Redeeming the Rancher (Meier Ranch Brothers 2)

The game gave a fetching jauntiness to his lips.

She unfastened the top button of her jeans and slid one finger beyond its open V. Way beyond. Beyond the waistband to her underwear, beyond her mound of trimmed hair to her folds, already swollen and damp. Her touch often took the same route on days her isolation drove her to remote landscapes where she would press herself into some of her most liberating fantasies.

Wes took her boldness as the invitation she intended. He slid the zipper of her jeans down, taking extra time to caress her through the rough denim. She spread her legs wider to accommodate his wide hands, but his caresses did not linger. He shoved his hands past her back waistband, gripped the silky material covering her cheeks, and relieved her of her jeans to the knees. Wasting no time, he tugged the crotch of her panties aside and parted her doused seam with a successive number of fingers until coils of lust sprang from her core and left her incapable of standing.

While she removed her jeans the rest of the way, he brought his fingers to his lips and sampled her juices. The action, so simple, so curious, magnified the heavy ache at her clit. And as if he hadn’t yet relished enough, he smiled and wiggled his tongue. His dark brows, impressive and expressive, wiggled as well.

A laugh tickled her belly and escaped, effervescent and free. He inspired her to make her grandest renovation to the truck yet. She climbed into the truck bed, stood, and spread her jeans on the back of the cab, ass-out, as wide as the pantlegs would stretch.

“Looks like a great idea. What d’ya say, Amsterdam?”

His drawl became more pronounced the further they spiraled down into a most primitive mating dance. She removed her panties, reached through the open space where the back window should be, and hung them from the funny looking rear-view mirror.

This elicited a hear

ty laugh and had Wes scrambling for prime space beneath her. He positioned her bare feet at the outermost points of the truck bed and sat between her legs, holding her to his mouth with hands splayed firmly on her naked ass.

He sampled her juices again, this time with a dizzying flick of his tongue and a simultaneous moan that vibrated her folds.

Livie nearly vaulted over the cab.

“Like sweet cream.” He licked his lips, hungry for another sample.

She opened to him, ravenous for every ministration of his tongue. When he started French kissing her thighs in a measured and agonizing march toward her sex, muscles surrounding her opening screamed for an ambush. He teased kisses around her saturated curls, her outer folds, even the rise of her ass cheeks before taking command of the offering between her thighs.

Leaning forward to keep her balance grazed her nipples against the back of the truck cab over and over. The abrasion was like hard, metal tongues working her sensitive peaks until a frenzied bolt of desire crashed through her. His unrelenting pursuit of her ecstasy did not end with simply covering her and sucking her folds into the oven of his mouth as if she were a delectable peach plucked from a roadside stand, meant to be baked; his tongue and fingers speared and lapped in tandem through the deep recesses of her channel until she gasped and bucked and clawed for mercy.

She crouched down, her feet planted at his outer thighs, mercilessly spread-eagle, and kissed him. On his saliva, she tasted herself. Their savory union was incomplete; she had yet to add the salty flavor of his heated skin, his sweat, his pre-cum glaze.

And it was beyond time.

Livie tugged at his stretchy waistband, a nearly unmanageable task for the hold his rigid shaft had on the material. She braced herself for what she knew was ahead—an orgasm at the sight of his manhood already long overdue from the live wire he had worked her into. Prolonging her peak by taking him in hand through the slinky fabric of his boxers brought a fresh rope of lust sizzling through her core. In one motion, she scooped her hands inside both waistbands and freed every bit of him. His hot scrotum melted against her palms, but that wasn’t what sent her over the edge.

His penis was a spire, a marvel of male architecture. Divested of its constraints, the thick pink length strained toward the rafters. As she freed him completely of his boots and socks and pants and lowered her belly down on the blanket, his column’s smooth, spade-shaped head bruised plum-colored in anticipation.

At the sight, a quake originated deep within her, sending subtle but fierce aftershocks ricocheting from the swollen flesh low in her abdomen to just behind her nipples and back again, barely detectable to the outer world, but to the rich world of her inner sanctum, the visual trigger to surpass all others.

That included Michelangelo’s David.

She exhaled through the sweet, unrelenting sensation and rested her cheek alongside his searing shaft until recovery came and the rippling spasm that racked her clit tapered.

“Are you okay?”

From the alarm in his voice, she probably looked as if she had come down with the flu. She had no choice but to come clean.

About how she came often.

The Sistine Chapel being the most embarrassing.

Through panting breaths, she divulged her secret.

The harsh lines of his brow eased. A devilish smile stretched ear to ear, ratcheted up her craving, and told her he would never, ever let her live this down.

But first, he intended to reap the benefits of a captive fandom. He leaned back on his elbows, sending his cock into sharp relief from the angled planes of his body, like a missile on a launch pad. Delighted, her hands went to work on it as if he were clay to be molded into the precise shape that pleased her.

“The artist blushes,” he teased.

She teased him back. Mercilessly. With the tip of her tongue, she traced the bulging veins that ran his length then tugged him along the roof of her mouth until his flared tip kissed the back of her throat. At his groans, she repeated the demanding motion until his legs shook and he pleaded with her through his drawl and bliss-filled curses. He pulsed, thick and heavy against her tongue, and just when she had summoned his first drop of milky moisture, he gritted his teeth and groveled for her to stop.