Taking the Bull by the Horns (7 page)

"Not really our thing.” Jerri leaned on the table between them, arms folded under her breasts, pushing them up.

He took a swig of beer. “Lavender didn't think it was her thing either, but she had fun."

She grinned at him, then turned to her friends. “It was fun, though. Taylor got third place."

"What is it you do, Taylor?” Susan asked.

"I'm a steer wrestler."

All four women looked at his arms.

A new song started, slow and easy and all Taylor could think about was feeling Lavender's body up against him. He straightened. “Sorry, ladies, this is our song.” He reached across for Lavender's hand, lifted it over Laurie's head and guided her to the floor.

"We don't have a song,” Lavender murmured when he pulled her close.

"Just wanted to hold you against me."

She folded her arms around his shoulders, pressing her soft curves against his chest. “You've been holding me against you all night."

"Mm, not like this.” Her body was tense, as if she expected to start two-stepping, but he linked his hands around her waist, over the small of her back. “Just sway with me."

"This isn't dancing. It's foreplay."

He grinned and moved his hands over her back. “Yep."

She drew in a breath as he brushed his cheek along hers, his breath stirring her hair. He kissed her jaw lightly and she went tense, hopefully for a whole other reason. He kissed below her ear and she stopped moving. He chuckled against her skin and pressed his hands to her back to get her going again. When he raised his head to look at her, her eyes were dark with anticipation, her lips parted, and he couldn't resist. He kissed her softly, dipping his tongue between those full lips briefly before lifting his head again.

"Have we got part two of this plan worked out?” she asked breathlessly.

"No rooms at the motel."

Her mouth curved down in disappointment.

"I have an RV, but it has a rotten bed, not long enough, not very comfortable. I want you in a real bed."

Her eyes flashed at that, but he couldn't identify the emotion.

Then she lowered her eyes. “It doesn't matter. I can't stay the night anyway. I actually didn't think we'd be here this long."

He grinned. “You thought I'd just sweep you out the door the minute you walked in?"

"The way you were kissing me earlier? Yeah."

"Do you want to go?"

This time he could read the emotion in her eyes—nervousness. She tightened her arms about him a bit. “I'm having fun."

"Good.” But he wanted that out-of-focus look in her eyes again, so he brought her closer and kissed her, deeper this time, longer, until the song changed. “You let me know when you're ready to go."

Lavender swallowed hard, the kiss still buzzing through her blood cells. If they left now, which her whole body was chanting for her to do, everyone would know why. Heck, everyone had probably figured it out anyway, after that kiss. And she didn't want to run out of time, didn't want to feel rushed when they were alone.

"You want to go with this one?” he asked, inclining his head toward the band, now playing a more up-tempo song, and they still swayed in the middle of the floor, dancers flowing around them.

She shook her head. Feeling like Cinderella at the ball, with the clock ticking, she took his hand and led him toward the door of the Blue Bug.

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Taylor's RV was in the crowded park at the rodeo grounds. It had seen better days, but he probably didn't make much money. He'd reached the RV before her, and unlocked the door.

"Wait. How do you get your RV up here, and have Angelina's trailer and the truck?” she asked as she climbed out of her car.

"A friend drops off the RV for me.” He pushed open the door and motioned for her to enter ahead of him.

The place was clean, though a little shabby. Had he cleaned knowing he would bring her back here tonight? That he might have been anticipating as much as she was sent a thrill through her.

"What friend? Someone you work with?"

"Yep.” He closed and locked the door behind him.

The RV suddenly seemed a lot smaller. She backed up till she bumped into the counter. “Why don't you stay in the motel? Wouldn't that be easier? And more comfortable?"

"This is cheaper."

She dropped her gaze. She shouldn't have let him buy her those drinks. “Oh.” Maybe that meant he didn't bring many girls back here. Though, look at him. He was beautiful. He was never lonely unless he wanted to be. “I haven't done this in a long time. I mean, this isn't something I do."

"I know.” He cupped his hand over her jaw, lifting her face. “I'm no saint, Lavender."

