Cowboy Lust: Erotic Romance for Women Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  RIDING DOUBLE

  UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS

  BANGING THE COWBOY

  LADIES LOVE COUNTRY BOYS

  DROUGHT

  ROPED

  ROUGH STOCK

  THE RANCH HAND

  SMALL-TOWN FAMOUS

  THE STORM

  CAUGHT UNAWARES

  SOME LIKE IT DIRTY

  RANEY’S LAST RIDE

  RUNAWAY BRIDE

  SHE DON’T STAY THE NIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD

  I♥ cowboys. I always have; I always will.

  When I was asked to write this foreword for an anthology devoted to hot cowboy tales, I yelled, “Yee-haw!” Then I wondered how I’d only limit myself to a couple of paragraphs. It’d take so much more, a whole book (or thirty!) to explain how much I love writing about these rough and tumble guys who often appear larger than life—even when those same strong, capable men I admire so greatly would smoothly change the subject when being called iconic, because that humbleness is also part of who they are.

  One question I get asked frequently is: why do you write about cowboys? Is it because I’ve been surrounded by cowboy culture since I was knee high to a grasshopper? Yes. Every day I’m grateful that I grew up in the western United States, where being a real cowboy isn’t just an attitude or a slogan on a T-shirt, but a way of life. Yet…there are different types of cowboys and each one holds a special charm. And what a fulfilling job it is, getting to spread that cowboy love and adding in those components of sexy naughtiness that makes a cowboy the ultimate man and the quintessential alpha hero.

  It’s no surprise that cowboys have held the interest of readers for many years. In traditional western fiction, the cowboy is the embodiment of all that is good, honest, and true. Not only is the cowboy the guy you’d want at your side or watching your back during a gunfight, or a bar fight, but he’s the stand-up guy other men look up to and ladies moon over. A cowboy’s values are at the core of who he is. His love of land drives him day in, day out to provide for his family. And whoo-ee—there is something mighty compelling about a man who works with his hands and loves getting down and dirty. So much of who a cowboy is comes from what he does: caring for livestock, being a steward and student of the land, whether that land is in Wyoming, Texas, Hawaii, or someplace in between.

  And yet, there is loneliness that comes with living in rural America, whether it was one hundred fifty years ago, or right now. Whether we’re talking about a rancher cowboy or those cowboys that put in many miles, alone, on the long stretches of back roads and highways.

  Rodeo cowboys are the risk takers locked in that age-old battle of man versus beast. It’s more than showmanship—seeing those guys roughed up, dirty, and determined is the epitome of hard-edged sexiness. It’s a show of sheer grit when a bull rider climbs on the back of a fifteen-hundred-pound animal. It’s a test of wills as a saddle bronc or bareback rider tries to hang on for eight seconds as a buckin’ horse attempts to throw him in the dirt. Doesn’t it make you want to strip him naked, find his bumps, bruises, scrapes, and scars and kiss them all better? Those team ropers invoke many female fantasies of being double-teamed and thoroughly trussed up. Talk about power and guts—watch a bull dogger launch himself off a horse at a full gallop to bring a steer to the ground. These rodeo cowboys know how to perform and ride hard—on and off the dirt.

  I’ll admit a cowboy’s physical attributes play a large role in the timeless appeal of these rugged men. Because, come on…is there anything sexier than a guy wearing boots, jeans, and a hat? Hearing the jingle jangle of spurs and the soft flap of a pair of leather chaps as he saunters toward you. Seeing a face shadowed beneath that cowboy hat—and then the dusty brim slowly lifting up to reveal a handsome face and a devilish grin. Swoon. Then there are those acres of muscles, earned the hard way from hours of physical labor, muscles that ripple beneath a crisply pressed western shirt. It’s mesmerizing, watching how a cowboy’s body moves as one with his horse as he’s working cattle or just riding the range. And isn’t that the definitive fantasy? Experiencing how well that hard toned masculine body moves between the sheets and the single-minded focus that carries from the barnyard and rodeo arena into the bedroom.

