

Jacy & Trace

A Cowboy Cover Models Short Story

Áine Blaze
Copyright

2016©

Boxer Briefs & Boots is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons living or dead or locales are entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Áine Blaze

All rights reserved.

Independently published in the Unites States by

ÁBlaze Romance

Electronic Edition

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Publisher: Ablaze Romance

Book Cover: Art~n~Ink graphics https://artnink.com/

Editor: Sadie McKane

Warning: This book is intended for mature audiences only. Explicit sexual situations. Ages 18 and over.

Dedication

To my writing group, John, Jennifer, and Pat. Thanks for your encouragement.

# Jacy: I Beg Your Pardon

"IT'S A CELEBRATION all right," I mumble under my breath, clenching my sweaty palms to keep from wiping them on my dress. I'm a bundle of nerves on display as if I'm the candy counter in the local drugstore, and all these women are on sugar-free diets.

I gaze around the room. There have to be thirty to forty women talking in small groups; sitting on comfortable settees and chairs and sofas. Or standing beside their seated counterparts or grouped around the room. If that isn't enough, earlier, I saw fifteen or so women cooking in the kitchen. And at last count another ten slowly moving back and forth in rockers, the swing or glider, lining the front porch. The farmhouse has a comfortable if not well-worn-lived-in look.

All outright or surreptitiously gawking at me for my last dress fitting. My eye catches a few women looking my way grins, as big as the state we're in, filling their faces. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, paste on my best fake smile, and nod curtly before focusing on the rug just in front of me, again.

It seems I'm marrying a freaking small town.

Women, old and young, thin and curvy, tall and short, casually and formally dressed crowd the room. Plates, piled high with samples of delicacies that, I'm told, will be part of the reception dinner are clutched in their greedy hands.

The aromas filling the house are heavenly. My stomach growls for the billionth time. More likely it's nerves. Eating is out of the question for fear I'll throw up.

Sweat dots my upper lip. The cool air sifting around the room from the ceiling fan above me moments ago has all but disappeared. I gaze upward, but the darn thing is still circling over my head; an occasional small squeak emits from the motor indicating it is working. I'd better not get perspiration on my dress because these biddies have cluttered up the room.

Whoa, now I know I'm about to lose it. These women have been nothing but kind, taking care of the smallest details for my hastily put together wedding.

I'm not knocked up. Trace and I just do not want a long engagement. Nor did we want a huge wedding. Well, one out of two ain't bad.

Maybe I should have suggested we use Cally's shop, the owner of Calico Cuts, downtown. Stand in front of the big display window and let the townspeople parade past. Call me crazy, but small towns, like where I grew up, didn't get this worked up for a wedding.

Hmm, maybe it's because only a few hundred people call Landmark home?

Laughter in the back corner catches my attention. They are having fun. And if I am honest, I am enjoying the comradery of these women more than I let on.

Still, to have been able to have an intimate wedding...

As a wedding photographer, I knew I didn't want something large or fancy. A wedding is a pledge to the man I love, not a show to outdo the last bride's ceremony. Which is what I see all too often in my line of work.

Our plans are ruined. They were nixed the day we told Trace's mother and sister-in-law, Marni and Summer, we were engaged. Searching the room once more, reality a stark contrast to my humble idea.

Marni's gentle, "I beg your pardon," belied the fierce look she stabbed us both with.

That should have been my first clue. Once word spread around town, like wildfire in a summer-long drought, Marni was the least of my problems.

Author Anastasia Barton, the reason I met Trace in the first place, and her grandmother, or Flory Johnson, on top of Dani, Tamara, and Maddie, and a host of other women claimed, "this is as big as the Dallas Cowboys winning the Super Bowl, or might near it."

The last two weeks have been a blur of well-wishes, questions, suggestions, phone calls, and either trips to Fort-Worth or Dallas or online searching wedding ideas, dresses, bridesmaid gowns; if it pertains to weddings, I have spent more hours than I care to think preparing for my big day.

Standing in front of the mirror now, I watch McKenna as she makes sure the pucker in the waist of my gown is gone. Her deep brown hair threatens to come loose from the twist on top of her bowed head as she pins and fusses. I take the moment to really look at her creation of my idea. She is truly talented, and I'm lucky she was able to get this done so quickly.

Still, not for the first time, I think, we have gotten ourselves into a heap of a mess.

Now, it's too late. We are sucked into the vortex of all their plans. By their, I mean Trace's family, my friends, and the entire town of Landmark.

Inside a week of our engagement, I sat at the enormous wood table in the living/dining room at the Tumbling B, surrounded by eight or ten women; stuffing and addressing hundreds maybe even thousands of invitations. "I have a friend who owes me a favor," Marni explained when I asked how the invitations arrived so fast.

I believe I invited every man, woman, and child in this town; and I think, at least, a few horses and pet doves; which someone at the table crooned, "would be oh so romantic released at the end of the ceremony."

I kept my head down and just mmm'd a response and went back to addressing envelopes. I invited friends from Clarksville, my most loyal customers who would be devastated if I didn't invite them, Trace's buddies from college, Paris, and Dallas, and, oh yeah, my college housemates when I lived in San Francisco. Papa B sarcastically suggested the governor wasn't busy that weekend, which earned him a baleful glare from his wife.

Better him than me, I thought.

My brows rise even now at the speed in which that woman works. I say I like something and it seems as if it magically appears.

The women shift groups around me, coming and going, talking excitedly without trying to outdo one another, yet maintaining a healthy dose of competition. I notice Barbara Sykes talking excitedly with Jessi Mitchum. Barbara is one of the many women with just the right age boy to be the ring bearer opposite the flower girl, Carrie, Summer and Austin's daughter.

I let out a short huff of air. Nothing too obvious or I'll have dozens of females ask the rest of the day, is "everything is all right."

"Let's elope," Trace whispered into my neck last week on a rare night we both made it back to my house.

"Not on your life, mister," I whispered timidly, afraid Marni could hear me fifteen miles away from my home in Clarksville. But, I burned to say yes and sneak away. Boy, how I wanted to. I poked him in the ribs; my finger not making a dent in his rock hard abs. I shiver now thinking of his body. All muscles from hard work, calloused hands that add the right amount of friction every time he caresses my body.

Yeah, I need a Trace fix right about now. Wedding plans ruin a healthy love life. I steer my thoughts back to the conversation we had that night to keep from ditching this scene, though it is a necessary evil, to look for my man. "If I have to suffer your mother and sister-in-law then you do, too," I said, letting out a snarky laugh. "Besides, they would never forgive me."

"I'd tell them it was my fault." His hands traveled down my body, touching, caressing. Good grief he's more talented than the most skillful massage therapist. And his mouth... "Oh, don't make the mistake your mother wouldn't know exactly whose fault it was, but I'd still be blamed." Yep, I need to get my mind off Trace and back to wedding plans.

"Let's face it, we're stuck," we both said at the same time, wistful desperation in our voices. I leaned in intending to soothe his ruffled ego with a kiss. He gripped my upper arms, pulling me over him, taking charge of my mouth.

One hand slid up my neck, tangling his fingers as he threaded them through my hair and tugged slightly. He nibbled and licked and sucked at my mouth, making love to it with a slow slide of his tongue on the seam of my lips. They eagerly parted, and he thrust greedily inside, absorbing my sharp exhale of breath and feeding it back to me. It was only a kiss, but it had me writhing and panting for more. His other hand slowly inched its way down to the crevice of my—

Good grief. Now was not the time to fantasize about making love to my fiancé. I shifted my weight from one leg to other, hoping to relieve the dampness pooling in my panties. And I prayed no one saw my nipples protruding through the bodice of my dress. Thankfully, McKenna took that moment to step back and ask, "What do you think?"

"I love it," I said a little too quickly. And I did. Who knew the girl was so talented. I first met her at Masters where she waited on tables. I slid my hands down the sides of the lace gown, saying, "Girl, you're wasting your talents waitressing." I gaze at my reflection. The lace bodice gives way to a lace overskirt. I have a thing for lace. Actually, that is a gross understatement. It's an obsession. Most of the dresses I own have at least a tiny bit of lace. The vast majority of my shirts have lace, lace on the pockets of my jeans, and I even have a pair of vintage pumps with cutouts that look like lace.

And my choice of wedding gown is over the top with lace, but not ostentatious. I like simple. The off-white gown hugs my body like a glove, which is perfect for catching Trace's eye. And, I want to grab and hold onto that man's attention. The wide lace straps fit just off the shoulder with a plunging V neckline. The skirt flares at my calves, ending in a short train.

