Duncan took the offered treats with relish, sucking one and then the other into his mouth, moving back and forth until both she and he writhed and moaned with need, simulating an act they could have for real.
When she hooked her thighs around his hips and linked her ankles on his back, Duncan was done exploring. He grabbed the condom packet and sat back.
She didn’t release her legs but held him close like that, watching him open the condom and slide it on.
He tried not to think about how weird that purple looked. Instead, he focused on her, the small, trimmed, dark-gold bush, the sleek pink inside her folds, the way the short curls gleamed with want. When he brushed two fingers along that slick line and felt how full her need was, heard the rough edge of her moan as he found her clit, Duncan was torn between needing to taste her and needing fill her.
Phoebe settled the question. “Fuck me, Duncan. Please.”
Still kneeling, still wrapped in the firm embrace of her thighs, Duncan leaned over, slipped his arms around her, and pulled her onto his lap.
After a moment’s surprise, she understood and used her thighs to rise up a bit, giving him room to position himself so she could sit on him in the exact right way.
And oh fuck, the feel of that entry. She was snug and hot around him, and she clenched even more tightly as her head dropped backward. A moan rumbled up from the bottom of her belly, through her chest, and out.
Duncan felt his eyes roll back. For a few seconds, they stayed just like that, her back arched over his arms, his head thrown back as well. He almost believed nothing else could be better than this. But then he moved slightly, nothing more than a squeeze of his glutes, and she whimpered and twitched around him, and that was better.
As he began to move, using his glutes, quads, and hamstrings to piston with slow force, he drew her to him again. She came up and coiled her arms around his neck, bending down to kiss him. God, she was a great kisser.
They flexed and rocked together, their mouths exploring each other, their hands exploring everything else, until Phoebe closed in on her finish and started rocking and bouncing on him more frenetically than he could track. He gave up her mouth and buried his face against her throat, breathing in her warm, inviting scent as he held her close and matched her needful energy with his own.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasped as her body started to stiffen and shake. Duncan slipped a hand between them and found her clit. She jumped and cried out, then drove down onto his cock with determination until she went over, flinging herself backward in his arms, clamping her legs so tightly around him he thought he might pop, then flinging herself forward again and crashing into him.
Holy shit. That was one helluva show.
He hadn’t come, but he was on the edge of the cliff. When she started to recover herself, each tiny shift of her body pushed him a little closer.
When he groaned with the effort of holding back, she lifted her head and smiled dazedly at him. “You haven’t come.”
“Not yet,” he gritted. “Very soon.”
She smiled and twisted her hips. He groaned again.
Caught in her eyes, Duncan let Phoebe have the reins. They stared into each other as she rocked, twisted, lifted and dropped, each move purposeful and measured, each pulling him farther over the edge, until he toppled over. His finish clenched his body from his neck downward and wrung him dry.
When his senses returned, she was still watching him, still smiling, still flushed. “Wow,” she whispered.
“Wow,” he agreed.
If it turned out this wasn’t only a one-night deal, Duncan thought he’d like that just fine.
CHAPTER SIX
Duncan crashed out within minutes of their decoupling, and Phoebe slipped into the half-waking/half-dreaming place for about an hour or so. It was too close to dawn for her to be able to go all the way under—able in the sense of her body being able to do it, and able in the sense of all the work she needed to do first thing in the morning. Those two definitions were pretty closely related.
However, she lingered under the covers for a few minutes after Charlie, their rooster, called the place to order. It didn’t matter what kind of weather he faced, Charlie was on the job.
Duncan slept straight through the rooster alarm. He lay mostly on his belly, one of his heavily muscled arms across Phoebe’s ribs, his face turned toward her on the pillow and his mouth open a little so that his lips pooched adorably.
He really was good-looking. And he really was excellent at sex. Best Phoebe had experienced in years. Possibly ever. Good looking, good loving, good person ... she needed to find some flaws in the guy pretty soon or she might be in some trouble.
Not that it mattered. When he woke up, he’d hit the road and go back to his life. The Ragamuffin Ranch was less than a hundred miles from Tulsa, but it was already extremely obvious that his life there and her life here were two different worlds, separated by more than miles. She’d never seen him before last night, and the smart bet said she’d never see him again after this morning.
Except, wait—her truck. He’d had it towed to his station. The whole thing was probably a loss (and she supposed she had to sit down sometime soon—today—and figure out how to fix that huge problem), but even so, she couldn’t just abandon the thing at his station lot. At the very least, she’d need whatever she could get from it for scrap. So they’d probably see each other at least enough for her to deal with that.
Was that a good thing? Her insides said absolutely. Her head wasn’t so sure.
Well, she wasn’t going to figure it out right now, and she had shit to do. What would come would come. Meanwhile, if she got out of the room while he was sleeping, she could avoid any waking awkwardness.
Carefully, she lifted his arm and set it on the mattress. Then she eased out of bed—it was cold out of the covers!—and hurried into her fluffy robe and slippers. She grabbed some clean clothes and tiptoed out of the room like she was the guest. Then she hurried through the chilly hallway to the bathroom.
Because her work got her dirty first thing in the morning and kept her that way through the day, Phoebe routinely showered in the evening. She hadn’t last night, and she’d been plenty horsey by the time sexcapades started, so she’d change out her bedding first chance she got. She intended to try for a midday siesta to catch up some of her lost sleep—one of the lingering pesky issues of her brain injury was that she really struggled with focus and memory when she was tired, so she took sleep seriously—and she’d change the bed after that.
In the bathroom this morning, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, smeared some deodorant on, and took her morning meds: Lexapro for depression, Adderall for focus, and a couple of aspirin for the headache taking root at the base of her skull.
She dressed in fresh underwear, heavy socks, winter riding pants, a thermal tee and a flannel over it. She brushed out yesterday’s pigtails and did a single over-the shoulder braid. A quick look in the mirror said the result was as usual: not sexy, but workable.
Downstairs, she found Vin at the kitchen table, hunched forlornly over a cup of coffee. His crutches leaned against the wall.
“Morning, mister,” she said.
He groaned a greeting without lifting his head.
She went over and gave his thick shoulders a squeeze. “You and Mr. Beam have a good time last night?”