  So when taking the elements of a traditional western and adding in erotic romance, you get the best of both worlds—a smokin’ hot, take charge cowboy who gets the girl in the end, rather than riding off into the sunset alone. It’s gratifying in erotic western romance to finally kick that bedroom door wide open and see just what the heck makes that man tick. To get a front row seat to his hidden passion, his sexual inventiveness, and to witness the sweetness that a tough man will show only to the woman who owns him, heart and soul. Because cowboys are a breed apart, it takes a special lady to see beneath that gruff exterior. A woman willing to unlock that passionate side, any time, anywhere—against the barn, or in a dusty pickup, over a hay bale, or in a soft bed at the end of a long day. A woman that knows actions speak louder than words. A woman who understands that once you’ve had a cowboy’s boots under your bed and a big, strong body keeping you hot every night, you’ll never settle for anything less.

  Feeling that tingle of lust yet? Luckily, there are several great short stories in store for you to kick that lust into high gear. Can I get a yee-haw?

  My hat is off to all the great contributors to Cowboy Lust! Readers are in for a real treat—so sit back, prop your boots up on the coffee table, and enjoy the ride.

  Long live cowboys!

  Lorelei James

  The New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Rough Riders series and the Blacktop Cowboys® series

  INTRODUCTION

  There’s a reason Western romance stories never go out of fashion. The cowboy is an iconic figure that embodies the dichotomy of the fiercely independent, earthy alpha male while being a nurturing protector. Given a picture of a man on a horse, wearing Wranglers and chaps, with a broad-rimmed hat shadowing his face, women melt. I melt. Admittedly, I’m a pretty jaded reader, but I still crave the romantic idea of that gruff, capable man.

  Even when he’s up to his knees in mud freeing a calf from a wallow, his image doesn’t tarnish. The imagination sparks, filling in the details—the scent of horse, cow, and crisp, clean sweat; the sight of sun-leathered skin and crow’s feet; the feel of work-hardened thighs and arms; the sound of a deep-voiced Texas drawl.

  Maybe my abiding affection for Western romances is grounded in the nine years I lived in the heart of the Texas Hill Country with a working ranch nestled up against my backyard fence. Cowboys wearing Wranglers, straw hats, and boots were a common sight. The slower pace of life there was a soothing balm after life in a corporate cubicle. The romance of the place—despite the dust, tarantulas, scorpions, and snakes—enthralled me. Still does.

  So when I put out the word that I was looking for “cowboy” stories, I had high expectations. The writers delivered!

  From Cari Quinn’s “Riding Double,” which has a wicked twist, to the final story, Anna Meadows’s haunting “She Don’t Stay the Night,” you’ll travel a breathtaking sweep of distinct voices, settings, and themes.

  Veteran erotica writer Cheyenne Blue will take you to the Australian outback in “Under the Southern Cross” for a riveting tale with a heroine on the run for her life. In “Drought,” Michael Bracken tells a quieter, simpler tale of a cowboy and a schoolteacher that’s no less compelling.

&
nbsp; If that’s not enough, you’ll find a female rodeo star determined to win back her buckle and her confidence in M. Marie’s “Rough Stock,” a gun-toting girlfriend set on firing up the hussy who laid hands on her man in Lissa Matthews’s “Small-Town Famous,” and a gunslinging couple seeking revenge in the Wild West in Chaparrita’s “Raney’s Last Ride.”

  Bored yet? I dare you to give this collection a try. You’ll find humor, heart-melting romance, and sweet—as well as rough—lovin’ in these here pages. Saddle up, y’all!

  Delilah Devilin

  RIDING DOUBLE

  Cari Quinn

  “You’re really willing to let me at your man?”

  Danica Connor stopped chopping celery and set aside her knife. “Col, he’s not my man. We haven’t slept together.” Yet. There was a serious yet implied there, at least if Jack got his way. “Besides, I was thinking of a one-night stand. Just a way for you to burn off some steam. To remember you’re still a woman under the pinstripes.”

