Stud for Hire (4 page)

“Are you all right?”

She hadn't been, and he'd known it, but he'd asked anyway and she'd nodded. But she hadn't been.

They lurched again and she fell against his side. He closed his arm around her. “Are you all right?” he whispered before he could stop himself. He held back a flinch when he recognized the irony, the familiarity of the words.

She looked up at him. Their gazes locked. Something sizzled. “I'm fine,” she said.

Though he knew it was a lie—again—he nodded. He didn't loosen his hold and she didn't move away.

It was a damn shame they took the final turn and made their way back to the barnyard. She was so warm there, so soft, so precious, leaning against him, he hated to let her go. It gratified him that she didn't seem to want to leave either. As the others stood and filed off the trailer, they remained seated.

A trickle of panic settled in his gut as the trailer emptied. Soon she would stand. Soon they would part. Though it was such a tiny thing, hardly a final farewell, something in his soul howled at the prospect. He couldn't ignore the urge to speak in that moment. Though why those words passed his lips was a mystery.

Oh, not that he
said
the words so much as the fact he had the courage to say them.

Maybe the desire to keep her close, some ebullient hope, overrode any sense of propriety.

“I'm staying in the barn,” he said in a low rumble as he helped her to her feet.

She blinked at him. “I . . . beg your pardon?”

“I'm staying in the barn. In the tack room. If you . . . you know . . . want to come see me.”

He nearly flinched as the words came out. How stupid. How lame. But she didn't laugh at him, or sneer. Didn't slap his face. She merely stared at him for a moment and then nodded.

He was poleaxed by the possibility that she might be considering stopping by. This afternoon? Tonight?

He couldn't deny a flare of excitement at the thought.

As ridiculous as it was.

***

I'm staying in the barn. In the tack room. If you . . . you know . . . want to come see me.

Holy God. What had he meant?

Had that been an invitation?

It had seemed like one.

A skitter of excitement and trepidation spiraled through Hanna. On the one hand, the thought of them together in the way he probably meant made her knees turn to jelly. On the other, she really wasn't the kind of woman to meet a man in a barn for a—what? Tryst? Passionate affair? Conversation?

The more she thought about it, the more her mind spun. The more she feared she might become detached from the rigid moorings of her life and surrender to this scalding temptation.

Or, at the very least, she feared she wanted to.

Desperately.

“Well?” Sidney took Hanna's arm and tugged her back toward the ranch house, though Hanna's gaze was locked on Logan as he made his way back to the barn. He even looked good walking away.

But then he tossed a glance over his shoulder and tugged on his hat, sending her a smile.

Oh lord. He looked even better like that.

Hell, he just plain looked good.

“Hello? Earth to Hanna.”

“Huh? What?” With great effort, she forced her attention onto her sister. It was annoying that Sidney was grinning smugly.

“What did you think?”

“Of the hayride? It was . . . fine.”

“Not the ride, silly. Him.”

Her heart thumped. “Him?”

“Yeah.” Sidney jabbed a thumb at the barn. “The Silent One.”

Hanna blinked. “The . . . what?”

Amy leaned in and chuckled. “Did you see the way he was looking at her?”

“At who?” Hanna asked.

There was no call for Sidney to smack the back of her head. “You, goofy. He was looking at you.”

“He was sitting next to me.”

“Right.” Amy giggled. She turned to Sidney. “Did you see how close he was sitting?”

“I did,” Porsche chortled. She waggled her brows. “I think he wants you.”

Something hot and liquid sluiced through Hanna's veins.
He wanted her?
A shudder racked her.

“It's a pity you're engaged. That's all I have to say.”

Hanna whipped around and stared at her sister. “What?”

Sidney shrugged. “He's cute. He likes you.”

“He does not
like
me.”

“He didn't talk to any of us,” Amy felt compelled to mention. “Not once through the whole ride.”

Porsche tapped her lip and glanced toward the barn. “He looks kind of familiar to me. I wonder if he lives in Dallas.”

Sidney glowered at her. No doubt she wanted him for herself and Porsche was stepping on toes.

But, honestly, the thought of anyone else
wanting
him made acid churn in Hanna's belly.

Though she didn't know why. She had no right to be jealous.

If that was even what it was.

It probably wasn't.

Hell, he'd barely even spoken to her.

“I'm staying in the barn. In the tack room. If you . . . you know . . . want to come see me.”

