Chapter 38
Melanie watched with growing amazement as Wyatt wrestled with a loop that seemed determined to strangle him.
She’d never seen anyone make swinging a rope look quite that difficult, and one year during the Amarillo State Fair she’d taught a Cowboy 101 session to a group of retired insurance salesmen from Cleveland whose idea of athletic prowess was balancing four full beer cups on a paper tray.
Maybe a shot of something from the bar would help Wyatt. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
He threw the rope on the ground, grabbed the tail, and began coiling it—the one part of the process he did with his usual ease. He’d probably been handling lines on the family yacht since birth. No wait, they would have a crew for that, but people in his social set would have to have a sailboat, too, wouldn’t they?
“This is stupid,” he growled.
“You’re just saying that because you keep whacking yourself in the head.”
He divided his glare between her and the dummy steer she’d also persuaded him to buy. It was lightweight, made of tough plastic plumbing pipe, and built low to ground for roping on foot instead of from a horse. They’d set it up on a decent-sized space behind the bar that might’ve once been a patio but was now home to nothing but the Dumpster, baking aromatically in the direct glare of the evening sun. Put a high board fence around this, though, slap some patches and stain on the cracked, pockmarked concrete, and it’d make a dandy cowboy playground.
All part of the plan.
Wyatt built a new loop, gritted his teeth, and promptly wrapped it around his neck. Wow. He was actually getting worse.
“No. Watch.” She rescued the wadded-up rope, straightened the loop, and demonstrated—again. “You have to rotate your wrist…see?”
His expression went borderline murderous. “Do I look like I’m not trying?”
“Honestly?”
He gave another growl and yanked the rope out of her hands. “Explain to me again how this is supposed to help the bar.”
“You are the Bull Dancer,” she repeated, the soul of patience. “It’s your brand. You put it on your corporation, your car, and the sign out front. Therefore, people expect you to be the face of this establishment…but that’s not gonna work unless you learn to connect with the clientele.”
“By connecting this rope with that goddamn steer?”
He was gonna have to get to the point where he could throw it first. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. God, it was fun watching him get all cranky. After everything with Hank, this was exactly the kind of distraction she needed. “There is no place better to get to know people than at the ropin’ pen. And believe it or not, being bad is good. Team ropers love to give advice, even the ones that suck.”
Especially the ones that sucked. If you can’t do, coach, whether anyone asked your opinion or not. And most of ’em got smarter—and a lot handier with a rope—when they were astride a barstool. Best of all, their version of roping was as much of a social occasion as a competition, which made them prone to stopping for dinner and drinks on the way home from the local jackpot or the weekly team roping practices at the saddle club.
And the Bull Dancer had plenty of parking out back for horse trailers.
She folded her arms and watched him try again. This time, he managed two swings before the loop twisted up and smacked him in the ear. Dear Lord. She couldn’t take it anymore. She confiscated the rope, untangled it, then stood with her back to him, holding up the loop in her right hand and the coils in her left. “Here. Put your hands over mine, and I’ll take you through the motions.”
He hesitated for a beat, then stepped up behind her. His palms were damp, and the scent of hot male enveloped her. She sucked in a breath, and the air stuck in her lungs, as if trying to absorb the essence of him. She forced herself to exhale, then nearly gasped when he flexed his knees to accommodate their height difference, his denim-clad thigh sliding between hers and his cheek so close his breath tickled her ear.
“Okay,” she managed. “Here we go.”
Her bare arm pressed against his when she demonstrated. His wrist was stiff, resisting the motion as she brought the loop around and tried to roll her palm upward.
She gave their entwined hands a shake. “Relax, and let me move you.”
Crap. And her breathy voice made it sound even more suggestive. She felt the reaction shiver through his muscles and heard him swallow. She did the same, then said, “Let’s try this again.”
She hadn’t realized how much hip action was involved in swinging a rope, every swoosh of the loop accompanied by the excruciating slide of body against body. She was so cross-eyed with lust that she gave up and closed her eyes. Swing. Swing. Swing. The swaying movement increased the friction and mimicked that age-old rhythm, waking every primordial urge. The temptation to arch her back and press into the hardness she knew she’d find was nearly irresistible.
Swing, swing, swing, swing…
She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Had she really thought she could have him once and walk away? Now that was delusional.
“There,” she said, her voice so throaty it was barely recognizable. “Feel that?”
