Free Cowboy's Bride by Barbara McMahon Page B

chased
through her mind, waking her, making sleep virtually impossible.
Every one of them concerned Trace. In some he chased her on a
horse, six-guns drawn, running her out of the county. In others he
kissed her, rubbing his work-rough hands over her hot body,
watching her as she gave in to the urging he constantly whispered
in her ear. Those had been the worst.
    "Rise and shine, Boss Lady. You've got a
ranch to run."
    "Dammit." She got up and stormed to the door,
flinging it wide. "Right you are, cowboy! This is my ranch and I'll
run it and I'll start by beginning the day at a reasonable
hour!"
    He grinned at her. She looked good enough to
eat, rosy from sleep, her dark eyes snapping and sparkling and her
hair tousled every which way around her head. Glancing over her
shoulders, he almost groaned when he saw the tumbled sheets on her
bed, the impression of her head clearly visible on one of the
pillows.
    "A reasonable hour? Sweetheart, it's
six."
    "That’s right, and I like to see six o'clock
in the morning from bed."
    "Fine." He dropped his hat and reached out to
scoop her up. In only two seconds he dumped her on her bed and
followed her down, his hard chest pinning her to the mattress as
his hands cupped her face, fingertips threading in her tangled
hair. His mouth came down hard on hers.
    Kalli was astonished. Then complacent, then
hot and bothered and turned on and wanting more of this wild cowboy
who wouldn't take no for an answer to anything. Her bare legs felt
the roughness of his denims and the scrape of his boot. His belt
buckle pressed into her soft skin. He was heavy and hard. But all
conscious thought fled as his mouth made sweet love to hers. As he
brought her to a state of awareness and desire beyond anything
she'd felt before.
    Instead of pushing him away, instead of
becoming irate he'd thrust his way into her room, she ran her hands
up his arms, across the broad shoulders, sculpting the shape of his
muscles, squirming a bit beneath him to get more comfortable,
reveling in the taste and scent of him.
    She was as soft as down. As sweet as
honeysuckle. He would devour her with his mouth if be could. She
was so sweet, so hot and so compliant. Why the change? He expected
fireworks from her, and he was getting them, but not the way he had
expected.
    His hand trailed down her throat, across her
shoulder. Feeling the soft cotton of her T-shirt, for a moment he
envied it. The shirt covered her torso completely, draped over
every curve and mound and valley. Just as be wanted to drape
himself over her. Learn every inch of her, cover every inch of her,
taste every inch of her. His fingers traced down farther, feeling
the soft swell of the side of her breast, flattened because of his
weight.
    Rolling over, he freed her. Freed her for his
touch. His hand kneaded her softness through the cotton, wanting to
feel that impudent nipple against his palm again, wanting to feel
her bare skin against his.
    His knee slipped between hers and he pushed
his thigh into the notch between her legs. Rubbing his fingers
across her waist, he pulled up the T-shirt, his knuckles brushing
against her hip. The softness tantalized his fingertips, sent a
longing deep in his gut to absorb every part of that soft skin
against his own tougher hide.
    "Hell." He pulled back and stared into her
glazed eyes as his fingers moved against her hip. "You're not even
wearing panties."
    She shook her head, too bemused to speak. Her
eyes soft with passion, her body hot and craving.
    Slowly his hand moved across her abdomen,
down to feather against the soft curls, Iowa, lower still.
    She held her breath, staring at him in
unconscious hunger.
    "Don't, Trace. You need to leave." But her
hands gave lie to her words. They still gripped him. One moved
across his shoulders, down to the V of his shirt, one finger
rubbing sensuously against the copper skin of his chest.
    "You don't want me to leave," he said softly,
his fingers finding her, softly stroking her. Her hips