Branded as Trouble (Rough Riders 6)
The intense stimulation had her grinding her sex into Colt’s face. He emitted a growling noise and continued driving her to the brink with his lips and tongue. She thrashed as much as the bonds would allow, the fabric burned her wrists and ankles, the sheets abraded her spine, but she didn’t care.
Especially not when her orgasm broke free, reverberating in one long wave, as if every neuron in her brain sent a message to her body to tingle, explode and throb in unison.
She was so bowled over she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She finally knew what the French meant when they called an orgasm a little death—she’d briefly experienced heaven.
When the rhythmic pulses in her clit slowed, the vibrator disappeared.
“Look at me.”
India opened her eyes to see Colt’s cheeks were flushed, his lips glistened with her juices and his eyes were heavy-lidded with desire.
He ripped the scarves from her ankles, hiked her hips up, pressing the backs of her thighs to his chest. Aligning his c**k to her pu**y, he plunged in, his fingers tightened on her ass as he f**ked her with abandon. “Jesus, you’re wet.”
“You have that effect on me.”
“Yeah? Your effect on me is I’m ready to blow.”
And he did, almost immediately. He was mesmerizing lost in his climax. She watched him, humbled by all this man freely gave to her—in bed and out.
He untied her arms and legs and carefully unthreaded the scarf from the nipple rings. Rather than bringing her into his arms, Colt laid his head on her chest.
India ran her fingers through his damp hair. “You okay?”
“Never been better.”
She smiled. “Will you stay over?”
“I’d like to, but I can’t because I have to be up early.”
No bullshit excuses, just the truth.
“Too bad. I was gonna bake caramel rolls for breakfast.”
He snorted. “You don’t cook.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Why should it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not good at the sorts of things women around here are good at.”
“Such as?”
“Ranch stuff.” Wife stuff.
Stop that, India.
“Don’t matter. You’re good at all sorts of other things.”
“But I wanna learn…”
“What?”
“The normal stuff,” she blurted. “Will you teach me?”
“Be my pleasure.” Colt kissed the tip of her breast and then her mouth and hopped up.
India watched him get dressed.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Ladies’ choice, remember?”
“I’ve already decided what we’re gonna do.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Two-step.”
“I’m hopin’ that’s a sex position we haven’t tried.”
“No. This is the normal stuff I’m talking about. I want you to teach me how to cowboy dance. In private, where no one can see my two left feet and my inability to keep time.”
Colt’s eyes searched hers. “Why do you wanna learn to dance?”
“Don’t you love to dance?”
“Well, yeah, but that don’t mean I expect you to take it up just to please me.”
“And if I want to please you, Colt? What then?”
“Indy—”
“Forget it. Stupid idea.” She peered at her fingers gripping the edge of the sheet, feeling the sting of embarrassment. She never should have suggested—
He tipped her chin up. “If you really wanna learn, I’d be honored to teach you.” His thumb swept over her bottom lip. “You constantly surprise me, India Ellison. Goddamn. You have no idea how much I—” He kissed her with such emotion she felt a lump rising in her throat.
“Sleep,” he said gruffly and left her staring after him.
Three days later, Colt laid on his back staring at the wispy fabric draped above India’s bed. While relaxed from a round of fast and fun sex, and content to just be around India, naked or not, he was tired of looking at the back of his eyelids. He sighed.
“Stop sighing like a teenage girl.”
“Are you done yet?”
“No.”
“Can I move now?”
“No.”
“I just wanna peek at what you’re doin’.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Dammit, Colt, sit still.”
“I hope you’re drawin’ me with a really big dick.”
India peeked over the edge of the sketchpad at him. “You don’t need me to embellish that appendage, McKay.”
Colt grinned. “Now who’s the sweet talker?”
“Besides, this isn’t a nude. You just happen to be nude as I’m sketching. Now, stop interrupting my artistic flow.”
“Fine.” About thirty seconds later, he said, “Who’s gonna see this picture anyway? Because I don’t want it hanging in your tattoo shop.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep it away from the slavering masses of women who trail after you like lovesick puppies.”
“Only woman I want slavering and trailing after me, all lovesick, is you, sugar.”
No response. Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.
“This secretiveness ain’t givin’ me warm fuzzies about what you’re drawin’.”
“I’m not exactly the warm fuzzy type, Colt. Neither are you.”
“I know, which is another reason you need to show me because I wanna make sure you’re not drawin’ devil horns on me. I don’t know why you’re doin’ this.”
She looked at him again, a bit curiously. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to freak out.”
“No dice. I will freak out if the reason is embarrassing or lame.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
He didn’t answer.
India closed her eyes and sagged back into the pillows, clutching the sketchpad to her chest. A minute or so passed.
“Indy?”
“The real reason is…you’re beautiful. Men aren’t supposed to be, but you are.” Her eyes opened and she stared at him with an intensity that fired his blood. “Your face, your body. God. Every single inch of you is…perfection. Sometimes the light hits you just so and it takes my breath away. I can’t believe you’re…”