McKenna shrugs and says, "Not much call for a fashion designer in these parts," bringing my attention back to our conversation.

I wanted to ask why she would put her dreams on hold or not work in one of the big cities not more than an hour's drive, but I knew how much she loved Wade and Cody, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

In the background, I hear Marni's laugh. In the short time, I have known Trace's mother, I have come to recognize her styles of laughter. This one is soft and light. She's having a blast. That makes it hard to stay mad at my future mother- and sister-in-law. Marni has been so thoughtful making sure nothing is too lurid or loud, which I should have realized would be the case since the woman is understated elegance herself.

And the people of Landmark's suggestions. There hasn't been a day that someone hasn't emailed me a picture, dropped by with swatches, theme ideas, and floral suggestions. Somehow the color purple was chosen. It certainly wasn't what I had in mind, not that I had a moment's peace to think about it. But the wildflower arrangement Flory Johnson brought me was my favorite. From that, Cally said they should be displayed in Mason Jars. And our first decision was made.

From there, I gave in and let them plan to their heart's content. Now, I am so endeared to them. They don't push their ideas on me and always make sure I have the final say. Searching their faces, I have a sneaking suspicion they're just dang good at making it look that way.

"Tanya, your blood orange cupcakes are delicious. Can you make it into a dildo cake?" I cough over the lump in my throat at the conversation I overhear. Summer told me this town doesn't do anything without an enormous amount of food. That was brought home the hard—or I should say, in a delicious—way. A knock would sound on my door and I'd open it to see someone from Landmark standing on my porch, food in hand. Tons of beef sliders, chicken kabobs, ribs, pork and beef, and pimento cheese would magically appear in my kitchen. Not that I locked my doors or anything. Clarksville is a small town, less than three-thousand people; the house sits at the far end of Main Street.

Many times, I would enter my backdoor to find the table and countertops lined with food. I was pleasantly surprised and eager to try the pimento cheese. It is one of my comfort foods. I guess it was all those pimento cheese sandwiches Nana made me when I was growing up. Whoever brought it gave the spread a nice kick; spicy and creamy, and I loved it so much I ate half of the container in one sitting.

I realized I had to put a stop to the food gifts and fast, or McKenna would be letting out my dress instead of taking in the waist right now.

It was surprisingly easy. I told one person the reception dinner was Mr. Blackwell's domain and just like that, no more meals. And not a moment too soon. Secretly, I enjoyed every dish, but my hips had bloomed overnight. Turning to the side now, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My stomach is flat once more, and my long, lean back is a perfect canvas for the cutout along each side from my shoulder blades to my waist just below the lace straps.

My heart swells. These people are so generous with their time and truly care enough to help. They have accepted me into their lives as one of them. Searching the sea of women, happy and ready to lend a hand, I am now more than certain I did the right thing by sending out 'thank you' notes to every family who made some suggestion for the wedding.

"Thank you, Flory," I say to the wizened woman who, from the gossip, was younger than she appeared to be, and that her great-great-grandmother founded the town when she was trumped out of Fort Worth for prostitution. She built her house of sex here and made a fortune off the loyal customers who followed.

I take the glass of water from her and drink heartily. "That's so good. How did you know I was thirsty?"

"Just could tell," she says, moving away and getting lost in the crowd. Hmm. There is more to that woman than meets the eye, I think. Soon she is back with a plate of food. "Eat," she states matter of factly, and I gladly obey.

I am amazed. Flory has brought me just a sample, and not one of the bites will leave a mess on my dress. "You're so thoughtful," I look up to say, but she's already disappeared. Dang it, where'd she go?

I shrug it off and pick up a tortilla and take a bite. "Mmm." I sigh. "Heavenly." I take a look at the other half before popping the rest in my mouth and hope there's more. The tangy salami and pepperoncini contrast nicely with the creaminess of the Italian dressing mixed into cream cheese. That's the only one, but there's another bit of dough with a savory filling for me to try.

"Mmm," I can't help but inhale the food. "These are sooo good," I say between bites, turning to McKenna. "Have you tried some of these? You gotta try. Have one." I stick out the plate toward her. "Oh, will eating get in the way?" Good grief, I must be more food deprived than I thought to babble on like this.

"No, you're fine," she says, plucking a fruit tart off the plate. I eye it hungrily and go back to scavenging what's left. I am sorely tempted to lick the crumbs off the all-too-small saucer. Every one of these women is contributing food to the bachelorette party, shower, rehearsal, or reception dinner. I was surprised jealous squabbles hadn't broken out until I learned of the food lottery. It was developed years ago for town gatherings.

Summer explained that the rodeo in October and the town's Christmas celebration in December brought the community together and were main fundraisers for Landmark. It also meant food. As the town grew so did the contributions and competition.

To nip the growing problem of rivalry and hurt feelings in the bud, they had developed a lottery where contributors take turns.

"What party and shower?" I recalled asking Summer. Her "never you mind" wasn't the last time I tried to get her to spill, but that was like opening a mouth that has been superglued shut. I got the same response from Tamara and Maddie and Dani.

Outwardly, I went along with them. Secretly I took matters in my own hands. A bag of candy with the promise of more was all it took for Trace's niece and nephews to spill their guts. Let's just say, Trace and I are nixing the smuttier plans our friends came up with.

Watching the women now, laughing, and bragging about their recipes, not a one of them the same, which I was informed wasn't a coincidence, I smile thinking of what will be awaiting these ladies at the reception. It's my present to them. Trace's joke that I couldn't be our wedding photographer rang in my ears. Addie, my friend from Texarkana, is happy to help. I search the room and see her snapping another picture of the crowd, forever capturing this moment.

Still, I wasn't letting her take them all. I laughed lightly remembering the day Susan Walker came into Lucy B's wearing an aqua green strapless chiffon dress; the tiered skirt flouncing over a taffeta underskirt, and cowgirl boots. Her golden brown hair piled on top of her head, ringlets dangling down one side. She looked stunning. The color went so well with her golden skin and hazel eyes. She was proud as punch walking up to me and suggesting, "This would be a perfect bridesmaid's dress don't cha think?" and then asked me if I needed another bridesmaid. My jaw dropped, and so did the forkful of lettuce I'd just stuffed in my mouth. I grabbed a napkin, more to try to figure out what to say than clean up the mess I had just made.

I stalled for time by asking to take her picture.

After a few shots, I placed my hand on her arm and told her I had chosen my bridesmaids. The crestfallen look on her face tugged at my heart. I suggested she talk to Marni. I was sure she mentioned needing servers for the reception, and the girl tripped over her feet beating it out the door. As I sat down, several other women hastily followed, not wanting to be left out.

As McKenna finishes up, I let my thoughts drift to Trace and what his reaction will be when he sees me. I bite back the grin threatening to fill my face. I know exactly what I plan for his reaction to be.

There is still so much we don't know about one another. That's my fault. I was so busy running away from Trace, believing he was the same as my ex-boyfriends, I didn't take the time to get to truly know him.

I apologized but knew I had to tell Trace about my past. I tensely waited for him to laugh at my silly notions. But he turned me in his arms, cupped my face in his big, calloused hands, lowered his head, and kissed me. Tenderly at first, then his loving mouth gave way to hunger. Hours later, I had no more doubts how he felt about me.

In hindsight, I can see those men's actions for what they were. Their problem. Well, at this point in my life I can be magnanimous and excuse my first lover. When Uncle Sam sends you halfway around the world, there is little one can do about it. The second guy was my own fault. He wasn't right for me, and I stuck it out hoping things would get better. The third guy had potential, but we both had family obligations, his daughter and ex-wife, and on my side Nana had fallen ill. We never made it to the sex stage of the relationship.

With Trace, if I had paid attention, I would have realized from the beginning our relationship was different. Now, it's easy to believe, to dream, and plan our future together.

Taking a last look around the room before I change, I can see we're off to a great beginning.

# Trace: Bachelor and Bachelorette Party

A STEADY BASS beats out an energetic tempo from the MP3 player on the bar side of Masters' Steakhouse Bar and Grille making me crudely aware of what's going on over there. And with more than a little relief, I know exactly who my lovely bride to be is doing it with.

From country to pop to classic and hard rock, every bootylicious and sexy song imaginable about a woman strutting her stuff has been played so much, I am more than a little uncomfortable sitting at the table with my brothers and college buddies. She's torturing me. Well, I can't exactly blame her, but her friends, now that's a different story.

My cock is waving a flag of surrender in my jeans, begging me to hightail it into the barroom and grab my fiancée and take her home, doing wild things to her as sung about in those songs.

If only I could.

