she’d been married to Dan their sex life had been marred by that disapproval. Having a baby had become her sole purpose because deep down she’d convinced herself that’s what marriage and sex were really for.

  And as a result her orgasms had always been hard work, for him as well as her. But that had all changed last night, in the front seat of Flynn’s truck. And she wanted to taste that sensation again. To be wild and free and spontaneous and not give a shite about anything but the rush of endorphins.

  Feck smart, feck sensible, and feck my mammy’s obsession with respectable behavior. What exactly did that get me except an empty womb and an empty bed, an empty marriage and now an empty life?

  They reached the rodeo grounds, and he tugged her into the shadows underneath the bleachers. Steel uprights glistened a pale silver in the moonlight, the scent of freshly turned earth and manure from the training corral, the whinny of a horse in the distance, the rumble of a truck driving past the ticket booth, the distant hum of the generators in the campgrounds and the crunch of an empty burger carton under her boot heel the only sounds other than the rapid thump, thump, thump of her heartbeat.

  Tugging her into the darkness, he swung her round and pressed her back against the cool metal.

  “Damn it, I can’t wait any longer to taste you.”

  She choked out a staggered moan, all her senses electrified by his urgency, as his lips found the pulse point in her throat.

  She grasped his cheeks, the delicious sensation of his lips against her skin shooting across her collarbone, and making her breasts swell against her push-up bra, the nighttime chill burned away by the rush of lust.

  She lifted his face to hers.

  “Kiss me,” she said, staggered by her own daring, but also by the realization that she’d yet to feel his lips on hers.

  He didn’t need any more encouragement, threading his fingers into her hair as he pressed her head back against the upright and found her mouth with his.

  His tongue licked at the seam and she opened for him. The kiss was warm and firm, hungry and unapologetic.

  He explored the recesses of her mouth as she sucked on his invading tongue, her own tongue tangling with his to absorb the sweet taste of Pepsi cola and desperation. Even though he’d shaved recently, she shuddered as the roughness of his jaw brushed her cheeks.

  He lifted his lips at last, his hand finding the hem of her dress and gliding up her thigh as he nipped and sucked at her neck, her collarbone, the sensitive skin behind her ear.

  “Jesus, Irish, you taste delicious,” he murmured against her neck.

  “So do you,” she managed. And he chuckled.

  But then his thumb brushed against the leg of her panties, setting light to the sensitive seam of skin at the top of her thigh.

  She jolted in shock at how good it felt as he continued to caress her. Back and forth, stirring her senses into a frenzy. She pressed forward, and was rewarded with the feel of him, hard and long pressing against her belly.

  Emotion rushed through her.


  Dan had struggled to get an erection during the final months of their marriage. And he’d blamed her. She was the one who had become desperate to procreate. She was the one who had put undue pressure on him to perform.

  But the wonderful weight of Flynn’s erection felt like a validation. A vindication.

  She blinked back the foolish sting of tears. And scattered his neck, his cheek with kisses, the gratitude and joy overwhelming.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you. For making me feel like a woman again.

  “Irish, if you were any more of a woman I’d be dead now,” he murmured laughing.

  Good Lord, she’d said that out loud, too?

  She didn’t have a moment to be mortified though, because he kissed her again long and deep and then delved beneath the lace to sweep his callused thumb across her clit.

  The tiny touch was electric. She sobbed into his mouth. And he swore against her neck.

  “Irish, you’re soaking wet for me.” He sounded surprised, but pleased.

  He stroked her again and she moaned. The circling caress made her buck and squirm against his hand. He was teasing her, touching and then retreating. Did he want her to beg?

  “Please, just…”

  “I know, Irish,” he said, his voice rough with need now, the amusement gone. “But I don’t want you to come too soon.”

  “Why not?” she said, trying to find her indignation when all she could manage was dismay—and desperation.

  “I want to be inside you this time,” he said. “If that’s okay with you?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” she said, surprised and stupidly charmed that he would ask with that ripple of uncertainty in his voice.

  “Thank Christ,” he murmured, the relief palpable in his voice.

  Had he actually thought her answer was in doubt?

  He swore against her neck, but then instead of ripping off her panties, the way she wanted, he pulled his hand away from her yearning clit.

  He smoothed shaking palms down her dress.

  “What are you doing?” she said, confused now as well as desperate. Surely he wasn’t going to leave her hanging?

  “Trying to cool things down,” he said, his voice a tortured rasp. “I need to get you back to the ranch. We can’t do it here.”

  Why the feck not? She glanced round. They were alone, and covered by the darkness, the sounds of activity muted and far away.

  “Yes we can,” she said. “I don’t want to wait.”

  She didn’t want to stall, to delay, scared that the joy, the excitement might retreat. She wanted to stay in this dark sweet bubble of heat and pleasure and fuck the consequences. Or rather fuck this delicious cowboy until they both came like freight trains.

  She might have been shocked by her own recklessness, but the need was too great, and the rush of adrenaline and danger too intoxicating when he tensed and shuddered.

  “Are you sure, it’s getting chilly?” he asked.

  “Are you messing with me? If I got any hotter right now I’d explode.”

  He laughed, the deep sound rumbling through her torso. “Snap.”

  She let her hands roam over the strong muscles of his forearms, his waist, as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He fumbled with shaking fingers finding a condom, as she located the tab on his fly and eased it over the thick ridge.

  Pressing her palm against him it was his turn to jolt.

  She pushed down the stretchy cotton and cupped him in her palm.

  She’d never been a size junkie, but still the giddy rush of blood to her clit and the sting of sensation in her breasts became more intense, more unstoppable as she assessed his impressive proportions in the darkness.