“There are plenty of cute men here,” Hanna said, although she did not know why. None of them held a candle to him. Hell, none of them held a lighter to him.

“True,” Sidney said briskly tugging her up the porch steps and into the grand foyer. “And we have the whole weekend to play. What did Cody say was tonight?” she asked, although Hanna was certain she knew the agenda by heart.

Porsche pulled a rumpled schedule from her pocket. “The Hunky Hoedown,” she said. “Now, that should be fun. We should go get ready.”

“Ready?” Hanna blinked. “It's not till tonight.”

“I know. But we need to pregame.” Porsche caught Hanna's arm and tugged her toward the ranch house.

“Pregame?” Hanna made a face. “What are we, in the twelfth grade?”

“This weekend we are.” Porsche winked. “I think I mentioned tequila?”

“Excellent!” Sidney crowed and Hanna tried not to grimace. Really, tequila was the last thing she needed.

She wasn't much of a drinker to begin with, preferring froufrou drinks with plenty of mixer, and with this crowd, tequila tended to come in shot glasses.

The others, however, were enthusiastic and they all tromped up to Hanna's room, though Porsche made a pit stop in her own room for a bottle of Cuervo. As they waited for her to return, there was chatter about the hayride and the plans for the weekend, but all Hanna could think of was those eyes, peering at her over his shoulder, the tentative quirk of his lips and a whispered invitation.

I'm staying in the barn. In the tack room. If you . . . you know . . . want to come see me.

She couldn't rein in her imagination as visions of what he could have meant, what he had intended, danced through her mind.

Porsche poked her head into the room and waggled a bottle. “Here we go. Tequila.”

“Ta-kill-ya
,
”
Sidney chortled, and set the glasses on the top of the dresser. “Pour out the shots. Let's toast to a wild and wicked weekend with hot and steamy hunks . . .” She fluttered her lashes at Hanna. “You know. Hunks who aren't sticks.”

Hanna poked her tongue out at her sister at the jab at Zack, but it was a playful gesture. She shook her head as Porsche pressed a shot glass into her hand. “I'm not drinking,” she said.

“I'll have hers,” Amy offered. Amy was generous like that.

“Come on,” Sidney bleated. “Loosen up. It's s'posed ta be a
wild
and
wicked
weekend. How can you be wild and wicked all buttoned up like that?” She waved in the general vicinity of Hanna's blouse which was, in fact, buttoned up.

“I'm not one of the strippers,” she felt compelled to remind her sister. “I plan to stay buttoned up.”

Amy sidled up to her and said, in something of a wheedling voice, “Come on, Hanna. You know you want to. This is your last crazy fling as an unmarried woman.”

Hanna stifled a laugh. Her
last
fling? She'd barely had one.

“Soon you'll be married and—I'm just spitballin' here,” Amy said with a grin. “But I'm guessing your prim and polite groom won't approve of you going to strip shows when you're married.”

Yeah. Probably not.

She thought about Zack's expression when she'd told him where they were spending this weekend.

Definitely not.

This was it, she realized. Her one last gasp before she became Mrs. Zack Pucey.

Hanna took the glass and tipped it back, but only because the thought of tying herself to Zack—to anyone—sent a dark panic coiling in her belly. She hoped the tequila would kill it.

She grimaced at the taste of the raw liquor, but liked the burn and the warmth spreading through her veins.

The others tossed back theirs as well, with gusty gasps as the fiery brew blazed down their gullets. Amy refilled the glasses, but Hanna held up a hand. “One is enough for me,” she said.

Porsche eyed her glass. “Well, if she's not going to drink it, I think I should have it.”

“Why would you get it?” Sidney asked.

“Because I am her best friend.”

“Well, I'm her sister.”

“Ladies. Ladies.” Amy, as always, stepped in as the voice of reason. “I'll drink it.”

“No.” Hanna's sharp reply seemed to surprise them all. It certainly surprised her. She had no idea from where the change of heart had come. Certainly not the vision of an eternity as Mrs. Zack Pucey. “I'll drink it.” She picked up her drink, knocking it back with a quick toss. It burned all the way down, precipitating a coughing fit. Sidney slapped her on the back none too gently until it waned, although the slapping did not help in the least.

“Well, now we're talking,” Amy said in a gust.