Shit. It doesn't help that catcalls and whistles echo down the short corridor, leading from the bar into the dining room. Jacy's friends are throwing her a bachelorette party. My bachelor party is out here in the main dining room of the restaurant. And, I hope she's yearning for me as much as I am her.

I grunt at the thought. Things may have turned out mighty different right about now, if we hadn't caught on to our friends' plans weeks ago. Jacy might be sitting on some male stripper's lap, giving him the dance of his life if we hadn't called off the more risqué plans they came up with. And me, let's just say the only woman I want jumping out of a cake or sliding across a bar top is my gal, Jacy, not some paid skinny stripper with fake boobs.

Pitiful grumbles and groans reverberate around my table answering the raucous clamor flowing from the room next door, pulling me out of my reverie. I take pity on my guys and stifle the sharp laugh rumbling in my chest.

"Who, the hell planned this party?" several of the men question, as I notice longing glances shift to the narrow doorway leading to the barroom. At some point, I'm sure I am going to have to steer them clear of invading Jacy's party. Probably after they have a little more to drink. I quickly count the bottles on the table relieved to find only two per man—so far. But knowing these guys the way I do, especially my brothers, the table will soon be littered with empty shot glasses and bottles. I gaze at the appetizers, one of each off the menu, and, I am happy to say, they are half-devoured.

When our women aren't around to fulfill our needs, food does. Or so I hope.

Steak dinners will arrive soon. I calculate I have a little more, or less, than an hour before they declare mutiny and abandon this get-together for the party across the room. Then things will really get out of hand over there. If I am lucky I can entice them with more beer and food, but I won't hold my breath.

Still, it wouldn't be right for me not to rub this little predicament in their faces. "You can thank Austin, Bohdon, and Jax for my shindig," I say, sending my groomsmen, friends, and brothers, a knowing smirk.

I wonder if they realize the stripper has been canceled. Well, they will soon. Looking around the room, tables and booths overflow with every man in Landmark, including my dad who refused to be left out of the action. Right now he's talking to our closest neighbor, Mr. Stublefield, but just his presence, keeps my brothers from acting too impulsively, for now. Man, I could live a lifetime without this little bash. I have all the woman I want just a room away.

"And tell me again why we're here in the dining room and the ladies are in the bar?" Hank asks, breaking into my thoughts. I especially have to keep an eye on him. Black hair and icy green eyes search the group around the table. Hank is twice-divorced, thank God no children, and from what I gather from his boasting earlier, my college roommate has a girlfriend in every city from Dallas to Phoenix. Player is written all over his too-handsome face that women seem to hone onto like a beacon.

I'm not afraid Jacy will give him the time of day, but she's just Hank's type. My friend and I have fought over and shared a few women back in the day. Tonight, he won't get within ten feet of my lovely lady.

"We were hoodwinked, sideswiped, blindsided," say the men who planned the party.

I let out a hearty chuckle, no pity at all. Their glum expressions are too amusing. I look at the brother next older than me. As a husband and father of three, Austin should know better than to try to hire a stripper, especially with his wife just across the building. Bohdon has a live-in girlfriend or had the last time he was home. He arrived last week sans woman so he may be a free man now. Looking around the group, except for my younger brothers Pearce and Presly, who are both too young to be in serious relationships; one is in grad school and the other in med school, I am surprised that my other buddies are still single.

Tamara almost has a noose around Jax's neck, or from the rumors, it's the other way around. James and Brent were adamant the day they graduated college the first order of things was to find wives and start families. But as of yet neither have a Mrs. or steady girlfriends.

I find myself staring at the darkened door. I really don't mind Jacy's bridal shower and bachelorette party combined is being held in the bar. I smile at our little secret. We drove here together. A little leverage for me to stay sober, a feat that's beginning to seem an impossible task. I watch our server set down another round of beers and shot glasses for each of us.

I mentally shake my head, remembering the day Jacy and I met. If it hadn't been for a shitty outcome in court and a little extra alcohol in my system, we wouldn't have met. I'm not Prince Charming, but I awoke out of a deep sleep to see beauty, her soft lips pressed to mine in a toe curling kiss.

I've been playing catch me please ever since.

I thank the Good Lord we finally worked our problems out. The need to see her strikes me hard right about now. I glance toward the bar entrance. Maybe a little peek. I begin to shove my chair back when a glass is raised in a toast.

"To the groom." Someone thrusts a shot glass in my hand, distracting me. Here, here voices call out around the restaurant. What the heck, I salute my table companions and the town's men, then put the glass to my lips, and throw my head back. Top-shelf Tequila burns a smooth trail down my parched throat.

"How did you two meet?" Jax and Austin jump in to tell the story of me in my skivvies on the cover a romance novel complaining that women all over the world are gawking at my nearly naked ass. "Such a hardship," "I wish I had that problem," "Poor guy," fills the room. I let them embellish the story, which they are getting all wrong and turn my gaze toward the far side of the room. The one good thing about planning a wedding is that Jacy and I are together every day. The bad thing, we're together every day but have no time to make love.

The gnawing in my body returns full strength. I am starving. And not for the thirty-two-ounce Porterhouse I ordered. It's been days since I held Jacy's supple body against mine, cradled between her thighs, sliding in and out of her slick core clenching on my cock, milking me until... Fuck, I don't need that image in my head. Yet, I can't seem to stop. It's been too long since I've bound her to the bed, lying helpless and at my mercy; the hint of uncertainty mixed with the heat of her desire shining in her eyes, fueling my need eating at me.

I want to take my time slowly ravishing her. To feel the weight of her plump breasts cushioned in my hands. Her peach colored nipples tightening to diamond points begging for my touch. I'd nip and suckle one, all the while rolling the other between my fingers. Clamp them. A chain extending from the ends, I'll tug just to watch her head thrash and hear her soft guttural moans.

God, I ache to slide my tongue along her slick folds taking her engorged and quivering bud in my mouth, lapping up her honeyed cream. She, wet and writhing, her hips bucking upward in unfulfilled need. Teasing feather-like strokes with the pad of my fingers up and down the sides of her lips. Biting the soft flesh of her inner thighs, licking away the hurt until her body trembles on the edge of insanity. Not until she melts with the knowledge of my command over her entire being will I give her the pleasure she aches for before I find my own release.

"Dude, you didn't like my toast?" Presly bumps my shoulder.

"Ugh, sure?" I look at my younger brother, his mouth set in a thin, grim line.

"You weren't even listening."

"I... sorry kid. My mind was on..." My gaze darts across the room. I let out a laugh. "I've been caught, and I freely admit it."

Their eyes follow mine, knowing grins fill their faces. "Yeah, who needs to know he's the best bro when he's got a cutie on his mind."

"Pres, I am sorry."

"Like I said, to the best brother, I hope I find a woman half as beautiful, talented, and loves me just as much."

Is that a wistful note I detect in his voice? Cheers erupt around me, turning my thoughts away from the youngest member of the Blackwell clan. I can't stop looking back to the open doorway. Dammit, what the hell am I doing fantasizing of having sex with my woman in a crowded restaurant?

I can't resist the urge to see Jacy any longer but if I stand now everyone in the room will see my dick leading the way. I need a distraction in the worst way.

We just came off a round up. Hot, sweaty, dusty days from sunup to sundown riding and roping. Shit, not good. Roping reminds me of teaching Jacy to lasso, and that led to me tying her up. Ugh. I shift restlessly in my chair to relieve the tormenting pressure.

Think of family. While I wanted a small wedding, no fuss and within days of asking Jacy to marry me, it was nice that all of us Blackwell boys are together. On the first night the twins came home, we camped out near the lake on the north end of the property; catching up on each other's lives, cooking mom's stuffed hamburgers over the campfire, drinking more than a few beers before letting our hangovers wear off swimming and lazing on the water. Shitdamnfuck. It wasn't too long ago Jacy and I went skinny dipping in the same lake.

I discreetly move my hand to my groin, covering what had to be the hardest erection in the history of mankind. Hell, zipper marks are branded along the underside if my dick doesn't shrink soon. Ugh, I'm not a masochist, but it sure seems my thoughts and body are proving me wrong.

I scrub a hand over my face, frustration getting the better of me. I search the room for a distraction. Kincaid and Parker, friends slash lawyers, raise their bottles in salute. Seeing their faces triggers the ongoing lawsuit against Bradley. That swindling son of a bitch is the reason I almost lost Jacy, and just like that my growing problem dies, pronto. Delays in justice, excluding our upcoming nuptials, have gone on for more than a year now. Well, hell. My cock shrank but now I am rip-roarin' mad.

