“Then, shut me up,” he whispered, the heat of his breath scalding her chilled skin.
A slight pull against his head and their lips met and their mouths fused, welded by the power of their passion.
Kenzie took what he offered and demanded more, taking his mouth with a proprietary sense for which she refused to apologize. She wanted as much of him as she could garner, as much as she could claim without scaring him. Was she selfish? Yes. But was the behavior necessary? Even more so.
Passion flared between them, the sound of his quickening breath and her hammering pulse drowning out all but the sharpest sounds. She experienced him without reservation, memorizing the smoky flavor of coffee on his tongue and the pinewood smell of soap saturating his skin. The well-worn flannel shirt beneath his jacket had pilled after so many washings and created a rough texture underneath her fingers. Almost panting, the sound of his desire escalated in her ears until she matched him breath for breath. Then his arousal punched at the zipper of his jeans, its heat juxtaposed with the cold shock of his large belt buckle.
Slipping her fingers under his waistband, her nails gently scraped the head of his erection.
His hips thrust forward, pushing more of him into her hand.
Smiling, she ended the kiss—for now—and backed across the barn. “Awfully anxious for a man who had sex less than two hours ago, aren’t you?”
“You’re responsible for this, Malone.” The growled words were almost pained.
“Then, step it up, cowboy.” She slid her fingers deeper into his boxer briefs. “Stop dragging your feet.”
“Where are we going?”
She tilted her chin toward the tack room. “I’m about to show you a new way to ride.”
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head and he lurched forward, all but knocking her over in his urgency to get them both through the doorway.
The door crashed open on the dimly lit room. Smells of leather and saddle soap, both familiar and comforting, saturated the room. Everything here was well organized. Saddles for the guests perched on numbered wall pegs while the larger saddles used by the Covingtons and the ranch’s cowboys were all stored over oak barrels that had been mounted length-wise on short legs. Each saddle’s stirrups and cinch were flipped over the seat. Bridles and reins were hung on shorter pegs, the name of the horse printed above the headstall. There were bits and pieces of leather as well as spare equipment parts in different bins. Buckets filled with currycombs, sweat scrapers, hoof picks, hoof oil and more lined the bare wood shelves. It looked like so many other tack rooms but still had the feel of the Covington place to it—organized but exuberant, profitable but still fun.
Kenzie intended to stick to the fun part, if nothing else.
Leaving Ty standing with his back pressed to the closed door, she located his saddle and wordlessly moved toward it.
“I can’t ride.” The croaked admission came from Ty with such little force the words almost didn’t make it to her.
She spared him a quick glance before setting to work cinching the saddle to the barrel as tight as she could get it and adjusting the stirrups so his feet would clear the ground. “Everyone has to get back in the saddle sometime, baby.”
“Kenzie, I...” He cocked his head and considered her actions. “I’m mounting abarrel?”
“Only so I can mountyou,” she said as casually as if she’d offered him the day’s weather forecast.
Crossing to her, Ty paused at the saddle and considered it. When he didn’t move any farther, she patted the tooled leather seat. “Nothing’s changed about this in hundreds, even thousands of years. One leg up and over.”
“Right. Because people ride barrels all the time.” Though the words were liberally seasoned with humor, his eyes were solemn.
“Fine. We’ll go about this backward, then.” She turned the little space heater up and then locked the door. With a mocking sigh of despair, she shucked her boots and then shed her layered tops. The heater wasn’t keeping up, and goose bumps broke out over her skin. That didn’t stop her, though. She stripped out of her jeans before stepping back into her boots. Rounding on Ty, she realized she’d never felt more cherished, more wanted than she did right then. And it was all due to the look of unadulterated hunger on his face. Hungershehad put there.
“Lose the boots and jeans, cowboy, and then park that fine ass of yours in the saddle, feet on the floor,” she said, voice husky. “I’m not telling you again.”
“You don’t have to.” He kicked his boots to the side, pulled his jeans and briefs off and crawled into the saddle. A little yip of shock escaped him when his bare butt hit the cold saddle leather. “I trust you’re going to do something about this cold?” he said through clenched teeth.
It took her a moment to form an answer. All she could think was that he looked like every cowgirl’s dream, sitting there with his cowboy hat tipped up, his flannel shirt pushed back over his hips and framing his arousal, that firm rear propped against the saddle’s cantle, muscular legs flexing as he pressed the balls of his feet against the wood floor. He was the epitome of male beauty and the manifestation of feminine desire.
Moving through a haze of want, she let her feet carry her to him. She planted her hands on his chest and gently pushed.
It was a testament to his trust in her that he leaned back, never checking how far he’d have to go before he met security.
When his shoulders touched the wall, she drew a deep breath. “Hands on the skirt, grip the edges.”
He followed her commands, gripping the leather skirt on the saddle and curling his fingers into the fleecy underside.
“Lock your elbows.” She waited for his compliance before issuing her last directive. “Don’t let go until I tell you to.”