Hanna wasn't a fan of tequila, and probably never would be, but she had to admit, the first drink had sent a warm rivulet coursing through her veins and the second turned it into a rushing river. She liked the fuzziness too, the way it softened the corners on the box that constrained her.

Part of her knew drinking shots of tequila was no solution. It couldn't fix anything, but it was nice to have a break from her worries, muddled and sodden though it was.

But, to be honest, one thing wasn't muddled in the least.

That vision. In her head. That smile. That glint in his eye.

The more she thought on it, the more convinced she became that those whispered words had been an invitation.

Would it be so wrong to find out for sure? What did she risk but the humiliation of having been wrong? And what was tequila good for if not muffling humiliation?

A sudden resolution swamped her.

She turned in a rush and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sidney called.

Hanna paused and shot them all a cheery smile. They stared at her like curious meerkats on the savannah. “I'm just going for a walk. I'll be back.” She glanced at the bottle on the dresser. “Be sure to leave some for me,” she said.

“Ahh!” Amy crowed. “That's my girl. Have fun.”

She would. At least, she hoped she would.

She didn't know this guy from Adam. He could shoot her down in a heartbeat. She stiffened her spine as she made her way down the stairs and through the deserted foyer of Cody's ranch house. She had to give it a shot. She had to try.

She desperately wanted to know what she was missing—before she sank into marriage.

And she had to work fast.

Before the alcohol wore off.

“Hi.”

Logan's heart stilled and then shot into a rapid beat. He dropped the heavy bale on the ground. It landed with a dull thud and a plume of dust. Slowly, he turned, trying to ignore the shivers running over his skin at that low, sultry voice.

And yeah. There she was, backlit by the sun in the yawning barn door, a tantalizing silhouette.

“Ma'am.”

He tipped back his hat so he could see her better. Wiped the sweat from his brow. Damn, she was beautiful. Her red hair was down, flowing over her shoulders like a rippling stream, teased by the breeze. The buttons of her plaid shirt strained against the curves of her breasts. He loved the way her skinny jeans clung to her legs, disappearing into a pair of well-worn boots.

She wasn't supposed to be here. The women were supposed to be settling in, dressing for the evening's festivities. A Hunky Hoedown. Logan was supposed to be preparing for that too—but he'd decided to work off his simmering energy here, in the barn.

He hadn't really expected her to take him up on his offer and find him here. Never dared hope.

But . . . here she was.

His knees went a little weak. He tightened his muscles and forced himself to remain where he was, watching her every move. Every breath.

Though he suspected why she'd come, he wasn't sure. It would be wise to let her make the first move.

God help him.

Because he wanted to pounce.

“So . . .” She wandered deeper into the barn, pretending to study the tools hanging on the wall. Her fingers drifted over a harness; the sight made a shudder walk through him. When Gotham poked out his head and sprayed her with a welcoming snort, she patted his snout, but not like a city girl. Not with a tentative pat as though she were afraid he'd bite.

Logan swallowed the pool of drool in his mouth. He'd like to take a bite. Of that.

“So . . .” she repeated. “Is this a working ranch, or only a weekend bordello?”

Logan stiffened. If he wasn't mistaken, that was a flirtatious tone. She flicked a look at him from beneath amber lashes and his gut clenched.
Shit.
It was.

His heart lurched. His cock swelled. Sudden sweat beaded his brow.

This was Hanna. His Hanna—well, the Hanna of his dreams. The woman he'd wanted forever, the woman who'd never
seen
him.

And she was
flirting
. With him.

Inexorably drawn to her, he stepped closer. “Oh. It's a working ranch.” A low rumble, infused with meaning. Yeah. He'd like to work her. Work her over.

“I see.” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. It took every ounce of concentration in him to keep his gaze on her face. Oh, it was a fascinating face, but the cleavage her action created was even more mesmerizing.

His brain fizzled and popped at that hint of a shadow. He said the only thing that came to mind—the only thing fit to say, at least. “Cody has over two hundred head.”

“I see. Do you . . .” Her attention trickled over his bare chest. He was covered in sweat and bits of hay. She didn't seem to mind. Her lips pursed. Then she licked them. “Do you work here?”

He snorted. “No.” His days working as a cowpoke for Cody were long gone . . . unless he lost a bet.

“Ah.” Her gaze flicked up to his. The muscle in her cheek tightened. “I didn't think so.”

The words skimmed over him in a hot rush, her tone low and woven with implication. His breath hitched at the look in her beautiful eyes.

