The Cowboy Way. Candace Schuler
broken only by the creaking of the old windmill and the breeze that rustled the leaves of the ancient oak trees that dotted the pasture. The water in the tank was swimming-pool warm. She was completely and utterly alone for the first time in days, her only companion the old horse that stood with her head down and one foreleg bent, drowsing in the shade of the windmill.
And, damn it, she was still wound up tighter than an overworked watch spring, and no relief in sight, except what she could give herself. She sat up and smacked the water with the flat of her hand, irritated and annoyed and just plain frustrated that she’d had to resort to her own devices so often lately. Self-love was convenient but she’d never found it all that satisfying. Still, when it was all you had…
She leaned back against the edge of the tank again, closed her eyes, and pressed her hands against her water-slicked breasts, giving in to the fantasy that had been making her crazy for the past week.
CLAY VERY NEARLY DROPPED the binoculars again. She couldn’t be doing what it looked like she was doing. Could she? No, prissy, dried-up sticks didn’t do that, especially not out in broad daylight in front of God and everybody. Except that she didn’t look prissy and dried-up at the moment. She looked luscious and juicy and wanton, lying there in the shallow water with her head thrown back against the rim of the tank and her small, work-worn hands caressing her own breasts. They weren’t very large breasts by anybody’s reckoning—certainly not exotic-dancer material—but they weren’t nonexistent, either. Small, high and rounded, made buoyant by the water, they were startlingly white under the bright Texas sun, glistening with droplets of water that looked like diamonds on her skin. Her nipples were a pale pinkish-brown, small but beautifully erect, the lighter colored areola drawn up tight and puckered around them. She brushed her fingers across them…back and forth…around and around…slowly, oh-so-slowly…until they were as prominent and deeply pink as the most succulent summer raspberries.
Clay’s entire body hardened in response. His jaw clenched. His fingers tightened on the hard plastic casing of the binoculars. His cock swelled in his jeans.
JO BETH PINCHED HER NIPPLES gently, tugging them into hard little points, squirming as she imagined other hands on her aching flesh.
Bigger hands.
Stronger hands.
Clay Madison’s hands.
She pictured them in her mind’s eye, tanned and calloused, with broad palms and long square-tipped fingers. His nails were clipped and clean, which wasn’t always the case with a cowboy. There was a thin, jagged scar across the back of his left hand, the kind a man got from handling barbed wire. Last night at the rehearsal dinner, she’d noted that his right palm bore the dull red marks of a recent rope burn. Hands like that—big, tough, hardworking—would be exquisitely rough against her tender skin. They would envelope her breasts, kneading them, the palms completely encompassing and covering her, making her feel delicate and sexy at the same time. His calloused thumb would rasp against her nipple, moving in slow, maddening circles, around and around, until she was aching and needy, until she couldn’t stand it anymore, until she had to have his mouth on her or go crazy.
She arched her back, moaning softly, and let one hand drift down her body to touch the soft, curling hair at the apex of her thighs, while the other stayed where it was, caressing her breasts, plucking at her turgid nipples.
CLAY’S HANDS WERE GRASPING the binoculars so tightly, his fingers very nearly left grooves in the plastic casing. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. Sweet Jesus God! She had her hand between her legs now, touching herself. He couldn’t see it beneath the surface of the water because of the sun’s glare, but it was obvious what she was doing, obvious how it was making her feel. Her head was pressed back against the edge of the water tank. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were parted. She was panting lightly.
Clay’s own breathing increased and his heart started to pound against the wall of his chest, echoing the throbbing behind the fly of his jeans. He could almost taste her…her mouth hot and avid against his…her throat cool and smooth against his tongue…her tight nipples berry-sweet between his lips. He could almost feel her…the strong, slender body arching beneath the weight of his…the slippery softness of her labia against his fingers…the clinging heat and wetness as he pushed them inside her to caress the swollen, weeping walls of her vagina…the hard little nubbin of her clitoris as he circled it with his thumb…her body taut and straining toward his, reaching for fulfillment.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his throat. “You are so hot.”
JO BETH FLATTENED HER FINGERS against her mons, applying a firm, kneading pressure, seeing in her mind’s eye his hand doing the same thing, his hand sliding lower, his hand slipping gently into the soft folds between her legs, circling her clitoris with a deft, knowing fingertip. The fantasy was so real now, she could almost feel him next to her, almost feel his mouth on hers, almost feel the brush of his lips against her throat, almost feel his tongue circling her nipples, almost feel his thick, blunt-tipped fingers delving into the slick, swollen passage between her legs, slipping in and out, pressing deep.
She could almost hear his voice in her ear, gravel-rough and whiskey-hot, praising her passion and her firm, slim body, telling her what he wanted from her…telling her what he was going to do to her…telling her how it would feel when he did it.
“Yes.” She quickened the movement of her fingers against her clitoris, increasing the pressure, driving herself higher, until she was panting heavily with the need to come, until her body was vibrating with suppressed passion, until every nerve and muscle was taut and tensed, hovering on the maddening edge of release. “Oh, yes,” she moaned again and opened her legs wide as if accepting a lover between them. “Yes.”
THROUGH THE BINOCULARS, Clay saw her lips move.
“Yes,” she said, so clearly he would have sworn he heard the words being whispered in his ear. “Yes. Yes. Oh, yes.”
She was almost there. He could feel it as keenly, as sharply, as if he were actually between her wide-open thighs, thrusting into her hot, tight, hungry little pussy. He could feel her body clamping around him, holding on, her legs locked around his waist, her nails digging into his butt, demanding he give it to her.
Harder.
Faster.
Deeper.
In his mind, he was right there beside her…on top of her…inside of her. His heart was slamming against the wall of his chest, his breath was sloughing in and out of his lungs, his whole body was rock-hard and throbbing, aching to give her what she wanted. What they both wanted. He struggled to hold on, to hold back, until she reached her peak. A gentleman always let a lady go first, even if only by proxy.
HIS IMAGE FLICKERED behind her closed eyelids, his big hard body moving over her, covering her, his lean horseman’s hips settling between her thighs, pushing them wider, his rock-hard cock thrusting into her. She thrust her own hips upward—pistoning, frantic, demanding—but the man of her imagination took over, slowing the pace, deepening the sensation, drawing it out. His movements were measured and deliberate, exactly the way she liked it best, plunging deep into her secret core, withdrawing slowly, plunging again, until she was nearly mad with passion and lust.
Her body arched up out of the water, every sinew stretched tight as she reached for the final crest. Her head rolled against the concrete rim of the water tank. Her fingers worked frantically between her legs. The image in her mind’s eye quickened his movements in unison with her mounting need. His hips were pistoning wildly now, too, slamming into hers. His breath was hot against her neck. His big hard hands cupped the cheeks of her ass, lifting her into each hard, driving thrust.
“COME ON, JO BETH,” Clay murmured, his voice low and rasping with need. His breathing was in sync with hers. His cock was ready to burst, straining to release the full force of his lust. He held it back by sheer will, waiting for her, coaxing her to the finish with fevered words, wanting it to be as good for her as it was for him. “Come on. Let it go, baby. Let me have it. Give it to me.”