She set his Stetson on her head, adjusting it so that it set, low and sexy, over her forehead, then tilted her head and looked up at him from under the brim. The invitation in her eyes was blatant, unashamed, unwavering, with nothing held back, nothing hidden. She smiled seductively, slowly, and licked her lips again.
Damn, she was…she was… Hell, he didn’t know what she was!
Except gorgeous.
And hot.
And so damned sexy it made his insides ache and his palms sweat.
One look, that’s all it had taken. One long, slow, hot-eyed look from a tall, cool glass of water, and he’d wanted to grab and take and possess. He had grabbed and taken and—very nearly, anyway—possessed. And that surprised him. Shocked him, actually. He wasn’t normally a man with a short fuse. Ask anybody who knew him and they’d tell you Tom Steele was one careful hombre. He took his time. He considered his options. He weighed all the pros and cons. Steady, that was Tom Steele. Not a man to rush off half-cocked, or to get all hot and bothered and lose his head over a pretty little piece of tail.
Except that he had.
He stood there in the parking lot of Ed Earl’s, in the pink-neon glow of those ridiculous flamingos, his heart thudding against the wall of his chest, his cock full to bursting against the fly of his jeans, and his hands… Good Lord, his hands were actually trembling.
He unclenched his fists, flexing his fingers like a gunfighter about to take that long walk down the middle of a dusty street, and took a couple of deep, deliberate breaths in a effort to bring down his heart rate. It didn’t work.
“Ah, the hell with it,” he muttered, and reached for the door handle of the car. The only thing that was going to slow his heart rate was the exhaustion that came after a fast, furious bout of hot, sweaty sex. Maybe.
She turned toward him as he slid behind the wheel, reaching out to run her hand down his arm.
He didn’t even look at her. “Keep your hands to yourself, Slim,” he ordered, tight-lipped, as he fished around in his shirt pocket for the key. “And don’t say a word.” He jammed the key into the ignition and gunned the engine to life. “Not a word until we get to the motel.”
Roxanne gave a soft gurgle of laughter, a low, throaty sound of feminine triumph and challenge, and settled back into her seat, her hands folded demurely in her lap. It was only five miles to the motel and judging by the rooster tail of dust and gravel he’d left in Ed Earl’s parking lot, they’d be there in less than five minutes. She could wait that long. Barely.
4
THE FACADE of the Broken Spoke Motel was cheap Hollywood Western, with an unpainted barn-board exterior, a split-log hitching rail running along the front, and horseshoes bracketing the room numbers on each of the doors. A red-neon wagon wheel, one spoke seeming to swing back and forth as it flashed on and off, sat perched atop a pole in front of the motel office, right above the unblinking No Vacancy sign. A bank of vending machines stood on the cracked concrete apron just outside the office door, in clear sight of whoever was manning the registration desk. At the moment it was empty, with a hand-lettered sign advising would-be guests to ring for assistance.
Tom pulled into the first open parking space in the lot, jammed on the parking brake, and was out of the car almost before the engine stopped idling. His boot heels sent up little puffs of dust as he rounded the hood, purpose in every deliberate step, burning lust in his eyes, one thing on his mind. Roxanne sat in the passenger seat in stupefied delight and watched him come to her, come after her, thrilled beyond belief to be the object of such single-minded desire. With a sense of delighted amazement, she realized she could actually feel her nipples, rigid against the satiny fabric of her leopard-print bra, could feel the wetness soaking the matching fabric between her legs, could feel the blood pounding through her veins. She had never been so aware of her body, never felt so sensitized, so aroused, as if every nerve ending was on red alert. She was tingling all over…her lips…her fingertips…her thighs…every part of her quivering with anticipation and wanton, intemperate need, making her wonder how she was going to manage to stand up and walk to the room without collapsing into a quivering heap at his feet.
She didn’t have to try.
He yanked open the door and bent down, scooping her up into his arms. “Which room?” he growled as he shoved the door closed with his foot.
It was another cherished fantasy fulfilled. Being swept off her feet. Carried off to be ravaged by a dangerous cowboy. The old Roxanne would have likely fainted from excitement; the new Roxy looped her arms around her cowboy’s neck and tickled his ear with her tongue, as if being swept off her feet were an every day occurrence.
Tom’s whole body tensed at her teasing caress, and his hands tightened on her thighs and back as a spasm of sheer sexual pleasure shot through him. If he didn’t get inside her in the next sixty seconds he was going to come in his jeans. And that hadn’t happened since he was fourteen. “Which room, Slim?”
“Seven.” She sighed the word into his ear, her breath hot and moist. “Lucky seven.” She slid her tongue down the side of his neck, and then up again, as if he were her favorite flavor of ice cream and she was intent on savoring every last delicious drop. “Second door past the office.”
Tom turned on his heel and headed toward the promise of paradise with long ground-eating strides, while the woman in his arms did her best to drive him to his knees before they got there. He stumbled slightly when she stuck her tongue in his ear, but managed to regain his balance with a quick, light-footed move that brought him to a halt directly in front of the trio of vending machines in front of the motel office. One offered the usual soft drinks, another candy bars and chips, the third had toiletries for sale…miniature tubes of toothpaste, tins of aspirin, palm-size packets of tissue, condoms. A mental picture of his battered canvas carryall, still stowed behind the front seat of his pickup, flashed through his mind.
Roxanne left off nibbling on his earlobe to raise her head. “What?” she murmured, her eyes wide and hazy with arousal, her voice softly slurred.
Tom indicated the offerings in the vending machine with a jerk of his chin. “Am I going to need those?”
Her arms still locked securely around his neck, Roxanne glanced over her shoulder to see what he was talking about. “I’ve got one inside my bra.”
His eyes blazed. “Only one?”
“And a whole box in my room,” she assured him. “There are a dozen in it. Well—” she loosened her hold on him with one hand and touched the little foil packet of protection tucked inside her push-up bra, inadvertently drawing his eyes to the creamy mounds of flesh above the neckline of her blouse “—eleven, anyway,” she managed, watching his eyes heat and burn.
“A dozen just might do it. Maybe.” He bent his head and nuzzled the scented valley between her plumped-up breasts, breathing her in with a long hungry gulp of air. “Or maybe not,” he said softly, the breath rushing out of him in a tremulous sigh.
And, just like that, Roxanne fell a little bit in love. Not the happily-ever-after, till-death-do-us-part kind of love. She wasn’t that much of a fool. But it was love, nonetheless, a light-headed, lighthearted, giddy kind of love, as insubstantial as moonbeams and neon, as temporary as the victory after a championship bronc ride. But it made what was about to happen just that much more wonderful and exciting. More thrilling. More everything. If she hadn’t already been dewy with need, that one sweet, tender gesture would have done it.
“Hurry,” she whispered, and nipped his earlobe for emphasis. “Hurry.”
Tom hurried.
“The key?” he said, letting her slide down his body as he set her on her feet in front of the door to room number seven.
“That’s