And then it plunged to his toes.

Because he could tell, from every line of her face, from the way she held her body, from the way she
looked
at him. She didn't recognize him.

She had no idea who he was. No idea they'd gone to high school together. No memory of what he'd done, how he'd risked everything for her. And nearly lost.

Nope. She thought he was just a random stripper. Manflesh brought in for the sole purpose of providing pleasure to the lady guests.

On the one hand, that pissed him off.

But on the other hand . . . hell, she thought he was a
stripper
. Probably one willing to make himself available to Cody's guests should the right offer arise.

A mix of annoyance, need and lust warred within him.

Lust won.

Hanna Stevens, the prim and proper princess of Snake Gully, thought he was a stud for hire. And she wanted him.

This could be fun.

He stepped closer to her, adopting a gait, an attitude he assumed a man of lesser morals might employ. “I'm just here for the weekend, ma'am. Just here to make sure you ladies have a . . . good time.”

“I—I see.”

“My name is Logan.”

“Hanna.”

Yeah. He knew. He knew her name.

She tipped up her head as he neared. Her eyes went wide. Pupils dilated. Lips parted. Damn, she was a tiny thing. Heat gathered low in his belly. He fought back the urge to yank her into his arms and kiss the shit out of her. “I . . . ah . . . and . . .” She glanced away and then slowly forced her gaze back. “And what would that good time entail . . . exactly?”

Everything in him stilled.

First, because . . . hell, was she propositioning him?

And second because, hell! She was propositioning him.

“That's . . . negotiable.” He hated that his voice cracked on the words. But he really couldn't help it. It was all he could do to keep control of his raging emotions. Okay. His raging lust. His cock was hard. Tight in his jeans. Thudding with every beat of his heart. And his pulse thrummed like an out-of-control jackhammer. “W-what do you like?”

He was pretty sure gentlemen of the evening didn't stutter, but he couldn't help himself. He held his breath, waiting for her answer. God, he wanted to know. He'd always wanted to know. Ached to know.

She drew her finger along the leather harness dangling from the wall and his cock jerked in sympathetic reaction. “I don't know. Something . . . improper.” The look she flicked at him set his soul on fire. A dark wind screamed through him like a violent summer storm on the range.

“I can do improper.” Could he ever.

She stepped closer. Her scent engulfed him, clouded his brain. Something feminine and light, like powder. She tipped her chin and met his gaze as she set her palm flat on his chest. He nearly winced at the touch. Their first real touch. His muscles bunched at the effort to hold back that involuntary reaction. Her hand was tiny. She was tiny. He wanted to scoop her up, find a nice soft pile of hay and roll her in it. Hard.

Her lashes flickered. “Something . . . very improper.”

He swallowed. “I can do very improper.”

“Something naughty.” A whisper. As though some deep part of her was not allowed to hear.

“I can do naughty,” he whispered back. “I'm very good at naughty.”

A sizzling energy passed between them. She licked her lips again and this time he saw it for what it was. An invitation.

To take.

What he wanted.

What he'd wanted for years.

Forever.

And he did.

He kissed her.

***

When his lips brushed against hers, so softly, almost reverently, Hanna nearly swooned. He was big and sweaty and thrummed with a dominant energy. He tasted of mint and lust and man. He didn't smell like the other cowboys, no cologne and fake pheromones here. This man smelled like hard work and sweat, some musky combination that swirled through her and settled heat in her core.

Yeah, he was a stripper, a stud for hire.

But she'd spent her entire life locked in a sterile cage. Fettered by expectations and social mores. She needed, yearned for something wild and decadent and utterly improper.

This man could give it to her.

She didn't care what it cost her. If he would just help her shake off the coils of her own constraint. If he could let her feel, for once in her life, like her true self. If only for a while, she'd be happy.

She could never ask Zack for what she
really
wanted. She was too afraid of what he'd think of her. And, perhaps, of what might happen. But she'd always, secretly, craved it.

But this man? A man she could hire? A man she could control?

A man who was bound by a contract of employment to please her?

He could be
safe
.

And later, he would walk away. She'd never have to see him, look at him, talk to him, again.

Before her fears—or reason—could rise, she just blurted it out. “I want to be tied up,” she said.

It horrified her to speak the words aloud. Trepidation coiled and heat prickled her nape. What would a man think of a woman who wanted such a thing? Even a stripper who had certainly seen it all? But damn it all, if she was going to pay good money for a fantasy, she wanted the real thing. She wasn't going to pussyfoot around about it.