  Perched atop the center island, Colleen glanced down at her attire and grinned. “No pinstripes here.”

  Danica eyed her sister and grinned back. No, she definitely didn’t look like a budding economics professor in that getup. Cut-off denim shorts hugged shapely tanned thighs, and two pink triangles connected by string barely covered nature’s bounty up top. Twin honey-blonde ponytails draped over her shoulders.

  Danica glanced down at her own outfit—ratty overalls and a T-shirt with a hole under the armpit. Even though they looked exactly alike, Col had the sexy all sewn up. “Which proves my point. This would be a great time to go see Jack.”

  Danica reached up to undo her hair from its tightly coiled bun. She’d been mucking horse stalls all afternoon, and she figured she smelled like straw and mud and things even worse. A long hot shower would cure most of her ills, minus the annoying buzz of awareness she felt between her thighs every time her friendly neighbor, Jack Benton, came over to help her deal with her new farm. Jack always offered his assistance, and she usually gave him a glass of ice-cold lemonade and a healthy dose of flirting for his trouble.

  Tonight, she had a hankering to give him something else entirely.

  “Why would you want to share him with me?”

  “Whoa, whoa. Share him?” Danica tossed aside a piece of straw that had gotten embedded in her hair. “How can I share something that isn’t mine?”

  Colleen clearly had a different definition of her relationship with Jack than she did. They were only flirting and getting to know each other.

  Just spending hours together week after week after week, riding horses, taking care of the animals, working the land. Occasionally holding hands and engaging in brief, smoking kisses that tasted even better because she never let them go too far.

  Nothing like self-denial to fan the flames of desire—or damn-near forest fire of desire, judging by last night’s lip lock and tongue tangle.

  “All I know is I’ve been here two days and whenever he comes around, you start blushing and giggling like a high school girl. You barely introduced me before you asked me to go shovel shit.” Colleen reached for a stray stalk of celery Danica had yet to butcher. “Now you’re saying you’re up for me diddling him. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  Danica reached for the plastic bowl of chicken salad she was putting together for dinner. One amazing thing about moving home and taking over her deceased parents’ ranch had been getting used to eating real food again, instead of the overprocessed crap she’d scarfed down every night after long photo shoots back in the city.

  After their father’s unexpected death, she’d come home to evaluate her options: either tackle the ranch—a small one by the standards of Laurel Creek, Colorado, but still pretty big to a born-again city girl—or put it up for sale. Colleen’s divorce had made her think that they could handle things together, but Colleen wasn’t interested in working the land. She hadn’t stayed for more than a few weeks before returning home to Nevada for summer classes. Now that it was almost fall, Colleen had come up for a quick weekend visit.

  A couple of months ago she would’ve felt resentful about Colleen’s lack of help, but she’d found the rhythm to rural life and no longer felt as if she was drowning. With the help of a few local boys and Jack, she’d actually been managing pretty well.

  So well, in fact, that she’d made arrangements to take a photography job in Chicago for the month of October. A whole month. If things went well back here at the ranch under the care of the young men she’d entrusted the place to, she could take more such jobs.

  That was her life. Her real life, not one of boring domesticity with Jack. Not squeezing out babies and whipping up pies and rocking her ass off on the glider he’d built for her himself. He hadn’t asked for any of that, of course, but he had “happy homemaker” tattooed in invisible ink on his bronzed shoulders.

  “I didn’t say I was up for you sleeping with him alone. What I suggested is that we have a little fun tonight before you head home to Vegas.” Danica dumped the celery into the chicken salad and cocked an eyebrow at her sister. “You remember high school, right?”

  To Danica’s shock, Colleen flushed. “That was years ago.”

  “We’re only twenty-six,” Danica reminded her, wondering if maybe Colleen was right.