  He’s huge.

  His breathing became ragged. The thick column of flesh—velvety soft and yet gloriously hard—jerked against her touch as she swiped her thumb over the plump head and felt the bead of moisture slick beneath her touch.

  “Whoa, Irish,” he said, jerking back and grasping her wrist. “I need to get this boy dressed or I’m going to shoot my load before I can saddle up.”

  The cowboy metaphor struck her as hilarious, her joy bubbling up into a sultry laugh as she listened to ripping foil, then heard him curse as he sheathed himself in haste.

  This guy is also a pro.

  The errant thought felt equally ridiculous. But the laugh got trapped in her throat on the growing ball of lust, when the sound of rending lace filled the air.

  “That’s a pair of knickers you owe me,” she said, as he grasped her leg and hooked it over his hip.

  “Next time don’t wear any,” he said, the rough laugh as strained as she felt.

  Suddenly the huge erection was right there, rubbing against her vulva. He angled his hips, lifting her easily in his arms, until he was positioned, thick and ready, probing her entrance.

  The indignant response died on her lips at the thick thrust, which impaled her to the hilt.

  Her head dropped back, the assault of sensation so immense her mind drifted into another plane. Where the pleasure—the stretching weight—was so intense it was almost pain.

  She panted, struggling to adjust, the glorious pleasure retreating. And the niggle of panic and inadequacy clawed up her torso.

  What a grand time to remember you’ve never come from penetration, you eejit.

  “Damn, you’re so tight, Irish. Are you okay?”

  She nodded, knocking her forehead against his chin and he grunted. But it was a lie. She just wanted this over with now. Inadequacy drenched her, like a bucket of cold water. Should she fake it? Would he know?

  He held her securely, but then shifted, still huge inside her, too huge, but not thrusting, not moving.

  She shivered, aware of the cold steel against her back, and the rapidly diminishing pleasure.

  “Hey, Irish, relax.”

  “It’s grand…” she said, on autopilot. A little stunned by the fact he’d realized she wasn’t with him.

  But then he stunned her more. “No it’s not. What can I do to make it better?”

  The offer was so earnest and so unexpected, delivered in a voice ripe with torment, emotion loosened her tongue and she blurted out the truth. “I don’t know, I’ve never come with penetration before. And you’re…” Her throat seized. This wasn’t his fault.

  “I’m what?” he asked as if he genuinely wanted to know.

  So she told him. “You’re massive.”

  Way to go, Donnelly. Why not stroke his ego while you’re at it?

  But instead of sounding smug, he sounded pained when he buried his face against her hair and gave a broken chuckle.

  “Irish, you’re killing me here.”

  “Well, you’re killing me,” she said.

  But then his cock twitched deep inside her and it triggered a tiny spurt of pleasure to go with the too full, too stretched feeling.

  She gasped. Astonished.

  “You liked that, huh?” he said. And then she heard the smug—but it didn’t feel like a bad thing anymore.

  She gripped his shoulders, squirming to repeat the experience. “Maybe.”

  He groaned. Then shifted his hips, and she felt it again, that nudge, against a spot so deep inside she had never known it existed.

  She jerked in his arms, a small cry choking off in her throat.

  “Yes, right there,” she said. “Do it again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Holding her hips, he drew out, then pressed back in again. Another nudge, another delicious roll of pleasure, another cry.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I have a fecking G-spot!

  She wrapped her legs around his hips, grasped his broad shoulders, hugging him to her, driving him on. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” she begged.

  “No, ma’am,” he said, the lightness in his voice matched by her soaring excitement.

  He established a rhythm, smooth at first, working that spot, making her senses reel and her thoughts shatter, until her whole
existence, everything inside her was focused on that one sweet spreading sensation. It got bigger, broader, more beautiful, until it was engulfing her whole body.

  His movements became frantic, frenetic. But the pleasure kept building, intensifying, the massive erection filling up all the empty spaces inside her. The titanic wave crashed over her and she cried out, his huge cock growing even bigger as she flew over that final ledge.

  His matching shout of fulfillment echoed off the metal bleachers far above them.

  She was clinging to him, her body one with his, her face buried against his shoulder, the scent of sex mixing with the spicy hints of his cologne as her heart thundered in her chest, harder than the horses’ hooves in the arena. The bucking bulls.

  The afterglow this time was like a fog, a thick, electric fog twinkling with fairy lights. Beautiful, surreal, sublime.

  Who knew I could feel this good?

  Then a shaft of bright light blinded her.

  “Hey, you two, get a damn room,” the gruff voice shouted, and Flynn shifted again, to cover her with his body.

  The pulse of his still-firm cock sent another jolt of pleasure through her and her pussy clamped down on him.

  He groaned.

  “Back off, man,” he shouted back, grunting with tension, as he shielded his eyes with one hand and struggled to hold her up with the other. “We’re busy here.”

  “I can see that,” the guy called back, who was obviously some kind of night guard. “Why don’t you take the lady home and get busy on a bed, cowboy?”

  “Everyone’s a damn critic,” Flynn mumbled as the beam of light headed off around the side of the bleachers. “You okay, Irish?” he asked, as he lifted her off him.

  “I’m…” The giggle popped out without warning. When had she ever been in such a ridiculous situation?

  Good Lord, I just shagged a cowboy under a grandstand, and got back a mojo I never even knew I had.

  “Hey, what’s so damn funny?” He sounded amused too, rather than affronted as he held her elbow. She locked her knees, her legs more than a little shaky.