Sure enough, he stiffened. Every muscle in his body clenched.

She forced her annoying shame and mortification away. Steeling her spine, she pulled back and looked up at him, readying herself for his rebuff.

But that was not shock or revulsion in his eyes.

Not by a long shot.

“I can do that.” His voice was as rough as gravel. Excitement scored her, and not just at his words. At the intensity, the avid interest, the savage passion on his features. He looked her up and down and asked, “How deep do you want to go?”

The way he said it made her pulse fizzle and surge. Filled her mind with the image of her bent over a fence post, splayed before him, tied, helpless as he positioned his cock. And in her fantasy, as he prepared to thrust, he murmured,
“How deep do you want to go?”

She swallowed. “H-how deep?”

“Do you want the full sub thing or just a little slap and tickle?”

She blinked. She had no idea what the full sub thing was. “I . . . I don't know.”

“You've never done this before?”

She shook her head.

“Never?”

“No.”

“Well then, ma'am,” he said with a lazy grin. “We'd better take it slow and easy.”

Slow and easy? She frowned. That wasn't what she had in mind at all. But when he tipped her chin and settled his mouth on hers again, she couldn't complain. Oh, it was a slow and easy kiss, but beneath the surface, a skulking heat simmered, leashed, but not too tightly.

He groaned when she threaded her fingers through his hair, knocking off his hat, but he didn't stop. In fact, he deepened the kiss, pulling her hard against him, wrapping those muscular arms around her.

It was wonderful, exquisite, being locked in his embrace, hard against the warm wall of his chest. He was hot. Feral. Raw. He worked her lips, laving and licking, teasing her sanity. And then he covered her mouth and consumed her like a man starving.

Passion rose, flared. He groaned again, a deep rumble in his chest; it vibrated through her. Into her.

He lifted his head and stared down into her eyes for a scorching moment, then whipped her up into his arms as if she weighed no more than dandelion. He carried her toward the back of the barn to the tack room and set her on a cot in the corner.

Her pulse fluttered at the look he shot her as he turned away, heading for the sink on the wall. He meticulously washed and dried his hands, never once lifting his steamy gaze from her.

He drew the towel over his chest, bringing her attention to his well-sculpted pecs, his tight, ripped abs, the flex of his biceps. The breath whooshed from her. What a man.

Gorgeous, built. Beautiful eyes. Wicked smile.

And he was going to tie her up.

Holy God.

“Are you . . . ready to begin?” His voice rumbled through her, piercing the slick fantasy bubbling in her brain. He lifted a loop of leather from the nail on the wall and her heart lurched. It was a long leather strip with hooks at both ends.

Reins.

“Are you?” He cocked his head to the side, a hint of hesitance, a trace of tenderness breaking through his dominant mien. He knelt beside the cot and cupped her chin, holding her gaze on his. “This is your show, sweetheart.”

“My . . . my show?”

He nodded. “You're in control.” He waited for her nod, and then repeated, “Are you ready to begin?”

“I . . . Yes.”

He stood in a rush and wrapped the reins around his fist. The abrupt shift back into his dominant persona surprised her, thrilled her. His features stark, he faced her. “Unbutton your top,” he said, his voice a low growl, barely contained.

“I . . . what?”

His expression darkened. “Rule number one. Do as you're told.”

Hanna bristled. She'd done as she was told her whole life. Look where it'd gotten her. But still, the glint in his eyes, the tightness of his features as he stood here, towering over her, made her want to do as she was told.

So she did.

Slowly.

He studied her with avid attention as she undid each button and then spread the lapels of her shirt and let it fall off her shoulders. She liked it. Liked the intensity in his eyes. Zack had never looked at her like
that
. Not ever.

Her hot cowboy reached out and skated a warm palm over her torso. Shivers skittered up her spine. When he cupped her breast and thumbed a hard nipple, she winced, but didn't back away. She had to be brave. This was a new Hanna. One who was bold and took what she wanted.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Very nice. Now your bra.”

This time she didn't hesitate. She undid the front hook and slowly released the material. His eyes flared. A muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared.

His breath came out in a gust. “Your jeans.”

God.
He was nearly fully dressed and he was making her strip naked.

Well, what had she expected?

She stood, unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off.

His Adam's apple worked.