Close Enough to Touch (Jackson Hole 1)

“All right, let’s make this happen. I’m already sending the files.” She glanced down at her open laptop. “Production needs to get out here and approve the site and the money. They’ll take care of the legal stuff this time. I don’t have the experience. But you and I will deal with the county, since I know the council members. But it’s private land. There shouldn’t be any issues.”

There were egos to stroke and payments to negotiate. But hours later, production finally gave the go-ahead. By 9:00 p.m., when Eve dropped her off at her apartment, Grace was exhausted, and the next day would likely be busier. But she realized she hadn’t been worried about the mess she’d left behind in L.A.

This felt like good, honest work, even if she couldn’t call herself a good, honest person. It felt…nice.

Despite that her bed was no more than a cheap sleeping bag on a wood floor and she hadn’t had dinner, Grace drifted almost immediately into sleep. But she promised herself an air mattress the next day. She deserved it.

* * *

SWEAT SLID DOWN his neck as Cole pushed himself to finish his last twenty lunges. His muscles burned and his leg ached, but there was no sharp pain, which was an improvement. At first the pins in his leg had made him nervous. He’d been afraid to push it. Afraid something would come loose, afraid his femur would break into four pieces again, and it would be over. He hadn’t realized that the leg wasn’t the problem. It was the cracked pelvic bone that might not heal right. Some sort of separation that might need more plates, more screws. And maybe no more riding.

That couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t.

He had to ride again. He was going to own land. Run his own ranch. Live exactly the way he wanted to and answer to no one. He’d been saving for thirteen years, ever since he’d woken up to the knowledge that he’d become someone else, and his father had died disappointed in him.

After that time in L.A., he’d had a little money in the bank. He’d rather have burned it than use it as a foundation. It was tainted. And ugly. But it was also fifteen thousand dollars, and he wasn’t naive or idealistic. Ranch work didn’t pay much. Hell, it really didn’t pay anything at all. The only saving grace being that room and board were provided if you were willing to live in a bunk.

But now, the money was trickling out of his account. He had to get back to work.

He pushed himself to do ten more lunges, even though his muscles shook and his shirt was soaked with sweat.

“Four,” he ground out past clenched teeth. “Three.”

He had to ride again.

“Two,” he grunted. “One.” He groaned through the last lunge and then stood straight and hung his head.

Two weeks. Two weeks and then he’d be cleared to ride.

He grabbed some ibuprofen and did some stretches to loosen up, then headed for the shower.

Sighing, he tried to relax his shoulders under the hot spray, but the tension stayed. Another night when he didn’t feel tired. Another night of lying there in the dark, his mind working and turning and trying to skip over the worry.

He had too damn much time on his hands. Grace distracted him, but there were only so many hours of the day he could spend thinking about her.

Jesus, she was bad news. Foulmouthed and bad tempered and itching to get out of Jackson the moment she’d set foot in it. She was also fascinating. The look on her face when she’d seen that river valley… He wished he’d been able to capture that moment. Ensure that he’d never forget the way her suspicion and wariness had softened into wonder.

That had been a surprise. How her lush mouth had relaxed into a sensuous curve. How her eyes had lost their darkness completely. Not like when she laughed, and they sparkled for a moment as if she were surprised. The darkness had simply opened up. There was something pure there, past the pitch-black perfection of her makeup. Something young and untouched.

He wondered if she looked like that when she came.

“Sh

it,” he muttered, wondering where that thought had come from. It didn’t matter. It was there now. And his cock thickened at the thought of her beneath him.

What would she be like? Wild and rough? Quiet and solemn? He had no idea. He’d never so much as dared to stroke a finger over her skin. Hell, he’d hardly seen any of her skin at all. But he could imagine what she looked like beneath her clothes. She was small. Five-two or five-three without her heels. Delicate bones. Small breasts. But her ass… He’d checked it out, and his fingers curled with the need to cup her ass. Squeeze it. Pull her tight against his hips.

His cock swelled as he imagined her yielding to him. But any yielding on her part wouldn’t last for long. She’d fight for her pleasure.

Cole ran the bar of soap down his body, then wrapped a hand around his hard shaft.

He’d strip off her sweater first, and then her jeans. He imagined her standing before him in black panties and a wife beater, her nipples hard against the thin fabric.

He’d get down on his knees for her, put his mouth to her and suck her right through the fabric. Tease her nipples until she was arching into him, her fingers clutching his hair. She’d be rough, and he’d love that. It’d give him permission to be rough in turn.

He’d shove up the beater and close his teeth over her bare nipple. Slide both his hands down the back of her panties and spread his fingers over the warm flesh of her ass.

Stroking his cock, Cole imagined shoving her panties down and putting his mouth to her pussy.