I inhale deeply, tamping down the thoughts of my nemesis. "Excuse me. Think I'll see what's takin' our food so long." I stand and stride toward the hallway that separates the restaurant from the bar, knowing the guys don't believe a word I'd said.

Not that I get very far. Every booth and table—extras were added just for this occasion—is filled to capacity. Masters is the only restaurant, for dinner anyway, in town. And it caters to the cattlemen that make up most of the homes here. The décor is deep, rich wood paneling, with canvas paintings by artists from local and surrounding cities, boasting a western theme, hang on the walls. Chandeliers with short candelabras covered in lampshades cast a warm white light. The flooring is a mixture of hardwood and carpet. Padded burgundy leather chairs studded with faux nail heads are scattered around the open floor plan. Booths, a few in discreet alcoves for romantic dinners, line the walls. Masters is elegant yet comfortable.

I do not get more than a few steps from our table before I'm stopped. Beer bottles or whiskey glasses are thrust into my hand for toasts and slaps on the back. At the first few tables, I make the mistake of drinking whatever is handed to me. After the fourth, I grab a bottle from the tray of a passing server and keep it in my hand as I push through the throng of bodies and furniture. I appreciate their well-wishes, but right now my only thought is on getting to my fiancée.

It seems with every step that inches me toward my goal, I am sidetracked this way and that just to hear some old geezer say, "Breakin' a lot of hometown girls' hearts. Never thought you'd settle down. What's that little filly thinkin', she's too good for the likes of you." I nod in agreement, especially that last one. She is perfect, and I am the lucky son of a gun who roped her. Beginning to feel a buzz, I'm careful to pretend to sip my beer when they finally get around to a toast.

Jibes and shouts of 'lost your man card' and 'pussy-whipped' follow me. They grow louder as I edge closer toward my goal. I wasn't fooling anybody. By now I don't give a damn.

Finally, I step into the short hall and stop. I take a deep breath to clear my head. The circuitous route I took did wonders for my hard on, but if I stand here for any length of time, thinking about Jacy, it is certain to return. Hell, who am I kidding, it is all I can do not to rush into the room, throw her over my shoulder and make a quick exit out the back.

With a calmness I don't feel, I saunter the few steps to the doorway and stick my head around the opening. I search the wall-to-wall packed room seeing familiar faces and a few new to me. I smile. I am not the only one whose party has been crashed by the citizens of Landmark.

It takes long minutes for my wandering gaze to land on my girl. She's at the back of the room and upon seeing her, I almost swallow my tongue. That isn't the outfit she wore to the party.

In fact, what the hell is she doing wearing a nightie? Before I know it, my head swivels sharply to the space behind the bar. Empty. It damn well better be. I take two steps into the room before I'm stopped by a sea of female bodies.

The song changes to "Her Strut" by Bob Seger and a slew of women push Jacy along the line they have formed clapping and whooping it up as she swirls and turns and dips and sways her hips to the beat.

Great. Now my hard on has returned. I have to put a stop to this and fast.

Yet, all I can do is stare at the lovely curves of my woman. It finally dawns on me, I'm seeing a cut-out figure of Jacy in a nightie, dancing with it to the sultry tempo of the music. My gut tenses and my jeans tighten painfully. Shit, how can a life-size likeness of her body arouse me that easily?

A heavy sigh escapes me as I eye my bride to be. The inside of my mouth dries up like I haven't had a drop of water in weeks. Maybe I'll grab a beer from the bar before making my way to Jacy. My feet have other ideas. I slowly weave through the crowd only to find my way barred by Flory Johnson and Gramma Barton.

"Ladies." I dip my head in deference to the women then look around for Jacy once more.

"That's right, son. Tonight this room's for ladies only." The laugh she sends my way says anything but. Hair rises on the back of my neck as I look into brightly shining, mischievous eyes.

"Unless he wants to do a striptease for us."

"Uh." That dustbowl was back in my mouth. I lift my hand to my head only to hit it with the bottle I forgot I was holding. I redirect its path and stick the mouth to my lips and drink deeply.

"Now, that's an idea I can get behind." Wow, now I know how a piece of prime bull or heifer feels at auction. The women wind their thin arms in mine leading me into the room like a lamb to slaughter.

"Mmm, Ladies, I just came to see how my gal...?" I nod in Jacy's direction, hoping they take the hint, and take me to her.

"She's fine and will be better once you do some dirty dancin' for us."

"Umm, I think... I'll pass." No such luck at getting those women to move closer to Jacy. Heck, she's just too far away.

"Yeah, the stripper we hired came down with the flu." Gramma Barton emphasizes the word stripper and glares at me.

"You wouldn't know anythin' about that would you?" Flory Johnson asks.

I turn, looking over my shoulder longingly at the suddenly retreating doorway. "Maybe I..."

"Don't be shy. I'm sure she's played 'hide the snake' with you already."

"Mrs.—" I clear my throat before I choke on the lump blocking my air passage. I tug in their grasp. It almost takes a crowbar, but I finally pry their fingers from around my arms, reaching for their wrists, desperately holding on to them. "I... My friends... I need to get back to my own party." I nod, turn on my heel, and beat a hasty retreat back to the dining room.

"Hey, let's join the women?" Relief, to get away from those ladies without all my manly bits fondled by gnarled fingers, fizzles hearing those words.

"Yeah, it has to be more interestin' than this—bash."

"I helped Tamara put up decorations. Some kind of bra game, a string of thongs, and the food. You should see the panty cookies, dildocicles, and man-abs cake." Jax rubs his hands together with a look of glee blooming on his face.

The men at my table stand as one.

"No," I shout, glancing over my shoulder to make sure those octogenarian degenerates haven't followed me.

"Hey, what gives?"

"It's those little old ladies." I incline my head toward the bar.

"Those women are harmless." Thy push past me, slapping my shoulder, shark-like grins appearing on their faces.

"Don't bet on it," I mutter.

Several turn back, pick up their drinks, and jog to catch up with the others. I'm left standing alone, helpless to stop them. Look on the bright side, I think. It's for the best. Jacy and I sabotaged both events. Neither of us wanted a big to-do. This fuss and tradition of parties and sowing wild oats before walking down the aisle doesn't appeal to either one of us.

I should have known our idea of small and simple wouldn't work after announcing our engagement. Looking at the crowd and remembering the one in the other room, I had no idea it would include every citizen in town.

Casting a wary glance at their disappearing backs, I sit and wait for the fallout. The sound of music meets my straining ears. Then laughter. Someone hollers about being invaded. I smirk and sit up straighter in my chair waiting for the sound of feet stampeding my way.

It won't be long now. I smile, gleefully, thinking of the horror on their faces as they beat a path back in here.

I watch the empty doorway. Nothing. In fact, as I sit here, indecision coloring my brain, I notice the room emptying as man after man slinks surreptitiously toward the doorway.

"What the..." I jump up, sending the chair crashing into the next table. I have to push my way through the body of men all converging into one mass in the minuscule hallway. I skid to a stop just inside the bar entrance. Jax and Gramma Barton are dancing. Bohdon and Flory Johnson do the two-step. Men filter past me, grab a woman and begin dancing.

My eyes narrow. I'm the one who has been hoodwinked. "Why those old..."

"Trace."

"What?" A soft voice sounds in my ear, and I feel a light touch on my shoulder. I refused to be fooled again. I jerk my head around and open my mouth to give some sweet old lady, battle-axe, a piece of my mind and instead I am gazing into the loveliest jade green eyes.

"Jacy." I draw the word out reverently, breathlessly. God, she is beautiful standing in front of me. I let my gaze roam her body. Oh, the dress gives me wicked, wicked thoughts. Deep green lace, cap sleeves, and the length barely hits mid-thigh. My stare takes another leisurely stroll down and back up her body.

I hear a sharp intake of breath. Is it her or me? My lungs constrict. I had stopped breathing. Images of my lips skimming down her naked torso after I peel the fabric from her body comes to mind.

"Let's get out of here." Her small hand slips into mine.

I puff up with pride. Before I can react, she is pulling me toward the exit.

"Jacy," I say, all the while admiring her assets as we weave through the body of men and women moving toward the bar from the restaurant. She doesn't stop until we make it through the outside exit.

She whirls on me and captures my lips with hers. Her trembling mouth parts, her tongue slides over my lower lip, so soft I barely feel it brushing mine. The backs of my fingers brush her breasts as I slide my hands down over her body. I wrap my hands around her hips, and pull her into me, rocking her soft core on my raging cock.

I grind my steely shaft into her soft belly over and over again, the friction sweet agony. Her needy moans erupting from her throat echo mine. I take charge of her mouth, and kiss her with all the pent-up need and love that's inside me.

