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She shouldn’t have taken the shot.
For God’s sake, what had she been thinking? She’d been on a low-carb, low-calorie diet—with no alcohol—for a month. Not because Blaine had called her fat. That had nothing to do with it. She just wanted… She just wanted to do it for herself. Yeah.
It wasn’t like he was coming back or anything. And it wasn’t like she’d let him.
But it would be awesome to run into him somewhere, say the bank or the coffee shop or that bar on Grill Street, looking like a vixen. She only had ten pounds to go to hit vixen weight. It was a helluva ten pounds. They didn’t seem to want to budge.
And damn, she really wanted something to eat.
And damn, the tequila had hit her hard.
So hard she’d left the weekend kickoff party—although, to be honest, she’d wanted to leave since the pumping music and the grinding bodies and the strobing lights were starting to make her eyelid twitch. As down-home country as the bedrooms were at this ranch-slash-resort, they sure knew how to throw a bacchanal at night.
It was pleasanter out here behind the house, staring up at the stars and enjoying the kiss of a soft breeze. There were no sounds but the rustle of the leaves in the trees, the crickets and the occasional croak of a frog.
Her head hardly spun at all.
She leaned back and closed her eyes and imagined how amazing it would feel to be twenty-one again and interested in those kinds of men. To rub against a hard chest and feel his thickly muscled arms hold her close.
But none of those boys had ignited a flicker of interest in her. They’d all been rubbed smooth. Although several of them, and one in particular, had made it clear he wanted to dance for her.
It was a damn shame.
It would have been fun.
What kind of man would she want, if she wanted a man? Tall, for sure. Broad. Hard. Rough. Maybe a little wicked twinkle in his eye.
A door slammed to her right and her eyes flew open. She blinked as a man strode toward her through the shadows. Her heart lurched and the breath caught in her throat. Yes, her heart whispered. Yes. That was the kind of man she wanted.
He was big, and broad and roped with muscle. His stride was sure, determined and powerful. He wore boots that kicked up dust with every step, and chaps and even a Stetson. He had high cheekbones and a well-formed brow. His square chin was spattered with a dark shadow. His shirt was buttoned.
He looked like a real cowboy.
He looked like a man.
This guy could dance for her. No problem. She’d love to have him rub himself all over her—
His steps stalled as he caught sight of her.
“Well, hey there, cowboy,” she purred. It was probably the tequila purring, but he didn’t seem to care. He peered into the shadows.
She did him the favor of moving into the light. She liked that his nostrils flared and his throat worked. He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”
Ooh. Ma’am.
Sexy. This stripper knew how to play a role.
“You’re late,” she said.
He blinked. “Late?”
“The party’s already started.” She sidled up to him—again, the tequila; normally she would never sidle up to anybody—and put her hand on his chest. The muscles rippled in response and something inside her rippled as well. It was probably her womb. Crying out for a visitor.
It had been a while, after all.
She leaned closer, against him, and it was good. She nestled her nose in his beautiful neck and took a whiff. And daham, he smelled sinful. Wicked. Alluring.
“What is that fragrance?” she asked. She needed to know. Wanted to bathe in it.
He chuckled; the sound rumbled through her. “Soap.”
“Mmm. Yummy.” She scudded her palm over his chest, his thick arms and down to his trim waist. He held steady as she explored, staring at her through insanely thick lashes. It should be illegal for a man to have lashes like that. His features were locked and hard. A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You’re hard,” she murmured. Oh, God, he was.
“Yes, ma’am. I am.” This he said in a low purr, one that gave a sizzle of double entendre to the words.
Something cracked inside her. It was probably the remainder of her pickled restraint. He was the hottest man she’d ever seen, much less touched. His heat soaked into her and melted her, liquefied her.
She couldn’t stop her roving exploration and wouldn’t have anyway. Her hand drifted lower. His body tightened, his breath hitched as she reached his belt. And then she found him.
Her knees locked. Her pulse rocketed through her veins. Because Jesus God, he wasn’t just hard, he was rock hard.
“Nice.” A whisper, all she could manage. She gave him a little pump.
He hissed in a breath and said through his teeth, “Yeah. Nice.” His hand came to her waist. He stroked her bare skin beneath the hem of her tee. His calluses scraped her sanity.
“You are the most authentic of all of them,” she murmured, kissing his neck.
He grunted and pulled her closer, cupping her ass, measuring it with a squeeze. “Most authentic?”
“Of all the strippers.”
He stilled for a moment and she sensed he was about to pull away, which she could not allow. He was far too delicious to give up. So she nibbled his chin. She loved the bristles of his stubble. And he tasted…like a man. More man than she’d ever had.
She released her hold on him and pressed her hips against his, wrapped herself around him, hooking her leg around his. The feel of his body, hot and hard, plastered against hers from chest to groin, made her mouth water.
He allowed it, but then he did pull back. But it wasn’t far, and it was so he could stare down at her face, so she didn’t mind. His breath washed over her and she had the sudden compulsion to taste his mouth. Not a need or a whim. A compulsion.
“You think I’m the most authentic of all the strippers?” She had no idea why he was smiling, but she liked his smile. Especially the dent that appeared on his left cheek. Everything about him pushed each and every one of her buttons. They were rusty buttons, but he pushed them.
“You are. You really do it better than any of them. You sure look like a real cowboy. Baby, you could rope and tie me…”
“Sounds…interesting.”
She stroked his back, reveling in the bulge of his muscles as she made her way down to his ass, which she squeezed as well. “And you’re really well built.”
