need to disappoint her right now. He had a good two weeks. Plenty of time to let her down slowly, easily, before he had to leave for Las Vegas and the Pro Bull Riding Finals, where he was scheduled to compete for his tenth consecutive championship.
A record-breaking win that would put him right up there with the greatest riders of all time.
The knowledge didn’t send nearly the jolt of adrenaline through him that it usually did. Understandable, since he was still sore from a hard but high-scoring ride the night before in Cheyenne. A man most certainly couldn’t be excited when it hurt just to breathe.
He drew a deep breath and an ache gripped his left lower rib cage. He hadn’t broken any bones this time, but he’d come close. She’d almost stomped him square in the chest. She would have if he hadn’t rolled just in time.
In time, but still too late. He was getting slower each and every time he hit the ground. No one else noticed, but he did. He felt the weariness pulling at his bones and it bothered him.
PBR champion cowboys weren’t slow. Slowing down meant losing, and Houston had been winning much too long to stop now. Even more, he liked winning. He loved it. He lived for it.
He just wished it didn’t hurt like hell.
“I hate to bother you.” A soft, sweet voice drifted from behind him. “But would you care to dance?”
“I’m afraid not—” he started to say as he turned. The words stumbled to a halt in his throat when he found himself staring at the sultry redhead who’d lived and breathed in his memories for the past twelve years.
His pain faded into a rush of heat and his heart thundered because Sarah Buchanan wasn’t a figment of his imagination this time.
She was real. With eyes as warm as the hot fudge he loved to pour on his favorite vanilla ice cream, and just as decadent. And she was standing so close he could actually touch her.
And that’s just what he did.
2
HOUSTON JERICHO HAD TOUCHED his fair share of women. But none had ever felt as soft or as warm as Sarah Buchanan.
The notion struck him the moment he trailed his fingertips down the side of her face, under the curve of her jaw, down the smooth column of her throat, until the silky fabric of her collar stopped him.
“You’re real.”
“I…yes.” She licked her bottom lip and he had the urge to lean down and catch the plump flesh between his teeth and nibble. “And, um, so are you. Not that I had a doubt. I mean, I saw you and I knew right away that it was you, even from a distance. But you look better up close. Bigger.” His grin widened as she stumbled over her words.
A crazy thing, because Sarah Buchanan had never had trouble finding the right words for anything. She’d always said what was on her mind, in her thoughts. She didn’t look for the right words the way she seemed to be doing right now.
His mind flashed back to the few times he’d been home in the past to see his brothers. The visits had always been brief. Two days at most, just like this time. He’d always been in such a hurry that he’d never actually run into her. But he’d heard about her.
That she’d changed. That she’d outgrown her rebel attitude like a trendy pair of shoes. Yep, he’d heard the talk, but he’d never believed it.
He didn’t believe it now, despite the cautious air about her and the way she seemed to stiffen when he smiled at her. There was just something about the way she looked at him with those deep brown eyes that said she was hungry for him.
As hungry as she’d been at seventeen. Maybe more so, considering that she was a full-grown woman now, with a woman’s curves, a woman’s maturity, a woman’s needs.
“I care.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You asked me if I cared to dance. I do.”
“Oh.” A few seconds ticked by as reality seemed to register. “Oh.”
He grinned and watched her stiffen again. “After you, honey.” He let her lead him out onto the dance floor, through a sea of moving bodies, straight into the heart of things, which was just what he’d expected.
Sarah had always been the center of attention. Not because she’d wanted to be, simply because she attracted attention with her free spirit and her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude.
She bypassed the middle and kept moving until they’d reached the far side of the dance floor, where it wasn’t so crowded or loud.
She put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, as if she meant to keep some distance between them.
Right.
He pulled her close, plastering them together from chest to thigh, holding her securely with one arm tight around her waist.
“You’re definitely real. And warm. And you smell just like those raspberries we used to pick out in old man Baxter’s field.”
Houston’s words slid into her ears, coaxing her to soften in his arms the way the warm heat of his body urged her to relax and let her guard down.
She wanted to.
She’d been so good for so long, and the need to let her hair down and stop thinking, worrying, just once was nearly unbearable.
“That was a long time ago,” she said, the words more for herself. But they did little good.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing.”
“You’re stiff.”
“Stiff is good.”
“I won’t argue that with you,” he said, and she became instantly aware of the hardness pressed against the soft cradle of her thighs. Heat flowered low in her belly, spreading through her body like a flame sweeping dry brush. “But the idea is usually for me to take care of the stiffness, while you soften up.”
“I can’t. I mean, I don’t. I don’t soften up anymore. Haven’t you heard? I’m not like that anymore.”
“I heard, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s pretty far out, don’t you think? I mean, you, sexy Sarah, a prude? That’s like saying Santa Claus is really the Easter Bunny. It’s just not natural.”
“It’s true.”
“Like hell. Santa wouldn’t be caught dead hopping around in a furry white suit with big floppy ears and big floppy feet. Santa’s way too cool. He’s got the whole black biker boot thing going on.” She saw the teasing light in his eyes and found herself back in the past, charmed by his smile and soothed by his teasing voice.
And for a split second, she actually forgot that things had changed. That she’d changed.
Her hands crept up the hard wall of his chest, her arms twined around his neck and she leaned closer. His heart beat against her breasts. His warm breath sent shivers down the bare column of her neck. His hands splayed at the base of her spine, one urging her even closer while the other crept its way up, as if reacquainting itself with every bump and groove, until he reached her neck. A few deft movements of his fingers and the tight ponytail she wore unraveled and her hair spilled down her back. His hand cradled the base of her scalp, massaging for a few blissful moments, making her legs tremble.
For the next few moments, she forgot all about the game and her friends and the all-important fact that no self-respecting lady would be caught dead with Houston Jericho, much less pressed up against him on a crowded dance floor for everyone to see.
She tilted her head back and found him staring down at her. The past pulled her back, to a moonlit night when he’d looked at her just this way, as if he wanted