"God, you taste good," I murmur. Sweet, salty, spicy. She is more intoxicating than the strongest alcohol. More satisfying than life-giving water. Then, my fried brain cells begin to work once more and I do the unthinkable. I wind my fingers around her arms and set her away from me. The cute little pout she gives me almost has me changing my mind. And before I do something crazy, like having sex in the parking lot of Masters, I say, "I think we shouldn't have sex until after the wedding."

I was either being noble or unutterably stupid. My body screams it's the latter. Hell, I know I had lost my mind. And I am certain I will regret what I am offering just about the time I kiss her goodnight, but right now I mean every word.

What are two more days? My chivalrous brain spews. And when we do make love we'll be man and wife.

Jacy comes to an abrupt halt, and I realize she was making her way to the car. "What? Don't you...? Are you sure?"

"Yes. But if you want..." I card my fingers through my hair.

"I..." The look in her eyes has the words, "forget it," dangling on the end of my tongue. She says, "I want you so much, but..." The needy, throaty whisper shoots straight to my cock. She tilts her head. Her luxurious tresses fall to one side. And, then, she does that thing with her teeth and lips. It always leaves me loopy. And, right now, I would give our best bull to take back my invitation to wait.

The corners of her mouth lift. Her eyes dart up and away as if to make sure I am watching. Dang it how could I not be mesmerized by her sultry smile.

"Jacy," I growl. "I'm two seconds from..."

"But waiting..." she cuts in. She stares up at me through lidded lashes. It's just as promising as the last look. I'm gone.

"I kinda like the idea of being husband and wife when we next make love."

"Yes... Wait..." Her gaze hypnotizes me.

"Waiting."

I finally remember what I said. Disappointed, I take her hand and turn. "Oh, okay. Then let's go back in."

"No." I feel the touch of her soft hand on my arm. Its electrifying effect burns all the way to my balls.

"Let's go home."

"But we just decided..."

"Not to make love just... I want an evening... just the two of us."

"Baby, you don't know what you're askin'."

"Yeah, you're right." There is no sign of doubt, only confidence in her eyes. How can I deny her? Simply put, I can't.

I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. "You know I want you, right?" I ask, reassuring her and myself that all is well between us.

"Yes."

"This is our party, and we have...guests...we..."

"They won't miss us." She inclines her head toward the noise pulsating rapid staccatos through the building's walls.

"You're right. They won't."

"Then take me home."

I did.

# Jacy: I Do

THE FEW MOMENTS I need alone to quell the lingering butterflies beating in my tummy does not help. Thinking of Trace, instead of relieving the stress, escalates the number of flutters dramatically.

Possibly it's anticipation from Trace's kisses, his mouth moving slowly, sensually in time with mine when he left me at my door the other night that has something to do with me being so nervous. Maybe it was his promise to fulfill all of my wildest fantasies once we're married that's the culprit.

More than likely it's just pre-wedding jitters. I mean, in a few short minutes, we'll say vows tying us together for the rest of our lives. And—I can't believe marrying Trace feels right. Who would have thought the mishap at the cabin would—

My thoughts are immediately shattered as Carrie, Summer and Austin's daughter, skips into Trace's bedroom, crying, "I do, I do." Purple, white, and yellow petals fall from the overflowing basket of flowers in her small hand; she prances, booted feet clomping on the hardwood floor.

She slides to a halt in front of me, looks up, lips pursed, and makes kissy faces. She is so adorable and just like that my nervousness vanishes. She shakes her head from side to side, the braid of flowers woven into her ash-blonde hair atop her head never moves. Loose curls fall in ringlets down her back. The taupe, three-tier lace dress that just reaches her knees is a contrast to her purple cowgirl boots.

I bend down, bussing my lips to hers. I got to know Carrie well, on top of the candy bribe, in the last few weeks. She is headstrong and spoiled (in a good way) but so giving and helping. There have been times I would have lost pens and addresses, envelopes and swatches if my little helper hadn't been beside me to keep everything straight. I hold in a knowing smile. She's a lot like Marni.

She's also an ordinary seven-year-old girl who grabs my attention with dolls and tea parties but is gracious enough to let me off the hook half the time. She has a generous personality. Leave it to a child to put such a momentous occasion into perspective.

"We're getting married," she singsongs.

She has such a serious look on her face. I roll my lips inward to stifle the laugh threatening to spill from me and ask, "We?"

"Yep, me, Trace, and you." She emphasizes her uncle's name and her face scrunches a little uttering mine. The look on her face isn't disgusting like when she's running from wasps, but darn close to it.

Startled, I look at Summer my brows lifting in a silent question.

"Since we brought her home from the hospital, she's been taken with Trace, tagging along after him as much as possible. When she plays house, Trace is the daddy and she the mommy. I've tried to explain why he can't be her husband, but it's no use. She still insists when she grows up they are getting married." Exasperation in Summer's voice doesn't quite quell the humor beneath it.

"Oh, I know how she feels." I draw out the words. I look down and ask, "So, are you all right with Trace marrying me?"

"Sure." She shrugs her thin shoulders. "Mama explained it." She stares up at me with wide innocent eyes. "I'm too young to have a husband for real. So, you can keep him for me until I'm all grown up."

I bite my lip and nod my head. "That's very... kind of you." I clear my throat to keep from laughing, not at her, but at her childlike reasoning.

"I'll let you know when I'm ready to take over," she says matter-of-factly, arching her eyebrow as if to say, 'I'll be watching you.'

My hand flies to my mouth and my gaze darts to Summer's once more. Muffled giggles penetrate the quiet, mine and hers. Thankfully, outside, the music begins, cutting off any need for me to reply.

"It's time," Carrie chants, dancing around me and her mother like we're maypoles.

"You ready?" Tam asks as she sticks her head through the doorway.

Carrie's lighthearted belief that the three of us will actually wed was a welcome relief from the nervousness I had been feeling. Was this how every bride felt? That they're not really the woman her fiancé thought she was? I hoped so.

Those butterflies' flutters suddenly grow three sizes and multiply by a thousand.

"Ugh, can I have one more minute?" I press my palms into my disgruntled tummy, fisting the veil I forgot I was holding in both hands.

"Sure," Summer says. She grabs Carrie's hand, who was picking up the last of the fallen flowers, and exits the room.

Alone for a few more minutes, I take in the nearly empty room. My bare feet whisper over the hardwood floor, then the black and brown rug as I move to the nightstand. I had been eyeing the books neatly stacked there for a while now. Crime novels. So Trace, yet—contradicting. I picture us lying side by side reading in bed. I bite my lip, maybe in a few years after our ardor for each other cools off. And just like that, I don't want it to. I may have fought this relationship, but it was because of the way he makes me feel.

Alive. Livewire, electric, cherished, protected.

My chest constricts. Would we lose our deep-seated need for one another? Judging by the way I feel now, and the last few months, I can't imagine it will.

I run my finger along the worn spines of three hardback books before picking up the silver, wire-rimmed reading glasses. I can't help but smile. I'm sure he looks cute with them on. I laugh, remembering the first time I told him he was cute. He growled. And later, when we were alone, he proceeded to show me just how manly he was. I feel the blush creeping up my face and make a mental note to call him cute more often in the future.

That familiar tingling starts at my belly, coursing outward and through my body, recalling that night— I need— Maybe if I get my ass into gear and get this wedding underway, we can take care of the hunger pulsing in my veins. I reverently lay the glasses back in place. Trace told me when he was trying to pique my interest as to why I should go out with him, of his love of reading. It wasn't the proof of seeing the books that awes me, but from the beginning, he let me in.

I walk over to the window hoping to get a glimpse of my soon to be husband. I recall how it took so much longer for me to give in to my desire for him. No one would have believed it if they had seen us that first night; our bodies twisted like vines around one another, trying to satiate the explosive hunger that caught us both unaware.

My eyes hungrily search for him. I let out a disappointed sigh. He's not waiting for me yet.

But the view before me is breathtaking. Purple and white roses, strung on fishing line, drip like Spanish Moss from tree branches surrounding the ceremony area just behind the Blackwell's house. Row after row of chairs line the expansive lawn, galvanized pails filled with purple and white baby's breath sit inside each row.

Most of the chairs are occupied, but Houston and Bowie, Summer and Austin's twins, escort the rest to their seats as fast as possible.

I see tendrils of smoke rising above the barbecue set farther back by the barn. Marni had insisted the barn be painted white, the front anyway. But I put a stop to that. Well, I giggle nervously, one does not tell Marni Blackwell no. And in all fairness, I was a little afraid to bring up the subject since when I looked toward her, her eyes were bloodshot and glazed with a crazy 'I haven't had enough coffee look'.

