Free Strokes Vol #3 by Delilah Devlin Page B

cheekbones and tawny skin bespoke the majority of his heritage.
    Even now, my horse needing barely a nudge to follow Zane happily down a ravine, my gaze rested on his tall, lean frame. Without the dreadful urgency that had filled me while we’d searched, my thoughts were now consumed by my partner.
    I didn’t know a thing about his personal life. He didn’t wear a ring, but what did that signify? And what had that “moment” back there on the ridgeline been about? Was he mocking me because he knew I was attracted? Or was he interested too?
    And if he wanted me, was it because I was the only female for miles in this wilderness? I hoped like hell not. I hadn’t been with a man in a long while, and I didn’t think I could handle something as shallow as a convenience fuck.
    If fucking was even something on his mind, I couldn’t tell. He didn’t glance back. Not once. If he was interested in me , wouldn’t he be as curious as me and slyly watchful?
    We followed a dry creek bed with a gradual decline toward the river bisecting the park. As it was early summer, the water was still high against the banks. Inviting. My horse was certainly eager. I let her have her head, and she trotted toward the edge of the water. I dismounted, dropped her reins and let her step into the water, her head ducking to snuffle and drink.
    The chink of metal and dull thud of leather hitting the ground sparked my interest, and I came around my horse, watching as Zane tossed his saddle beside the packs already on the ground.
    “I take it we’ll be here for a while.”
    “We’ve pushed the horses hard.”
    He didn’t give any more of an explanation, but I read the challenge in his gaze. I nodded slowly and turned back to my horse, following his example to relieve my mare of her burden.
    When I loosened the cinch around her abdomen, the saddle lifted away unexpectedly. Zane hadn’t helped me with my gear since we’d started. Now the simple action turned me on more than a hot glance might have. His body was tight. His movements a little less graceful than usual. When he set down the saddle and straightened, I could see why. The bulge that lay trapped against his thigh was unmistakable.
    My mouth went dry. “Think the water’s cold?” I asked, inanely. The water was certainly cooler than the air. But, I needed to say something other than: “I hope that erection’s for me.”
    I did my best to keep my gaze on his face, but couldn’t help flitting down to check out his impressive hard-on. I felt as gauche as a teenager.
    “Bathe,” he said quietly, then turned and began to strip.
    I liked his economy of movement. The unfussy way he tugged and pulled and quickly dropped his clothes in a heap beside his feet.
    I admired his nakedness, the round firmness of his backside, the ropey muscles framing his spine. When he reached behind him for his ponytail and began to sift the braid free, my mouth pooled with saliva. His hair was black and shining blue where the sun hit it. Thick. My fingers curled at my sides.
    And then he turned, his gaze raking over me. His mouth tightened. Was that annoyance? I noted his expression, only fleetingly, because my gaze dropped straight to his cock, which was extended, the blunt cap glistening with a hint of moisture. It was long and thick, the shaft straight and rising from a dark, sparse thatch of hair.
    “Do you need help?” he asked, voice silky like I’d never heard it before.
    A quiver shook my belly, making my knees weak, and I knew if I tried to take off my boots standing, I’d fall on my face. I didn’t answer, simply waited as he narrowed his eyes and strode toward me, his height and masculine breadth casting a shadow.
    He reached first for my hands and pulled off my leather riding gloves. Then with an arch of his brow, he knelt on one knee, tapping the side of one boot until I gripped his shoulder and lifted my foot. He took off each boot then swiftly undid my belt and jeans and pushed them roughly