The Trouble With Cowboys (14 page)
Reaching around her waist, his fingers swirled against her clit. “Come for me, honey. Let it go.”
He drove into her, his movements spiraling to an impossible speed.
Amy’s orgasm burst into being with a flare of white-hot rapture. She smothered her cries in the seat cushion as contractions rippled through her. Kellan’s thrusts became erratic. With a final plunge and a breathy grunt, he collapsed over her.
His hand snuck beneath her sweater to stroke her perspiration-dampened back. Gradually, he withdrew. Her skirt dropped and she sat up. She should have felt sated, dreamy even, having gotten what she wanted. But watching Kellan go through the motions of wrapping the condom in a tissue and setting his clothes in order left her feeling hollow.
She wanted more from him than this.
Cringing at the unwanted epiphany, she fingered the cleanly sliced edge of her tattered panties. Of course she did—she never met a cowboy she didn’t want to hand her heart over to on a silver platter. Which was why tonight had to be her last no-business contact with Kellan, as she’d originally planned. She tucked the panties in her purse and pressed a hand between her legs, touching her tender flesh until a fresh tremor of sensation shimmered through her belly. This was the prize, the fleeting bliss of an orgasm. Intense, satisfying sex with a hot cowboy was good enough. It had to be.
Kellan climbed behind the wheel and took a long hit off a water bottle, then offered it to her.
She shook her head, forcing a smile. “Thank you for tonight. It was everything I needed.”
If only that were true.
He turned to her, a grin dancing on his lips. “Our night together isn’t over yet. You’ve got the drive to my house to recover before I carry you up to my bed, strip your clothes off, and make love to you as slowly and sweetly as I can stand to go.” He reached across and grabbed her seatbelt, latching her in. “We did it your way this first time, but for the rest of the night, we’re doing it mine.”
Chapter 9
Kellan opened Amy’s door. She stepped into the bitingly cold air in front of his house. He had been right about the weather. No doubt another storm was liable to hit at any minute. Holding the bag of food and her purse, she followed him up the porch steps. Light filtered to the porch from within the house.
A shaggy dog trotted onto the porch, its tail wagging with desperate hope for attention.
She tucked her purse into the crook of her elbow, knelt, and scratched behind its ears. He whined his gratitude and slapped his tail against the floorboards.
Kellan’s legs materialized next to her. “Max, meet Amy. Amy, Max.”
He took the food bag and offered her a hand up, then led her into his kitchen. Max followed.
Kellan had forgone the overhead fluorescents, opting instead to turn on the soft lights tucked discreetly under the cabinets. With a turn of a key, a mellow fire sprung to life in the dual-sided fireplace separating the kitchen and living room. The firelight danced on the dark cabinet faces and set the granite countertops aglow, lending an illusion of cozy intimacy to the sprawling room.
“I’ll get plates and silverware if you’ll open up the food,” Kellan said, setting the bag on the counter. “I promised you dinner and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”
Amy rarely missed a meal and after spending the past hour cooped up with the aroma of the pork with apples and brandy sauce in the cab of Kellan’s truck, her hunger level nearly matched her need to get Kellan naked again. She worked the knot of the plastic bag and withdrew their half-f bottle of wine while Kellan snagged wineglasses and plates from a cabinet.
With a sigh of disappointment, she stared into the waxed paper carton. The pork had gone gray and sat drowning in congealed oil and mushy apple slices. “The brandy sauce separated.” She pushed the roasted vegetables around with her finger. “And the carrots and potatoes are soggy.”
Kellan peered over her shoulder. “That looks disgusting.”
“I agree. It’s okay. I’m not hungry.” As though protesting her blatant lie, her stomach growled.
“Your stomach begs to differ. Tell you what. We’ll whip up a fresh meal.” He opened the fridge. She crowded near him, evaluating their options, and spied an array of vegetables, butcher-paper-wrapped meat, and a package of shitake mushrooms. Several plastic-wrapped bricks with Binderman Dairy labels sat on a middle shelf. “These are cheeses, right?”
“Goat cheese varieties my friends Chris and Lisa make. You had a meeting with Lisa on Monday, right?”
“I did. Their cheeses are phenomenal. But I knew who they were before Monday. Or, rather, I knew of them. Lisa and Chris were a couple years older and ran with a different clique than my sisters and me, but I was in the same grade as Chris’s younger brother, Nathan.”
He grabbed two packs of meat and nudged the fridge shut with his heel. “How did the meeting go?”
“It was great. Lisa’s a shark of a salesperson. She offered me a deal on cheese if I hired Douglas Dixon as my sous-chef.”
Kellan shook his head, grinning. “Typical Lisa coercion technique. I thought Douglas retired. A bad back or something.”