Her heart plummeted. Next week he'd be at another rodeo, would have another woman in his arms. Isn't that what he was telling her? Could she expect more? “Okay,” was all she could manage.

He rubbed his thumb over the curve of her cheek. “But it's been awhile for me, too. And tonight, it's just you and me."

His kiss was different, deeper, hungrier, goal-oriented. She slid her hands up his arms, stroking over his biceps, closing over his shoulders as he slid his fingers along the waistband of her jeans, slipping them under the hem of her blouse, over the sensitive skin of her waist.

His mouth abandoned hers to slide along her jaw, back to that place below her ear where he'd kissed her earlier. His fingertips were rough on her skin and she imagined that touch everywhere. The sensations that shot out from his touch nearly sent her to her knees. As if he sensed it, he pressed his hips a little harder against hers, pinning her to the counter. She gasped his name and he lifted his head. Time stood still for a moment while he looked at her, then she closed her hands over the opening of his shirt.

"There's something I've been wanting to do since I met you,” she said. “Can I?"

"Can you what?"

She tugged his shirt in opposite directions, but instead of the ripple of unsnapping buttons, she heard the ripping of fabric.

He stepped back and stared at his shredded shirt. The snaps of his shirt had held stronger than the soft fabric, which now hung in tatters on either side of his placket, baring his hard-muscled bare chest.

Lavender raised her hand to her mouth and her eyes to his. “I'm so sorry! I thought it would just unsnap! I'll buy you a new one."

The glint in his eyes promised retribution. A thrill sparked her blood and she edged away from him, sliding free and bolting toward the back of the trailer, and presumably, the bedroom. She squealed when he chased her, caught her around the waist and fell with her to the bed.

"Turnabout's fair play."

She squirmed underneath him, making his eyes go dark again. “No, please don't! I love this blouse."

He slid his hands from the hem to the waist of her jeans.

"And these jeans. Please, don't, Taylor."

He slipped his fingers under the waistband and found the silky fabric of her panties. He lifted his eyebrows in question.

"No, no! These are the only sexy panties I have, and you know there's no place to get them here in Wayback!"

"Sexy, hm?” He rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

"Well, as in, not cotton."

"This I have to see for myself."

He pulled her upright and stripped her blouse over her head as she pushed his ruined shirt from his shoulders. His eyes glinted at the sight of her full breasts in her best black lace bra and he dragged his mouth from the underside of her chin, down her throat and over the curves, pressing kisses between them, lifting them in his hands, his thumbs sliding over her nipples. Heat shot straight to her core at the caress, then he closed his mouth over one lace-clad nipple, drawing it into his mouth, hot and eager, suckling, then abandoning it for the other.

Just when she slid her hand up to close over the back of his head to hold him to her, he lifted his head and reached for the waistband of her jeans. She returned the favor, tugging his belt open, then diving for his button fly.

"Can I trust you?” he asked solemnly, dropping to his side facing her.

"I told you it's been awhile. I may be a little overeager."

"I like overeager.” He let her skim his jeans down his legs and started peeling hers, panties and all.

So much for picking her sexy underwear.

But he made her feel so good, not self-conscious at all, as she'd feared. He made her laugh, and he made her ache, and then he made her come, his fingers quick and skilled, and he dragged out the sensation before she begged him to fill her. He reached across the bed to fumble in a drawer with one hand while he unhooked her bra with the other. The rustle of cellophane filled the tiny room as he nuzzled her breast, suckling, stroking. She reached between them for his erection and he gasped against her skin when she closed her fingers around him, stroked slowly, learning him, learning what pleased him. Which seemed to be everything, judging by his breathing.

He lifted his head and pressed the open condom into her hand. “Don't rip this, too."

"Why? Aren't there more?"

"There's more."

"Thank God,” she murmured, and sheathed him. Then she parted for him and cried out as he filled her slowly, slowly, waiting for her body to accept him before he started moving. He cradled her face in his hands and looked at her when he started to move.

Then she was moving too, and they found a rhythm, only to lose it and find another, then another.