The noise he made summed up her state of arousal in one low, hot breath—and erased the last of her self-control. She dropped the rope and turned in to his arms. His hands came to rest on her hips, pulling her closer even as he shook his head. “Melanie…”
“Don’t.” Her gaze followed her fingers over the stubble on his jaw, already softer than the last time she’d touched him. “I listened to more of those science podcasts while I was driving around the other day. Do you know what an event horizon is?”
“The boundary where the force of gravity around a black hole is so strong that nothing can escape.”
“That’s my walking encyclopedia.” She patted his cheek and lifted her eyes to meet his, losing her breath yet again at pure, hot blue of them. God, he was gorgeous…and she was going to have him, to hell with the consequences. “We have crossed the event horizon, Wyatt. We can’t stop this now, no matter how hard we try.”
He pressed his cheek into her palm, rubbing like a cat. “What about Hank? You know how he’d feel about this.”
“Once or a hundred times…in his mind it’s all the same. And this has nothing to do with my brother.” She slid her hands down to take Wyatt’s and squeeze. “I’m not looking for comfort, or a distraction, or anything else except this.”
Those eyes searched her face, dark with concern—and tightly controlled need. “Are you sure?”
“That I want you?” She laughed. “Believe me, I’ve had a year or five to think about it.”
They walked around to the door of the apartment, strolling hand in hand as if they were determined that this time would be as slow and thorough as the last had been rushed. When they stepped into the room, Wyatt pulled out his phone, muted the ringer, and set it on the fancy lady’s desk. Melanie followed suit, but connected hers to a wireless speaker and started a music app. Lilting Native American flute music floated on the breeze that ruffled the sheer silk at the windows. She also reached into her purse, pulled out the remaining condoms, and tossed them on the bed.
Wyatt stepped up behind her and once again wrapped his hands around hers, then smoothed his palms up her arms. She sighed in pleasure. He nuzzled her hair aside to murmur in her ear. “Do you trust me?”
“If I didn’t, instead of crawling into that plane, I’d be hitchhiking back from Montana right now.”
He laughed softly, his breath playing across the fine hairs at her nape. “There’s my incurable romantic.”
“Just statin’ the facts.” She tilted her head to give him better access. “I’ve already put my life in your hands. What now?”
He traced a line with one finger from the underside of her chin all the way down to the first button on her shirt. “Take off your clothes.”
* * *
To his dying day, Wyatt would never forget the sight of her strolling over to the bed and looking him square in the eye as she stripped, then gave a long, languid stretch, arms overhead and back arched, pulling her body into a single taut curve. She smiled at his low groan and draped herself across the bed, head propped on one hand and her hair spilling over her shoulders. “Your turn.”
Her eyes shamelessly drank him in as he pulled his polo shirt over his head and then peeled off jeans, underwear, socks, and shoes in one motion, somehow managing not to trip as he kicked them aside. She craned her neck to watch as he picked up one of the condoms and slid onto the bed behind her.
He leaned in to touch his mouth to the corner of hers. “Trust me.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then gave a slight nod and let her head drop into the crook of her arm. He lifted her hair, strand by silky strand, until she was totally exposed. Then he began to touch her, learning her textures and tastes with featherlight brushes of fingers and lips, exploring her body with long, deliberate strokes of his hands along her spine, over the curve of her hip, kneading the muscles of her butt and legs until her eyes fluttered closed and she moaned in appreciation.
“Keep that up, I’m gonna slip into a coma.”
“That’s the plan.” But he shifted his attention to her front, keeping the same unhurried rhythm as he stroked her stomach, her breasts, her thighs, searching out her most vulnerable spots and testing to see what made her shift and arch, seeking relief from the need he built, touch by touch. He pulled back to find the condom, rip it open, and roll it into place as he dragged his teeth along the curve of her shoulder, feeling her shiver at the rasp of his stubble.
She moaned when he pushed inside her, then locked his arm around her waist to keep her still. “Shhh. Just let me…”
Her body closed hot around him, pressing into him, begging for speed and power. He held her tight, allowing only the slightest pulse of movement as he continued to run his other hand over her. She squirmed in his grasp, but he refused to cede control as he slowly, slowly pushed her up and up, until she reached the peak and tumbled over, shuddering in his arms as he followed her to a blinding climax.
As their pulses hammered in unison, his hands continued to glide over her, bringing them both down slowly while he built the store of memories that would soon be all he had of her.
He’d known it couldn’t be more, and had barely hesitated. As she’d said, he’d already crossed the event horizon, and there was no going back. For as long as she was here, he wouldn’t think about how, beyond that point, not even light could survive…let alone a foolish human heart.