“He definitely has a bad back. Lisa and Jillian Dixon are convinced he needed something to do to keep him from getting underfoot in the kitchen. They thought he was bored and needed to feel useful.”
“I hear a
but
in that statement.”
but
in that statement.”
“But I heard a much different story from Mr. Dixon when he came to interview with me.” She reopened the fridge and piled ingredients on the counter, including the cheeses.
“Do tell.”
“Turns out, he wants to escape Jillian’s cooking. He offered to work for meals, rather than a paycheck.”
Kellan laughed out loud. “Man, I don’t blame him. You ever tasted Jillian’s chicken casserole? It’s her go-to contribution when people have new babies or funerals. I learned a long time ago not to touch the stuff.”
Amy shook her head, then a memory surfaced. “Wait a minute. I remember that casserole from the reception after my dad’s memorial service. The dish has the green chilies on top?”
“Those aren’t chilies, Amy.”
She groaned. “Ew. Good thing I didn’t have an appetite that day. We fed it to the hogs.”
“Smart move.”
She unwrapped the bricks of cheese and popped some crumbs into her mouth. “How long have you and Chris been friends? You two seem close, but you didn’t grow up around here with the rest of us.”
“No. I grew up in Florida. After high school, I kicked around Texas for a couple years, doing odd jobs for my uncle. One thing led to another and I crash-landed in Catcher Creek when I was twenty. Scrawny and lonely and ready to fight the world.”
Amy eyed Kellan’s thick, muscled arms and the broad expanse of his shoulders. She tried to picture him as a thin, angry young man, but couldn’t get the image to gel in her mind with the strapping cowboy she’d come to know.
“Chris’s mom was the first person to look me in the eye,” he said. “She saw me hanging around the corner market and brought me home. She introduced me to Chris and his brothers and told me I was staying on at their place until, as she put it, the sallowness disappeared from my cheeks.”
Amy had always admired Mrs. Binderman, whose quiet support of Amy’s family over the years had been a balm against the judgmental eyes of the rest of the community. She was the only person from town to visit Amy’s mom in the hospital. “How many of Mrs. Binderman’s meals did that take?”
“About two months’ worth. Not long after that, I bought a secondhand single-wide trailer and dropped it right where this house stands. And the rest is history. Ever since that first night sleeping on the Bindermans’ couch, they’ve been family to me.”
Amy was about to ask about his parents until Kellan cut the white butcher tape on one package to reveal two thick, marbled cuts of beef. She grabbed his shirt, swooning. “Are those Slipping Rock filet mignons? My God, they’re perfect.”
“Thank you. I think so, too. How about I sear these babies up and we’ll have your growly stomach satisfied in no time flat?”
She shot him a flirty sideways glance. “Well, you know, filets are my favorite kind of fast food.”
“That makes two of us.”
“What’s in the other package?”
“Mesquite smoked bacon from Salero Farms outside Amarillo. Old man Salero and I trade goods on a regular basis.”
With a practiced technique, he peeled a strip of bacon from the mound, wound it like a ribbon around the circumference of a filet, and secured it in place with a toothpick. He repeated the ritual with the second filet. Amy watched, impressed by the skill of this cowboy who didn’t just raise cattle, but knew what to do with the beef he produced once it reached the kitchen.
After washing up, he nodded toward a closed door across the sprawling kitchen. “Time to select the perfect seasoning.”
Amy suffered a flash of disappointment. “What kind of seasoning do you have in mind? I’m partial to salt and pepper on a premium cut like filet. You’d ruin it with anything else.”
He smiled mischievously. “That’s what I thought for the longest time. Follow me.” Across the room, he opened the door and flipped on an overhead light to reveal a huge walk-in pantry loaded floor to ceiling with cans, boxes, and bins of foodstuffs. “Then a few months ago, Lisa showed up with goat cheese prepared with Celtic sea salt harvested in the south of France.”
He pulled a plastic box from a top shelf and backed out of the pantry, setting the box on the hardwood floor near the fireplace and folding himself cross-legged next to it.
Amy slid down the wall and tucked her feet behind her. “And?”
“And the cheese was fantastic. Which gave me an idea. After a little research, I started sending away for exotic salts, experimenting with them on my beef to develop a line of high-end seasoning blends and dry rubs to diversify my business.”
He unlatched the lid and opened the box to over a dozen little bottles and jars. Amy lifted ajar and tilted it toward the firelight to read the handwriting on the quaint blue label.
GRIGIO DI CERVIA FINISHING SALT.
She uncorked the jar and sniffed. It smelled like salt, but richer, more intense. The crystals were gray and larger than run-of-the-mill sea salt. She replaced the jar in the box. “I’ve used artisanal salts from time to time, some from Hawaii and a few that had been herb-infused.”
