Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(8)

She nipped his earlobe hard enough to draw blood. “Ah-ah-ah. I wouldn’t let you come that fast, Bashful. I’d back off. Use my teeth as you pulled your cock out. Then I’d play with your balls. Suck them. Roll them over my tongue like hard candy. Mmm. I love candy. I’d use my hand to build you back up. Slowly.”


His cock throbbed as her fingernails repeatedly scraped the full length of it. He bit back a groan, not sure if it was one of dismay or encouragement.


“Then I’d bring your cock back into my mouth and finish you off. I’d swallow every hot drop until you had nothing left.”


“Sweet Jesus.” This chick—was beginning to scare him.


“Does that sound good?”


“Ah—”


“I do believe I’ve left you tongue-tied, cowboy.” Jen stepped back and licked her lips suggestively. “So what do you say we put that idle tongue of yours to better use?”


He didn’t answer.


Annoyance crossed her face at his less than enthusiastic response. “I laid it all out for you. What do you want?”


To escape, he thought even when his dick had other ideas.


A flash of sunlight drew his awareness to a figure in front of the arena. A woman with long, shiny hair the color of burnished mahogany.


For a second the woman faltered. She seemed to sense him staring at her. She turned.


Their eyes met.


Everything inside him went tight and still.


It was her, the image that’d been haunting him. Right here. Flesh and bone. He could study her. Sketch her. God, he could touch her sun-warmed tawny skin. Mold her curvaceous body with his hands so he could immortalize her perfection in clay. In wood.


In steel.


Then she vanished into the crowd like an apparition.


Carter leapt off the fence and readjusted the softening bulge behind his zipper.


“Hey! Where you goin’? I thought you were up for a rodeo?”


“Sorry. Gotta see a man about a horse.” He raced after the woman and didn’t look back.


Chapter Four


Macie made it halfway across the rodeo grounds when the fine hair on the back of her neck stood up. She glanced over at the paddock and saw her brooding bad boy with one of the bimbos standing between his wide-spread thighs. But he wasn’t paying attention to sure-thing-blondie; he stared directly at her. Intensely. Intimately. Hungrily.


Something hot and elemental passed between them. When he started for her, she hustled through the throng of people. About thirty seconds later she was spun around and found herself gazing into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.


Sexy, brooding man said, “It is you.” His rough hands framed her face. “My God.


You’re exactly—”


Flustered, she knocked his mitts away. “You can’t just grab any woman—”


“You’re not any woman. I grabbed you because you’ve been in my head for the last damn month and it’s drivin’ me crazy. Who are you?”


Macie snorted. “That is the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard.”


Those blue, blue eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a pick up line.”


“Good thing, because it sure as hell isn’t working.”


“Look. Let’s start over. I’m an artist. And I’d like—”


“—to show me your etchings?” She snickered.


“Har har. I really am an artist.”


“Yeah? So was the last guy I was involved with. Been there, done that, have the tie-dyed T-shirt and the roach clip to prove it. Move along, Picasso.”


“You always such a smartass?”


“Better than being a dumbass. Which is what you are if you think I’m gonna fall for your line of bullshit. Move.”



He cocked his head. “Interestin’.”


“What?”


“That you have the face of an Indian princess and the mouth of a truck driver.”


Against her better judgment, Macie smiled. “I’ll admit that line was better.”


“I ain’t usin’ a line on you.” Serious once again, he stared at her steadily. “What’s your name?”


“What’s yours?” she countered.


“Carter.”


She mimicked his posture and cocked her head. “Interestin’.”


“What?”


“That you have the face of a Viking warrior and the name of a Georgia peanut farmer.”


His enormous grin, with a side of deep-set dimples, nearly knocked her off her game.


Damn. This Carter guy was trouble with a capital ‘T’.


“You always such a smart-mouth?”


She shrugged. “It’s a gift.”


“Or a curse.” Still smiling, he leaned closer. “So, what is your name?”


“Macie.”


“Pretty. A little odd, a little flowery, but it fits you.”