"I'm fine if you want to lead this time,” he teased.

"I don't remember how."

He withdrew and rolled onto his back, reaching for her. “You'll figure it out."

Never would she have thought she would have the confidence to be on top, not with a young, handsome cowboy. How had he managed to melt her resistance, her self-consciousness? But this wasn't just a young, handsome cowboy. This was Taylor, and she brought him into her, dragging a moan from both of them. He didn't touch her until she found a rhythm that suited both of them, then he closed his hands over her hips and surged into her, matching her movements.

"I don't think I can—"

"Oh, yes, you can.” And he dipped his thumb between them, dragging it along that bundle of nerves and bringing her to a shattering orgasm before tumbling her onto her back and driving into her, finding his own pleasure before collapsing over her.

"I hate sending you home.” Taylor lay on his side, one hand propped under his head as he watched Lavender gather her scattered clothes and put them on again.

She was still shaking from their second go-round, and knew if she didn't leave now, she wouldn't. And boy, wouldn't that cause all kinds of problems.

"I hate leaving,” she murmured, afraid to look at him. “What time are you heading out tomorrow?"

"Early."

A lump formed in her throat. “So I won't see you again."

"I'll be back in three weeks."

She made herself turn to him then. “I don't need promises.” But God, she wanted them.

"Lavender.” He rolled to his feet, pulled on his jeans without his jockeys, and reached for her.

She let him pull her close, tucked her head under his chin. “I'm not kidding myself about what this is. I know there's not a future."

"But it doesn't have to already be the past, either. I'll be back in three weeks. I'll want to see you."

She eased back and placed her fingers over his lips. She'd heard it all before. “No promises, Taylor, okay? Thank you.” She pulled out of his arms, hating how empty she felt without him wrapped around her. “This is the most fun I've had in ages. The whole weekend, not just tonight. Thank you.” And before she could start bawling, she hurried out the door.

She wondered how debauched she looked when she came in the front door of the house. Just when she was about to reassure herself that her grandmother wouldn't see her ‘til the morning—well, later in the morning—she heard raised voices coming from the kitchen.

"Mrs. Aguilar?” she asked, rounding the corner.

And stopped short to see a strange woman facing off with Gertrude.

Okay, not strange, just unexpected.

"Mother? What are you doing here?"

Eleanor Prouty turned to look at her daughter, her expression softening from the mutinous look she'd given her mother. “Lavender! Have you been out?"

Out, and she smelled like Taylor. Oops. She didn't duck fast enough and Eleanor enveloped her in her arms. Lavender did not return the embrace, and Eleanor withdrew, nostrils flared just enough to tell Lavender she smelled Taylor on her.

Refusing to be ashamed of her behavior, Lavender crossed the room to the refrigerator with a glance at her grandmother. Gertrude was pale, her face set stubbornly, her eyes trained on her daughter. Wishing for a beer, instead Lavender pulled out a pitcher of water and poured herself a glass with shaking hands before turning back to face her mother.

"What are you doing here?” she repeated.

"I didn't think I needed an invitation to my own home."

"This hasn't been your home for awhile. And why come in the middle of the night? How long has it been?"

She didn't have to ask. She knew to the day—four years, three months, a week and four days. She just wondered if Eleanor was aware.

"Too long.” Eleanor tried for a soothing tone but it had no effect on Lavender.

"Are you hiding from someone? Or just running away again?"

Eleanor's expression hardened into a replica of Gertrude's. “You are just like your grandmother."

Lavender bit back the desire to say she wouldn't be if Eleanor hadn't abandoned her to care for Gertrude all these years, but that would only hurt her grandmother, and she couldn't do that, no matter how she hurt.

She took inventory of her mother. Eleanor looked worn out, her long hair graying from roots to ears, exhaustion dragging at her face. She'd gained weight, so the gypsy skirt she wore stretched over her hips, and her battered sandals displayed equally battered feet. What had her mother been doing the past four years? Did she really want to know, or did that give her mother too much power?

"I just came to see the two of you, see how you were doing."