I bit my lip, suddenly noticing the mountain of opened and unopened magazines. While I was trying to figure out how to broach the subject, she jumped up yelling, "Yes." She tore a page from a magazine and showed me a dress. The soft dusky, burgundy would shine beautifully in front of the barn in its natural state. I had no idea I had voiced that thought aloud until she stared down at me.

I held my breath, spine rigid, waiting for a tongue-lashing I'm sure I rightly deserved for not being grateful for all the hard work she was doing. I finally lifted my gaze. Marni cocked her head to the side, clearly thinking.

I cringed. She was making me suffer for opening my silly mouth. It isn't that Marni's a tyrant, but the woman was so focused on the wedding, overseeing every detail that I didn't want to add to her stress.

After a few fraught minutes where I tried to figure out how to gently let her know I liked the barn as is, she said, "I think the graying backdrop adds a nice rustic touch, contrasting beautifully with rest of the decorations. Let's leave it as is."

"I need another cup of coffee," she hummed cheerfully, "anyone need a refill?" Papa Blackwell and I both rapidly shook our heads no. We sat stone still, not daring to look at one another, holding our breaths until she walked out of sight. And even then we made sure the whoosh of breath we both let out was slow and silent.

I take another minute and stand there watching the men cook. Wire grates, the size of hay bales, sit on metal poles above long wide rows of hot charcoal and hardwoods. The tantalizing aromas of smoked meats sift through the closed window.

Papa Blackwell, as he insisted he be called, is cooking four or five different kinds meat. I believe one of Trace's brothers said something about shrimp and it had better be grilled to perfection since he spent last night shucking shells off the three extra pounds ordered at the last minute to accommodate the influx of guests. Wooden troughs and metal wheelbarrows filled with drinks sit at both ends of the tables of side dishes and desserts.

I lean into the windowpane trying to get a glimpse of the reception area off to the far right. I can't see the tables. I had yet to glimpse the Mason jars filled with purple and yellow wildflowers and a sprig of baby's breath that separate two rectangular centerpieces of lavender cactus roses in full and partial bloom nestled between prickly cactus leaves ranging from green to light yellow and bordered by deep purple petals. I oohed and aahed over Maddie's skills with flowers and plants in general, me not having a green thumb of my own.

I clutch the curtain with one hand while the other grips my throat as I see a movement near the arbor where we'll say our vows, hoping it is Trace. The thrill shooting through me sizzles out upon seeing Maddie rearranging potted plants to her satisfaction.

I scan the backyard. There is still a large group of people working to make my wedding day memorable. I fight back the tears filling my eyes. I so don't need to get emotional right now. Just a few short weeks ago, I wanted small; family only. Now, I can't fathom a ceremony without every last one of these people.

I couldn't even complain any longer about the hay bales Bonnie Hansen suggested. The pyramid of rectangular blocks of straw stacked one upon another covered in a lavender lace tablecloth, as I drove up to the ranch this morning had been more inviting than I expected. Atop the bales was a placard with the word 'WEDDING' tastefully written in beautiful script.

I take one last look through the glass. Everyone's frantic efforts to pull this off in just four short weeks produced an event the size of a two-ring circus, yet, somehow, it was—perfect. I would be forever grateful.

I drop my hand, letting the curtain fall and turn back toward the room. My fingers pluck at the veil still in my hands. The long lace complements the dress beautifully, but, I do not want even the minutest of barriers separating Trace and me.

Glancing around, I focus on his belongings, what's left of them, in his old room. The king-size bed that won't fit into Nana's old bedroom, and a dresser. The surface is free of clutter. Is he always so neat, I wonder?

Most of his possessions were moved to my house earlier in the week. To say I was surprised, pleasantly so, when he suggested we live at my house in Clarksville, was an understatement. I had ragged him the first time I came to the Tumbling B about him living at home, but he'd taken it in stride. In all fairness to me, I am clueless on breeding cattle. And to be fair to him, I now know, somewhat, how important it is for him to be close to ensure that all goes smoothly.

Besides, the Tumbling B is fast becoming home. Not the house, but the land, the people. Trace wants to build on the property, and I am just as eager as he to make Landmark my hometown. The day he showed me where he wants to build, I held my breath when we turned down the gravel road leading to the cabin.

The place where we met and made love for the first time. Where he proposed. Goosebumps rise along my arms.

I almost blurted out excitedly, "Yes, I'd love to live here." Trace didn't stop, though. Just drove on by. I gazed yearningly at the small structure. I would have been happy to live there, add onto the old one room cabin, maybe a second-story or build a wing as our children are born.

How strange that I no longer thought of Clarksville as home. I have lived there all my life. Most of it with Nana. The house became mine when she died. But now I think of it as hers and no longer mine. I guess that's what happens when you find your other half. Wherever he or she is, is home.

Slightly saddened, I realize one aspect of my life is ending while another begins.

I inhale deeply and Trace's manly scent fills my lungs, startling me. I was so lost in the past, I had forgotten where I was. Immediately, I feel his presence. It's silly really, that something so him soothes me so easily. Surprisingly once I let myself trust my own heart, it was easy to give it to him.

Music wafts up from the grounds below breaking into my reverie. It's time. My heart stutters to a stop, and the butterflies in my stomach flurry furiously. Yet almost immediately, calmness settles into my entire being and then an unnatural giddiness overtakes me. I am ready. Ready to walk down the aisle, more like float if these feelings are accurate, toward Trace and our future together.

I drop the veil on the bed as I walk past, deciding I want nothing to obstruct my view of my future husband.

I move to the door, open it. I don't remember trekking through the house to get to the living room, but looking up at the long-horn chandelier, satin ribbons in white and purple dangling from the horns, I recall with clarity the first time I stood in this great room beneath the oversized light with Trace. A nervous laugh escapes my parted lips, recalling looking around that day in awe. I know my eyes have that same look now, but for a much different reason.

The western knick-knacks have been replaced with photos of Trace and me and his family taken two weeks ago. Addie and I took photos of the family as they went about their chores and wedding plans, and made a pictorial of where the ceremony would take place. I do this so I can get a feel for where I need to be or when I'm told that a ten-foot Chinese dragon must be photographed as one piece, but I can't get a clear shot because of the floor layout.

I was not having any such disasters at my own wedding. I shake off the threatening shudder and take a deep breath. The fragrant scent of lavender, roses, and hibiscus that match the wedding colors, fills my lungs. They are placed strategically around the edge of the room. A few couches have been added in case the heat outside becomes too stifling.

That first day, Trace and I argued right where I'm standing. I recall the tight grip of his fingers on my arm, and my lips tingled to kiss him. Even that was a good memory. Still I have more. My first family dinner. Planning the wedding. Meeting the twins, Trace's youngest brothers, Pierce and Presly for the first time.

This is home to a loving and generous family. Trace moved back three years ago after his Master's and working with a few other ranches to gain experience. His oldest brother, Bohdon raises stock for the professional rodeo circuit that moves through Texas, Arizona, and Oklahoma. He's gone most of the time but lives here during the off-season.

Austin and Summer and their three children reside at the Tumbling B, taking up the two upper floors on the east side of the house. Austin is a veterinarian and Summer is his assistant. They are out at odd hours' day and night. After their boys were born, they decided it was best to live where the children would be taken care of while they were working.

Parker and Presly live at home during the holidays and a few weeks during the summer when classes are out.

I let out a contented sigh. One day I hope to add three or four children of my own to this family. Maybe I should make sure Trace wants that many. I smile widely. I'm sure we'll enjoy trying.

The door across the room opens, and Papa B steps inside. "Girl, you ready?"

My smile widens upon seeing the big man. Like all the other Blackwells, he's tall and broad in the chest and wide in the shoulder. Trace has his father's blue eyes. And identical dimples are reflected in his father's face now.

Papa B is dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and vest like the rest of the wedding party. A cream-colored Stetson covers a head full of salt and pepper hair.

"Yes, Papa B," I say walking toward him.

"Dad. Girl," he takes my arm, "no more Papa B. Dad."

"It will be official in a few short minutes, so, I guess it's all right," I tease, chucking him on the chin before I lean up and kiss where my fingers were seconds ago.

"Damn straight. Was all right the minute I saw you giving my son what for that first day here. Knew you were just the woman for him."

My cheeks heat with embarrassment, remembering Trace had been doing his dead-level best to get me back in his arms while I was furious, believing I had slept with a married man.

