Tempting the Rancher (Meier Ranch Brothers 1)

Second button, ripped.

Somewhere, metal plinked against the hard floor.

Had it not been for the thin cotton of his underwear, his shaft would have toppled free. Which was, apparently, what she hoped would happen, because she wrestled his briefs down to his thighs until she had positioned him in perfect alignment with her mouth. She licked his length, balls to spade.

Fresh needles of arousal blazed through his groin like a wildfire. A groan emerged from deep in his throat.

She tugged his belt loops and accepted him fully into the silky warmth of her mouth. His ridge met resistance at the back of her throat, his knees buckled, and his sack clenched a warning jolt.

To ice himself, he slid free of her expert mouth, removed the remainder of his clothes, tugged her to a sitting position, and circled the saddle to kneel between her legs as if she were a guru.

And he was her most devout disciple.

Rigid-ass boot soles pressed against both his shoulders, crimping her legs and spreading her folds wide, so fucking wide his mouth watered. She propped up on her elbows, eying him from a front-row seat at the show. He kissed a leisurely, alternating crawl from the delicate, inner creases of each knee to her core, stopping to savor the moment he tasted her dampness. Mixed with the aged-leather scent from her boots, her sweet, musky wetness caused a detonation between past and present, memory and a complete sensory overdrive of epic proportion. He nearly wept from the nostalgia of it all. She was honey and cream and rivaled every decadent confection he had ever eaten. But as with all things January, once wasn’t enough. His appetite for her companionship, her spirit, her body, was insatiable.

“You taste like heaven, J,” he whispered against her sublime, syrupy flesh then flicked his tongue across her clit.

She jolted like a wild bronc. Her fingertips drove through his hair. With a soft tug of his strands, she repositioned him for a repeat performance. Her knees spread wide like a butterfly’s wings.

He smiled and accommodated her request with an exploration, mouth and fingers plundering and tender by turns, of her terrain. With every ravenous taste of her velvety flesh, every nuanced sampling of her sensitive folds, her pleasured moans pitched higher, louder, more breathless. She repeated his name more times than he could count, and he felt grateful for the one-syllable moniker. Riding high on her lusty exhales, she branded him hers. His name had never sounded so good.

She sat up, kissed her juices from his lips, and panted, “Wait for me on the saddle.”

Immediately, he felt the loss of her heat. He rose to his feet and braced himself against the cantle, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her spent body lose its grace while walking. She gave up, crawled the remaining distance to her pack, and p

ulled out an accordion strip of condoms. Her tiny birthmark, roughly the shape of Ohio, riding high on her left cheek, revealed her secret identity as his fantasy heroine. When she saw him watching, she spread her sex to his hungry gaze and wiggled her ass playfully.

But playful was not how it hit him. How could he have done this, started this, without thinking through protection? He hadn’t carried condoms in his wallet for years. His jaunt into spontaneity made him feel like he’d charged straight into a barbed wire fence without a stitch of clothing.

He stood. “I’m so sorry, J. I wasn’t thinking—”

January rushed back to him and silenced him with a kiss. “That’s part of what makes this so special. For once, I get to see you impulsive. And you wear impulsive so well.”

She reached between them and took him in hand until he forgot all about being the responsible one of the two. Together, they rolled the condom into place.

Twisting in his arms, she raised up on tiptoes so that his cock nestled along the ridge in her ass. She splayed her hands, rather dramatically, at the saddle’s horn and cantle and flexed her back greedily, nearly knocking him backward for all the burrowing and begging her soaked crux demanded of him.

He was a branding iron, as straight a column as had ever existed. His sheathed tip found her opening without guidance. With languid penetration, aiming to bring her to climax if it was the last deed he accomplished on earth, he teased an inch, then two, then backed out until she practically belly-crawled onto the saddle, tipping herself nearly vertical, begging, pleading for him to enter her at length.

“Now, Nat!” Her demand came hot and hard. “Please…”

Nat smiled. Gladly, he complied, first, in infinitely painstaking strokes that lasted a blissful eternity and threatened to unravel command over his release, then increasingly demanding the more she arched, the more she cursed for him to stay the course, the more his forceful thrusts rippled the creamy expanse of her parted cheeks, the more her internal muscles rippled against his dick. He reached between them and alternated tugs and pinches of her clit with his searing, parting, all-in feel, until her languid body stiffened against the leather and she clamped down, unmercifully, 360 degrees of searing climax.

Her gasps tore through the room, unbridled.

As her lungs gasped for replenishment, her shapely, hourglass back rose and fell against the seat. He gave her the moment, stalled within her. His only regret was that he had not seen her expression that his love of her elicited.

And there could be no regrets.

He slid free and lifted her in his arms. They climbed atop the saddle, Nat riding where he always had, January riding Nat.

Their gazes connected. Her irises were as green as the pastures after a month of April rains; her pupils swelled. They searched each other for signs of reluctance but found only acceptance in a shared smile. Gently, he aligned her to him and slid inside her. She was still as tight as new calfskin gloves. His body trembled. She wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. At his ear, she whispered, “I love you, Nathaniel James Meier.”

He closed his eyes to the hot tears that came and buried his face in the vanilla scent of her hair. God, he needed her in his life. She was light and joy and everything he had ever needed for as far back as he could remember. He couldn’t think about the loss—he wouldn’t—but he was no longer ravenous for her body alone. Nat wanted to possess her heart. On a hill halfway around the world. Inside an ocean current in the Far East. On the land that was now his beneath them. Now and forever.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back, his voice husky and gone.

Their final union was a rhythmic savoring, like a slow walk to the end of a pier, destined to part them again. He reached his peak, not with guns blazing, not in a hailstorm of passionate words, not even in a blinding flash where the world dimmed. His world was right here, right now, a climax that came on a tender, soul-snatching kiss, wrapped in the arms of the very last woman on earth he would ever love.