“Thank you?”
“For a stripper.”
“Right.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you gave me a lap dance at all.”
“You…wouldn’t?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m…flattered.”
“Would you like to?”
His brow arched. It was a striking, manly brow. “Like to?”
“Give me a lap dance?”
“You have no idea.”
She liked the tenor of his voice, despite the fact there was a laugh hidden in it. She raked her nails along the back of his neck and he shivered. So she walked her fingers into his hair, ignoring that she tipped his Stetson clean off.
God, his hair was soft. Dark curls. Silky and thick.
Their gazes locked. His smile faded. Tension hummed between them. Then she tugged his head down and took his lips.
Sensation exploded in her at the taste of him. Bright lights and tremulous shudders and a deep, burning hunger for more. His lips were perfect, mobile, firm on hers. He responded to her every foray. He tipped his head to the side, firmed his hold on her hips and deepened the kiss with a groan. When his velvet tongue pressed in, her knees locked. Thank God he was holding her up.
It was, in short, the most magnificent kiss she’d ever had.
When it ended, they were both breathless. He set his forehead on hers as he gathered his wits. As for Crystal, she just clung. It was all she could manage.
But she did issue a low moan. “God,” she huffed. “That was awesome.”
“Mmm.” Again, a rumble. It shook her to the bones. She was suddenly beset with the image of the two of them, bare and sweaty and locked together in a passionate clinch. Somewhere private.
“Come to my room?” She didn’t know what urged her to say it, other than a blinding need. And possibly tequila. She’d certainly never propositioned a man before.
His muscles tautened. His cock, against her belly, surged. “Your…room?”
“Mmm hmm.” She tipped her head. “It’s upstairs.”
His lips quirked and she realized that, most probably, all the rooms were upstairs.
“I don’t even know your name.” He probably meant it as a joke, judging from his amused expression, but she gave it anyway. Because hell, he needed to know her name.
“I’m Cryshtal. Um, Crystal.”
He kissed her again, a brief buss but no less alluring. “You taste like tequila, Crystal.”
“I had a shot.” A couple shots, but who was counting?
“Are you drunk?”
She frowned. “Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’m not drunk in the slightest. I’m loosh.”
“Loosh?”
“Loose.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“Come to my room,” she insisted again, tugging on his hand. And to her delight, he picked up his hat and followed.
Holy God.
Ford McCoy gritted his teeth as he followed the siren up the backstairs of Cody’s place and down a shadowed hallway. He’d never met a woman who had this effect on him before, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
From the first glance, seeing her leaning against the house, staring up at the sky, he’d been entranced. Oh, her face was exquisite, for sure, with delicate features and eyes of a glimmering green, and her hair flowed like a silken curtain around her shoulders. But her curves. Hell and damnation, those curves had hit him like a fist to the gut. His cock had leaped to attention in a heartbeat.
And when she’d sauntered over and touched him, then fucking squeezed his dick… Damn.
When she’d wrapped herself around him, he’d known he was a goner. The feel of her in his arms, cuddled against his body, meeting and matching with perfect counterpoint of hard and soft… He’d had to kiss her.
But she’d kissed him first.
He’d nearly lost his mind.
It was a damn fucking shame she was drunk. Or loose. What the fuck ever.
Unsteadily, she led him into a room at the end of the hall and with a huff dropped down on the bed. He glanced around the room and spotted the culprit. An empty bottle of tequila. His suspicions firmed. His mood dimmed.
She shot him a crooked grin. “Well, Cowboy?”
“Well, what?”
She flopped back on the bed. “Aren’t you going to strip for me?”
He tossed his hat on the other bed. Her eyes widened and then she barked a laugh when he knelt before her and worked off her shoes, dropping them on the floor.
“Not me, silly. You.”
“Hmm.” He found a blanket and covered her. It was a damn shame to cover all that beauty, but it really was for the best.
Her brow knitted. Gently, he kissed it. “What are you doing?” Yep. Her words were decidedly slurred.
“Putting you to bed.”
“To bed?” Her eyes crossed as she gaped at him, so she closed one and gaped at him through that. As adorable as it was, it made him want to howl. Because she was definitely drunk.
“Yes, ma’am. Putting you to bed.” Fuck.
“W-why?”
He sat down beside her and took her face in his hands. He couldn’t resist another quick kiss, just one for the road. One to remember her by. “Because I have one rule with drunk women, darling.”
“One rule?” Her lashes fluttered, then closed. “Whatisit?”
“Just say no.”
She opened her eyes again, but it was a blurry effort. “Just say no?”
“Yeah.” He blew out a sigh. “I don’t take advantage of women who don’t have full control of their senses.”
“I have full control.” To illustrate this point, she released an arm from the blanket and flopped it around in an attempt to cup his cheek. He helped her, setting her hand there and covering it with his own.
“Maybe we’ll meet again. When you’re sober.”
Her lips worked and she murmured, “I’m here all weekend.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” But he was speaking to himself. She’d drifted off into a tequila-induced slumber. He knew this because her snore rocked the room. He allowed himself one more glance and then a brief buss to her forehead and, perhaps, a moment of regret. “Sleep well, Crystal,” he whispered as he slipped from the room.
He couldn’t help thinking he was walking away from someone amazing, someone he needed to know. Physically, she was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman—with the exception of the penchant for hard liquor—but she was, without a doubt, a city girl.
And experience had taught him, tangling with city girls was a straight road to disaster and heartbreak. He’d vowed to avoid them forever.
It was a good decision.
But damn. What a shame.