"None of that. I know what you two were up to and my third son needed to be knocked down a peg or two. That thing with Bradley hit him hard. He was devastated when the problem came between you two, but you had him chasing his tail and building his confidence up at the same time. You're good for him...and us. Welcome to the family, daughter."

"Thank you—dad." Tears cloud my voice. I have a family again. One bigger than I ever imagined.

Thankfully dad distracts me, pulling me into his warm embrace before tears begin falling. "I love my sons, but I always wanted a few girls. With you joining the family now I have two daughters."

"Stop," I choke out. "You're making me cry."

"Ah, you were goin' to anyway." He tucks a finger under my chin, tilting my head up. With the other hand, he pulls out a handkerchief. "I learned early on to always put a clean hanky in my pocket for Marni. That woman is stronger than the toughest man alive, but she cries at the drop of a hat. Mascara ruined several of my shirts before I wised up," he tells me gingerly dabbing at my eyes with the cloth.

"Speaking of, and don't you dare look, I'm sure she's giving us the stink eye. Now, take my arm and let's get to our spot before we get in trouble for holding up the show." Before I can stop myself, I bark out a laugh.

My soon to be father-in-law has me standing on the deck so fast that my tears dry up. And I thought Marni was efficient. I shouldn't have been astounded that dad accomplished three things at once. He stuffs his handkerchief in his pocket while signaling for the music to begin the wedding march, and wraps my arm around his as we move off the deck and toward—

Trace.

I can't breathe. Trace stands at the end of the long row waiting, impatiently, for me. He's flanked by his brothers as groomsmen. Carrie swings her now empty basket, and I barely notice my bridesmaids standing along the left front.

I am so sensitized to watching Trace that dad's reassuring squeeze on my arm, and the music, are lost to me.

Lordy, he's scrumptious. His broad shoulders and long, lean legs push against the cream fabric of his vest and pants as if they know it's useless to contain such masculinity. He wears a matching Stetson that, if I have my way, will be gone so I can run my fingers through his thick, blond locks. His white shirt molds to his chest, shoulders and thick biceps making my mouth water even more. The boutonniere, a purple rose, adds just the right splash of color. Those short scruffy whiskers covering his jaw have me aching to caress it with my palm before kissing my way to his full sensual lips.

His blue eyes, clear and bright, shine with such emotion, I'm not sure if I transmitted my thoughts to him or him to me.

Suddenly my feet are moving, the soft grass and flower petals tickle my toes. My heart beats a steady gallop, blood roaring in my ears. It's a good thing I'm moving toward Trace. I didn't know how much longer I would have been able to stand there without sprinting up the path and jumping into his arms.

A heaviness, that has been my constant companion for years, lifts. I'm light, like a cloud floating in the crystal clear blue sky, while at the same time, feeling as if I'm drowning in the deepest sea unable to breathe.

Trace's powerful presence finally stands before me. I am so caught up in him I barely hear, the minister ask, "Who gives Jacy Rawlins in marriage to Trace Blackwell?"

"Minister." Papa B—dad begins—I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for myself. My parents' died when I was a child, so my father isn't here to give me away. My grandmother, the woman who raised me, is gone. I'm all... A deep and strong voice breaks through my melancholy memories.

Dad turns and wipes the tears streaming down my face. He kisses my cheek, whispering, "Hush, honey. You're not alone anymore."

It's a good thing no one expects me to speak. My heart is overwhelmed with love for my new father-in-law.

He straightens, his words commanding everyone's attention. "Jacy lost her parents at a young age. A few short years ago, she lost her grandmother, Nana, the woman who raised her. So, it is with great honor that me, Marni, and..." The sudden silence startles me. I look up, searching his—beaming face. In my next breath, the entire assemblage of adults and children say, "we all give this woman to this man in marriage."

To be accepted as a part of this family and community without any hesitation on their part consumes me. I have no breath left to take. My heart stops beating. I am as still as a marble statue. Unable to process that in the space of a minute, I am no longer alone. I stand beside Trace with an entire town as my family.

I desperately try to make my lungs work. My lips tremble and my vision blurs into a watery mess as tears run in fast rivulets down my cheeks.

"Now, now, remember what I said, none of that." For the third time, Papa B's hanky comes out. He hands it to Trace, kisses my forehead, and places my hand in his son's. Dad makes the three steps back and sits down beside Marni.

What seems to be hours later, and has been at least five to ten minutes of good crying, and Trace just holding me tight in his arms, I finally am able to pull myself together.

"Ready?" The minister's smile reassures me he wasn't in any hurry. I give him a weak smile.

I step out of Trace's embrace. "A moment, please." I turn to Trace, gazing lovingly up at him. It may have been out of place, but I pushed up on my toes and our lips meet in a loving kiss. Just as fast, I reluctantly pull away but not before uttering just for him to hear, "Thank you for loving me."

"Now?" The minister's voice is hopeful.

"One more minute." I don't give him time to reply. I turn to the crowd. "Thank you." I swallow the lump that blocks my voice. "Thank you for making me see that a wedding is so much more than a pledge between the couple. It is bringing together families. And..." tears wet my cheeks again. I relay my sincere thankfulness nodding and smiling through my inability to speak. After swallowing and nodding several more times, I am finally able to say, "All of you have become my family, some because you're relative of Trace, others because of my friendship with the people that live here, but all... all because of the caring people that you are. Thank you so much."

I grip Trace's hands in both of mine, facing him. "I'm ready," I say, tearing my gaze from my fiancé's heated stare, looking toward the minister giving him an assertive nod.

Time stands still as the minister begins the ceremony. There is no one but Trace and me. In a reverent haze, I repeat vows, answer, "I will," to the pastor's questions, slide the circle of Platinum on Trace's finger for all time; all acts of pledging my love to the man in front of me. Then, I wait with bated breath, as Trace repeats the same words and actions, making us man and wife.

I stand there, my gaze glued to Trace's face. He's always been devastatingly handsome, but with the intensity of his love shining through his blue eyes like beacons on the darkest night that guides me to him, his stare outshines any words that I might be able to come up with, except one. Before the minister can speak, I lean up on my toes and whisper, "you're so cute." I take my lower lip between my teeth to stop from giggling. I watch him through lidded lashes. His heated stare turns dangerous, and I know that later he'll make me pay. My body tingles in anticipation. "I can hardly wait," I mouth.

Before Trace can retaliate, the minister says, "You may now kiss the bride." I leap into Trace's arms. Our mouths meet in a searing, slow, consummate kiss that has my already buzzing body boil over with want and need.

# Trace: A Married Man

THE WORDS "YOU may now kiss the bride" barely leave the minister's lips and Jacy flings herself into my arms. I gladly catch my wife. Her mouth searches mine like a heat-seeking missile. But the fevered crash I'm expecting doesn't happen. Jacy turns the nob down or up, depending on whom you're asking. Me, she turns that sucker to 'Blazin' Hot'.

It's a slow, thorough kiss that, damn, has an immediate and stiffening effect on my anatomy. Right between my thighs, which, since seeing her walk down the aisle, needs no encouragement.

Wow, when my woman lets go, she's gives her all.

And I'm all in. So many curves. Before I can stop myself, my hands explore her body. Pillowy breasts crash into my chest. Her soft mound pressing against my steely erection is exhilarating and excruciating at the same time. I press one hand into the small of her back, with the other I grip the nape of her neck, molding her body into mine.

Touching Jacy reduces me to a quivering mass.

Since dawn, I've thought of little else than having this woman in my arms and fuck, if she isn't here now, willing and ready. Her hips press deeper, letting me know with her touch how much she wants me. A groan escapes my throat.

I am barely aware we have an audience. And I really should give her a chaste kiss and back the hell off, but I can't. From our first kiss to now, Jacy consumes me.

Shit, I need stop now before I make my fantasy of sliding my hand down to her ass, lift the hem of her dress, free my throbbing cock from its confines, and bury myself balls deep into her heated, wet core. Knowing I would be taking her in front of my family and the entire town is the only thing that stops me.

Her lips part and she licks the seam of my mouth. Her lace covered breasts are pure sin, a most delicious distraction.

Hell, a distraction from my carnal thoughts right about now would keep me from doing something drastic, but the friction she causes as she rubs up against me just makes matters worse. Her breasts brush against me lightly; just enough abrasion to cause her nipples to tighten into peaks; yet, they feel like nails boring through my clothes into my sensitized skin.

My grip tightens on her buttocks, pulling her soft belly into my hard stalk. I'm through with the playful kisses. I plunge my tongue inside; licking and stroking every surface letting her know she's all mine. Her body stiffens then melts against me even more. I chuckle. I have her attention now. I take advantage of the opportunity, rubbing the roof of her mouth, thrusting in and out, in a silent promise of what's to come.