GRIGIO DI CERVIA FINISHING SALT.
She uncorked the jar and sniffed. It smelled like salt, but richer, more intense. The crystals were gray and larger than run-of-the-mill sea salt. She replaced the jar in the box. “I’ve used artisanal salts from time to time, some from Hawaii and a few that had been herb-infused.”
Kellan sifted through the box, checking labels. He unscrewed the lid of a square glass jar and tipped it in her direction. “This is an interesting variety. Have you ever tasted smoked salt?”
“No.” Intrigued, she leaned closer and peeked at the cream-hued crystals. Kellan’s breath fanned over her cheek. He shifted his leg to accommodate her nearness.
“Guava wood smoked salt from Kauai. Sweet, smoky, yet mild.” The timbre of his voice was low and seductive, thick with implication. Amy turned her face up to his, curious about the expression that accompanied such a voice. The shaft of light from the pantry gilded his hair and the back of his head, casting his eyes in shadow. Wetting the tip of his index finger with his tongue, he pressed it into the jar. “Taste it,” he said as his salt-covered fingertip grazed her lower lip.
She ran her tongue over her lip. Kellan watched with rapt attention. The crystals dissolved over her taste buds and she hummed her appreciation as her salivary glands activated. “Braised brisket. That’s what I’d use this salt on.”
His lips twitched into a grin. “Good call. That’s exactly what I use it for.” He screwed the lid on and reached for a second jar. “Let’s try another.”
This second jar contained gray-green crystals. “Is that salt green or is it the lighting?”
As he did with the smoked salt, he dipped his finger in. “It’s actually green. This one is harvested off the coast of Molokai and blended with bamboo extract.” He moved his finger toward her lips once more. “Tell me what you think.”
This time, Amy drew his finger into her mouth, suckling the salt from his rough, work-worn skin until he removed it with a ragged intake of breath.
“Exotic, slightly pungent. Delicious.” She swiped her tongue across her lower lip. The residual salt essence made the underside of her tongue tingle.
Kellan lidded the jar, watching her lips with a heated gaze. “I can’t quite remember the flavor of that one.” His hand on her jaw coaxed her face up. “Refresh my memory.”
He took her lower lip into his mouth. Then his tongue stroked hers, demanding her body’s surrender. Amy opened for him, coming up on her knees and winding her hands through his hair. He tugged her onto his lap.
Roving from her mouth, he anointed her collar and neck with kisses. “I think I’ll never be able to eat this salt again without thinking of the way it tastes on you.”
A jolt of satisfaction coursed through her. “Good,” she breathed, fisting her hands in his hair.
Careful, Amy.
She squeezed her eyes closed, steeling herself, damming her emotions before they surged out of control. She tried to move from Kellan’s lap, but his embrace was unyielding.
Careful, Amy.
She squeezed her eyes closed, steeling herself, damming her emotions before they surged out of control. She tried to move from Kellan’s lap, but his embrace was unyielding.
“One more salt to try,” he said, reaching into the box. He brought ajar of black, flaky crystals up to the light. “Black diamond finishing salt. Extremely rare and too bold for those with meek palates. But, for a true connoisseur, the flavor is incomparable.” With an arm across her lower back, steadying her, he lowered her head and torso to the ground and pushed her sweater up to expose her stomach and ribs. “I want to sample it on your skin.”
Amy closed her eyes, lost in the fire of her own undeniable need. Straddling him as her thighs were, she felt his burgeoning arousal and squeezed her legs more tightly around him. The cool tickle of crystals rained over her belly. At the first touch of his tongue, she arched up to him in offering. He kissed and licked and tasted his way up her body, to the underside of her breasts, still covered by her sweater and bra, pressing her to the floor with his heavy frame and angular hip bones.
Then his mouth found hers and stopped her breathing with a hard, deep, wet kiss.
Everything inside and outside Amy’s body was heat and flame, earth and salt. As if Kellan were the summer sun in the desert, wrapping himself over her skin like a shroud, setting her body and soul ablaze. His kiss, his touch blunted her capacity for thought beyond a base awareness of the prickle of perspiration on her skin and a low-down burn of desire in her muscles.
She reached between them and unlatched his belt.
With a start, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. He raised his head to gaze at her. On his lips, he wore a smile. “Always in such a rush.”
“You go too slowly. Maddening.”
“Since this one night is all we have, I plan to wring every last drop of pleasure out of it.”
She twisted her wrists from out of his grasp, fighting to ignore the hollow feeling creeping back into her consciousness. This night was all they had. It’s what she’d thought she wanted. But, somewhere along the line, everything got jumbled in her head. With increasing clarity, she knew one night was not enough. She wanted more from him than that.
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