The Book
The Tease
Lying on his back, his hands stacked beneath his head, Dax stared at the ceiling and listened to Arwen’s house breathe. Water pipes clinked in the attic. The a/c kicked on and windows rattled. Boards popped with the change in the temperature, groaning and old. A branch of the live oak throwing cover from the west gave the roof an occasional scrape.
Home noises. Comfortable noises. Noises only a guest would hear.
No strings. She’d let him into her house, trusted him not to rob her blind. Trusted him with her cat. Trusted him when few in Crow Hill ever had, and when he’d done nothing to deserve her investment.
That had kept him up for awhile, trying to figure out what she was thinking, but not for long. He was as beat as he kept hearing he looked, and since he couldn’t do anything about his workload or genetics, the only thing for it was sleep.
He’d set the alarm for five, and a glance at the digital display had him shutting off the clock before its scheduled buzz. He hated to move. The bed was heaven, but then he’d been sleeping on a bunk that had seen better days and the weight of too many bodies.
On the pillow beside him, Crush stretched and glared, obviously not a fan of four forty-five. Dax reached over and scratched the cat’s stomach, his arm going numb from the vibrating purr turning his muscles to mush.
“Gotta go,” he whispered, extricating himself slowly from the sheet and the comforter but mostly from the rumbling cat in case it decided to flex its claws. Wearing nothing but his briefs, he stepped across the hall to the bathroom, took care of business, then went back for his clothes.
He got as far as pulling on his jeans before thinking better of dressing the rest of the way. He had a few minutes to spare, and he owed his hostess a proper—though, granted, a quick—thank you.
It was when he stopped in the open doorway of Arwen’s room that he changed his mind. Not about showing his appreciation for the use of the guest quarters, but about saying it with more than his mouth.
Truth be told, her bedroom décor was pretty much a bucket of ice water poured down his pants. The pink and cream and lace made him think of his grandmother. Of pigtails and little girls.
It did not make him think about sex, though once he’d focused on what he’d come for, Arwen’s ass in black boy shorts quickly took care of that. She lay on her side, a cotton-candy colored pillow tucked to her chest.
Her back was bare, her dark hair a tumbled mess around her shoulders, her knees drawn up in the fetal position, her bottom as close to naked as it needed to be for him to forget everything else.
He could slip a finger beneath the fabric of her undies and be inside her before either of them blinked. He could turn her on her back and push into her with his tongue. He could turn her on her stomach, and slide his cock deep in her ass.
And yet he found himself wanting to take her to dinner, to go dancing, drinking. To hold her in his arms, her body close to his, and sway to some classic George Straight.
Where that had come from he had no idea, and didn’t care right now to find out. Not when he was hard and thick, his tip already wet, his balls anxious and heavy.
He set the bundle of his boots and shirt on the floor, dropped his hat on top, shucked down his jeans and stepped out of them. Then he crawled onto the bed and hovered above her, a palm on the mattress at her back.
Still sleeping, she rolled into his arm, the position lifting her top leg to his liking. He pulled aside the crotch of her shorts, his knuckle grazing her heated skin, then rubbed the head of his cock through her folds, spreading both his moisture and hers.
She shuddered, moaned, and he pushed into her, filling her until his sac bumped her ass.
“Good morning,” he said, and her eyes fluttered open and her tongue came out to wet her lips. “Just wanted to give you a proper thank you for the use of the bed.”
“I like your idea of proper,” she said, still half asleep, the husky raw note in her voice inviting, as was the play of the moonlight through her windows on her skin.
She was curvy and lush and all kinds of ripe, and he enjoyed a whole lot the way she tightened around him, pulling on his cock, keeping him. He planted his other hand on the bed beneath her tits, trapping her as he thrust, withdrew, thrust again.
Then he stayed deep, grinding against her, losing a little of himself he didn’t think he’d ever get back. “You should see my collection of improper ones.”
“Show me,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest, and pushing her bottom into his groin. “Start with hard and fast.”
That he could do, and he only wondered for a moment if she’d picked it because he had to go, or if she wanted to get back to sleep, or maybe got off that way best of all. And then the moment was gone and she was twisting her hips and him, too, doing a mean figure eight with his business.
A match lit deep between his legs, fire eating him up like tinder, burning as he pumped and drove himself home. She grunted each time he hit bottom, and she reached between her legs, using the vee of her fingers to catch at the ridge of his cock with each pass, using her thumb against her clit and writhing.
It was too much, all the noise and the fingering and the way her pussy sucked him in and spit him out. He slammed into her, his balls slapping her, his thighs on fire, his shoulders torched with the strain. He tossed back his head, beat himself against her, his testicles aching, his cock the only thing he knew.
He balanced himself and grabbed her leg, turning her from her side to her back, hooking her knee over his elbow to spread her wide. Then he became the rutting beast she’d asked for, giving her every bit of hard and fast he’d held back in the tub. Held back for years before that because he’d never had a woman ask for it all. And he’d never wanted to let a woman in.
She whimpered, panted, and he knew he was hurting her, but she wouldn’t let him ease up or slow down, and her cries echoed in his head, as did her repeated and breathless, “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t. He fucked her until he saw stars, and somewhere in his head he knew she finished, shuddering beneath him in a violent wet rush of contractions. But he was shaking, bucking, his muscles beat all to hell by brutal twelve hour days.
His strength sapped like a weeping willow, he collapsed on top of her, spurted inside of her, rubbed his face in the silk of her hair where it lay in ribbons on her pillow.
“I’m not usually that improper,” he finally found his voice to say. “Seems kinda heathen to rush through something deserving more time.”
“Go to work,” she told him, rolling away. “I’m sleepy.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, though it was twenty minutes before he moved, and even longer until he let himself realize he’d opened up a can of big-time trouble.
The Blurb
THE DALTON BOYS ARE COMING, ONE BY ONE…
There was a time when Crow Hill, Texas’s notorious Dalton Gang ran wild. Now, as owners of the Dalton Ranch, their partnership in the rundown operation leaves little time for raising hell—except for the right women who can turn on the heat…
It’s been sixteen years since Dax Campbell set foot in Crow Hill—and sixteen years since Arwen Poole had a crush on him in high school. Unfortunately, setting her sights on this irresistible man again has stirred up a lot of unfulfilled desires in Arwen. A few nights in bed with Dax should get him out of her system once and for all. That’s all she wants. And for now, that’s all she needs.
But Dax is looking for something deeper in a woman. So they agree to an unconventional affair: for every no-strings sexual encounter Arwen craves, Dax gets to take her out for a night of romance. While both manage to hold up their end of the bargain, they’re growing closer than either of them can afford. Because Dax has a family secret that could drive him out of Crow Hill for good, and Arwen’s not letting him go without a fight…
Available October 2, 2012
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