Flinging her arms around, spinning, Challie looked like a nymph. He’d like her better as a nymphomaniac right about now, tearing off his clothes in a rush to enjoy Duke’s manhandling.
Donnie braced his hands against the window frame as he watched Challie. None of the women he’d messed with would want to be here. None would be happy anywhere away from the city. None would ever consider visiting Montana or cow country or find satisfaction on an open prairie unless a prime-time shopping center was nearby.
Filling a glass with the only source of water on the ranch, a well, he decided there were things he liked about Challie. She didn’t complain about the hodgepodge of bullcrap other women bitched about: her hair mussed after rough sex, sweating, or nails, or smudged makeup, which she didn’t wear. Her face was scrubbed clean and bright, free of enhancements she wouldn’t need anyway. She only complained about filth. And, of course, mice.
He had to get a cat, find one while she was on her frigging walk. So much for blistering sex in the next few minutes.
Peering out the window again, he saw Challie running toward the cabin. What the devil?
Donnie met her at the screen door. Across the way, someone had penned the dogs. They were barking their asses off, which usually meant ranch workers had arrived after a long day in the fields. Was a truck full of guys the reason Challie had run? Or maybe the dogs had caught the scent of something in their territory. Ranch dogs ran in packs, working together as well as wolves.
Panting, Challie said, “A cow is loose!”
Hell, he thought it was an important issue. “No big deal. The foreman’ll rope her and lead her back to the pasture. They’re branded. He’ll know it belongs here.” He had her here now.
“But there’s no one around. We can put her back where she belongs ourselves. Otherwise, she might get hurt. Please? I don’t want her to get hurt.”
A frigging cow jacking up my game plan. “All right. All right.”
Following close behind Challie, long strides to her trotting, Donnie grabbed a rope hanging from the hook outside the main barn as if he knew what to do. Lassoing took talent Donnie didn’t have. But a cow, which was probably a calf, cake.
He’d spent several days one colder-than-a-bitch February with Paul and Ray during calving season. He’d damn near frozen his ass off at four o’clock in the morning while the foreman pulled a calf. What a mess.
“You need a bigger rope,” Challie said, throwing her arms out wide.
Paul said Ray had purchased several Texas longhorns to breed with a select group of cattle. Donnie hoped he hadn’t picked up Brahma bulls. They were way more than he was willing to mess with on a good day, even with backup cowboys who knew what they were doing.
“She was coming up the road,” Challie said.
They rounded the corner of the barn and came damn near face-to-face with an effing moose! A huge bull with a rack the size of frigging Montana.
Donnie grabbed the back of Challie’s shirt, stopped her cold. “Don’t move a muscle,” he whispered. “Not cow. Moose. Tramplers, but their eyesight is—”
Challie bolted.
“Bad.” Fucking A.
She darted across the road, leaving Donnie in a lousy situation. He had two choices. Make a fast dash back into the barn to save his own ass, knowing the narrow doorway would prevent the moose from entering with a rack this size or…
Bullwinkle made his call of the angry wild and charged.
Donnie sprinted. He dove under the rail fence where Challie hid in a shallow ditch filled with weeds, hay, mounds of loose dirt. Bullwinkle stomped, grunting, generally pissed. Hunters claimed humans frightened these animals.
Latching onto Challie’s shirt, Donnie dug in and crawled, dragging her with him under the corral’s intricate wood design. Ranch hands used it to load steers onto transport trucks. They were protected here.
Until Bullwinkle tried to crash through the wood.
Challie’s hair-raising scream raised mega-sized goose bumps, which sprouted down Donnie’s body to the bottoms of his feet. He clamped his hand over her mouth and hauled her into his arms, then covered her body with his own, protecting her the best way he knew how. He didn’t know which was worse, Challie’s clawing, attempting to skitter away, or Bullwinkle bent on splintering every rotting piece of goddamn wood surrounding them.
He and his future wife were going to die today because he’d failed to keep his cock inside his pants.
Donnie squeezed his eyes shut and closed his ears to the bona fide wail of an angry creature. For the first time in years, he prayed, begging for forgiveness, vowing to change his ways if the man upstairs would let them live another day.
All at once, silence.
Opening his eyes, he spied four brown legs lumbering away. Donnie let out the breath he’d been holding in one long whoosh. Maybe, just maybe, the rumbling noise of a distant vehicle had Bullwinkle galloping off into the sunset.
Nestled between Challie’s legs, their breathing rapid, their hearts thumping in unison, he uncovered her mouth.
Terror shined in her eyes. She whispered, “Is it gone?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He rolled to his side, taking Challie with him, tightening his arms around her as a shiver sprinted through her body and transferred into his. “Hey, it’s okay now.”
An old lumber truck roared past the corral, rumbled down the road, gravel clattering against the undercarriage, raising a dense cloud of dust. Several seconds later, the driver tooted his horn—probably at Bullwinkle. Come autumn, during rutting season, big daddy moose might decide to challenge the log hauler’s vehicle in a territorial attack. He just might win the match against the antique.
Donnie cupped Challie’s chin. “Your face is smudged with dirt.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheek where his fingerprints had temporarily branded her soft skin.
“Bath,” she said breathlessly.
Fuck a bath. He’d shower her insides with his fresh, scalding juice. Donnie pressed his lips to hers, teasing them apart. She went pliant under his exploration as he delved deeper in a dance as old as Adam and Eve’s sexy samba. The moan he heard was his own. When she sighed, the erotic sound kicked his pulse up a notch, popped the clutch on Duke, jerking his gears into overdrive. Slowly, he glided one hand up and down her midriff. He grazed the side of her breast, covered it, found her nipple budded and squeezed the tightness. She arched toward him in offering or wanting more. She wore no bra to hinder his advances.
Donnie unfastened every single button down her shirt and spread the fabric open. Her breathing rapid, her chest heaved. He latched onto her nipple with his teeth, gnawed, suckled, gnawed again. Her legs restless and moving, he slipped his hand down to the juncture between her thighs. The territory was hot, damp. Pressing the heel of his hand to her mound dragged a deep moan from her throat. Challie’s legs spread wider, her hips rising to meet the pressure.
In a rush on her wordless call for more, Donnie got his jeans open with one desperate yank. Duke sprang free like an over-stretched wire. Thick. Hard. Needy of this woman’s stimulating currents. He shoved his baggies down, peeled her hand from his shirt, wrapped it around his cock and forced her to squeeze.
“Tighter,” he rasped, hissing out a harsh breath from the sweet torture. “Stroke him.” He guided her hand down and up his throbbing length in the same rhythm that his tongue stroked inside her mouth.
“So hard,” she said against his cheek. “So big. So hot.”
“For you. Just you.”
He moved her hand farther down to clasp the family jewels. They were stretched tight, aching. “Keep working me. Touch me everywhere. Do it.”
She compressed gently then caressed his shaft from