  She hadn’t even considered taking another walk on the wild side until this afternoon. Jack had come by with a gift of moonstone earrings he’d “picked up” for her from a craft fair in town, and then he’d asked her to dinner at Laurel Creek’s one and only fancy restaurant next Friday night.

  Almost a whole week away. As if he were courting her.

  She liked Jack. A lot. Too much, probably, since if her October photography trip went well, she’d be going out on similar work jaunts every few months. She wasn’t long-term material. She didn’t even want to be. After being shackled too young and for too long—and for what?—she wanted her freedom. Best for Jack if he understood up front what she was looking for.

  Sex? Sure. Flirting, conversation, taking in a movie. But the roots she’d come back here to tend didn’t include settling down with a man. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “Yeah, but I’m divorced now,” Colleen said. “And you’re… well, you and Steve—”

  “Divorced means single. Right?” She waited for Colleen’s reluctant nod. “And Steve’s newly married, which makes him not my problem. So why don’t we just go for it?” She cursed as she scraped the side of her thumb on the sharp underside of the bowl’s rim. “Just fun, Col. A couple of orgasms. Then you’ll go home tomorrow and I’ll…”

  “What?” Colleen questioned, crunching into her celery.

  “Enjoy my life,” Danica finished, grabbing a fork to sample her chicken salad. She took a bite and then reached for the small bowl of chopped bacon she’d set aside. After dumping it in, she tried the salad again.

  Yep, still true. Everything was better with bacon.

  “Making chicken salad and knitting,” Colleen’s smirk widened as Danica reached out to smack her sister’s thigh, “in between your country threesomes.”

  “Your call. You don’t want to go there, I understand. And it’s not like Jack knows what I have in mind.”

  “Yeah, what about Jack? How do you know he won’t slam the door in your face?”

  Danica stirred her salad one last time and grabbed the box of clear wrap. “Hmm. A pair of tanned blond twins wearing next to nothing show up at his ranch to offer him a full-body massage. What do you think he’ll do?”

  Colleen sighed. “I thought I was the bad twin.”

  “This isn’t bad. This is about showing how good we can be.” Danica grinned. “It’s actually a neighborly service we’re providing, if you think of it right.”

  Best of all, Jack would know she wasn’t interested in anything heavy if she didn’t mind him having sex with her sister. That would send a crystal clear message, now, wouldn’t it? Plus Colleen might stop looking so mopey if she did something
sorta crazy. Since her divorce, her life had been about work and school. Only work and school.

  They all needed a wild night. She sure as hell did. Especially if it meant that Jack would finally get the hint and stop bringing her carnations like she was his junior high crush.

  “You’re crazy, Dani.”

  “You know you love it. So what’s your answer? In or out?”

  Colleen shook her head, smiling. “We’re not sixteen anymore.”

  “Thank God. But we can still give this cowboy a ride he’ll never forget.” Danica tapped her fork against her lips. “C’mon. He’s fucking hot.”

  “Yeah.” Colleen sighed and twirled a lock of her hair. Danica knew she was imagining Jack’s chocolate brown eyes and his loose, blond-tipped brown hair. Long but not too long—just enough to give a woman a good handful. And his body? All those muscles and tanned skin, finished off with a princely bulge just south of the Benton Ranch crest on his shiny gold belt buckle.

  “He never wears a shirt,” Colleen said, her tone dreamy.

  “I don’t think he owns any. Good thing, since that barrel of a chest qualifies as the eighth wonder of the world.” At Col’s laugh, Danica lifted her brows. “So? You in?”

  A light of challenge kindled in Colleen’s eyes as she jumped down from the counter. “All right, sis. You’re on.”

  Jack Benton looked up from the saddle he was shining when he heard the crunch of gravel. He saw his arrivals but noticed the sky behind them first, only because it was a lot darker than it had been just a few moments before. The dark, threatening clouds cast a pall over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, making them appear foreboding rather than welcoming. A tangle of tumbleweeds blew past him just before the rising wind made its presence known with a howl.