Jacy in my arms is heaven. Physically, the last week has been agony. Hell, the last month has. Being with her, way too often in the company of family and friends, not to mention being interrupted by people in town, yet unable to make love with her; I never want to go through that again.

Cheers and whistles and shouts resonate across the air like the wave in a football stadium. It just spurs me to begin our kiss all over again. But, my mind is on more than just kissing my wife. Though, I can't say I've ever had such an erotic experience with my mouth pressed to hers. It's like we're magnets drawn to one another. Once our mouths meet, there's no pulling us apart.

I have such plans for her on our honeymoon that it will more than make up for my chivalry two days ago. Lying next to her naked body would have been sheer torture, so I stood on her porch intending to give her a quick goodnight kiss. Before I knew it, half of our clothes were askew on our bodies. It took something akin to superpowers to untangle my limbs from hers and leave her at her door. The drive back to the Tumbling B. Rubbing out two orgasms and a cold shower did not help satisfy me in the least.

She made a sassy remark about 'now you know how I feel when you tease me'. And that display she put on, just moments ago, telling me I'm cute. She knows that drives me wild. She's gonna regret both. And I—I am gonna love making her squirm.

I know just the way to do it. There's a swing on our balcony where I plan to tie her, and it's just the right height for... I fill my lungs with much needed air, and for my self-preservation so I don't have to kill every man here when I tear her dress off, I shut down my lustful thoughts and enjoy the feel of her lips against mine.

Firm and pliable just begging me to bite and lick. But, I believe I hear the minister introduce us, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell. A possessiveness that surpasses any I have known with Jacy washes over me. She's mine, now and forever. More cheers erupt around us, but I don't, can't, stop.

I keep on kissing Jacy, and I think to dip her, but our hips, now almost tangled against one another would be more intimate than this family gathering needs to witness; and I know my jelly-legs won't hold us up. They've been like that since the moment she walked out of the house.

She is a vision. Fuck, her wedding dress should be illegal. Wide straps hold up a lace concoction that clings to her body like a second skin, the neckline plunges into a deep V allowing me to see the swell of her breasts. My palms itched needing to grasp the fullness of them in my hands.

Jealousy ripped through me earlier when my dad leaned down and whispered something only for her to hear. And before I knew it, I took a step toward them as she tore her gaze from mine and smiled up at him.

A heavy hand on my shoulder kept me in place. Still, it didn't relieve the need to stake my claim to Jacy. This woman belongs to me. It took dang long enough for it to happen.

There are pauses between everything. We waited for right music to line up in front of the minister and stood there, nothing happening but waiting for it to end. There was a lull in the show. More music for Bowie and Travis to walk my grandparents down the aisle. Then my mother. A song played over and over while the bridesmaids made their entrance. Then another for Carrie, and my niece is a natural born star, she can squeeze milk out of dried up old heifer and she made sure every eye in the yard was on her. Just when I thought we were getting underway a new song was played and we waited some fucking more.

Who the hell dreamed up the idea of stopping and starting between each section of the process was a sadist. Standing, waiting for Jacy to appear and walk down the aisle was worse than the last month of blue balls I have been sporting.

Having Jacy as my wife, was worth the wait. With her mouth pressed against mine, weeks of torture has ended in ecstasy. Or will, as soon as we can make our escape. Maybe if I stop kissing her, we can move onto the party and get out of here that much sooner. But, my body wants what it wants. Jacy.

I grip the knot of hair, twisted into some kind of loose fancy ponytail. I slant my mouth across hers, exploring her like a lost traveler. Sunlight, highlighting the gold in her auburn hair as she came down the aisle, took my breath away. I suppress the urge to run my fingers through the thick silky tresses, messing up her hairdo more than I already have. She doesn't seem to mind. My tongue tangles with hers, sucking it into my mouth.

The cheers and whistles in the background become catcalls. And slowly the weight of the minister's hand on my shoulder registers in my lust-filled brain. Just a minute more, I think. There is so much I need to convey in this kiss. But then it occurs to me; maybe I should stop. Lord knows I need Jacy more than my next breath, but this is her day.

Yet, how can I deny my desire for her? Any man would relish in the fullness of her lips. The color like ripe plums from whatever lipstick she is wearing and tastes just as sweet. Such sweet, soft curves, some lush like her hips, others lean lines like her belly, all begging me to hold on to and more. And I give in to my intense desires.

I know I am being selfish, keeping her from the crowd. But I can't help it. She's mine after all, and they're just going to have to wait.

"Woohoo, atta boy, get a room," is shouted more exuberantly. And my brain finally gains some semblance of control. I open my eyes, intending to let her go. Immediately I am staring into Jacy's. The depth of those jade pools are windows into her soul. And it's fucking beautiful.

Just like that, it's only the two of us.

I steal a little more time knowing this party will last well into the night. My tongue caresses her lips then slips inside her parted, breathless mouth. It will be hours before I can kiss her like this again. Her eyes widen, and the shimmer of tears returns.

God, the tears. Normally, I hate to see her cry. Any man doesn't want to be the reason his woman is in tears. But the look on Jacy's face now and earlier, I know they're happy ones. Wow, the people of Landmark leave me speechless. She was finally at my side, a slight sheen making her green eyes sparkle, as she stared lovingly at me. My jealousy returned that my father hadn't given her to me and walked away. My anxiety turned to excitement at the pastor's words. Then dad spoke. I couldn't help the lump in my throat, choking me. I don't have Jacy's way with words to describe the change that came over her, hell me too, when the townspeople announced she was their family and joined in giving her away.

Their action was worth her weeping.

I had no idea, when I confided to my brothers that Jacy had no living relatives, that they would come up with something like this. They never cease to amaze me. Heck, we fight, put each other down, get up in one another's grill when we need get too cocky, but we're tight. We have each other's back, and they just demonstrated once more that we're family.

And these people? I have lived in this small town most of my life. They're warm and friendly, but also, can be a pain in the ass, knowing everyone's business. Yet, they're like cousins and aunts and uncles; they're always ready to lend a helping hand. And boy did they. They rallied around my woman. I am more than proud to call this place my home. I am in awe of them and their generosity.

All too soon for my liking more than one pair of hands pulls us apart. The blush staining Jacy's cheeks makes her all the more beautiful. I take a moment to look at her, drink her in. Then, I hold out my arm, and she takes it. I stand a little taller with her by my side.

"Yeah," I yell and pump my free fist into the air. My brothers and friends answer with their own shouts.

"Hello, Mrs. Blackwell," I lean down and say. My eyes greedily take in every inch of her before tucking her into my side. I grip her tightly. Her tremor slides through her body straight into mine. I clench my jaw knowing it's going to be a torturous evening for the both of us.

My hand covers hers, and I give it a reassuring squeeze. "I guess we should greet the guests."

She lifts her face and smiles at me saying, "This sounds a little like our conversation a few days ago." Her gaze darts to my mouth. She adds, "But unlike then we can't escape."

"You sure about that?" I arch a brow challenging her. She just might find herself in the downstairs bathroom, dress bunched around her waist as I take her from behind.

"Behave." She pats my hand, but I can tell she's game for anything I have in mind.

"Nope, you're just going to have to wait," I say, changing tactics.

She pushes out her lips in a playful pout, but I am not rising to the bait. It's difficult to walk and not just because I haven't a clue where I'm going. It's the erection straining against my trousers and because I can't take my eyes off my bride, but I try. My steps are short, but sure. If we're moving, then I can't kiss her, or so I reason. Jacy is not to be outdone. She leans into my shoulder and whispers, "I'm not wearing panties."

My feet get tangled up, and I stumble.

"Jacy." She giggles at my warning tone.

"You want me," she adds.

"It's our wedding reception," I reason.

"So."

"Jacy," I shoot back, hearing more longing than severity in my words and hope like hell I'm the only one who does.

"Your voice says one thing, but your eyes encourage my bad behavior," she says sassily. "If you want me to stop then don't send out those signals."

I sigh. She's right. "Still, this isn't going to stop me from punishing you the first chance I get." I shoot her a wicked grin.

"Promises, promises."

Suddenly the photographer steps up, putting a halt to our tête-à-tête. She directs us back to where we stood moments ago. I turn to follow her instructions. Jacy lets go of my hand. I watch her move down the aisle stopping, hugging and kissing one person after another, thanking them for attending.

Good God, another jealous jolt streaks through me. She's kissed more than her fair share of men. Men, old enough to be my grandfather, boys, young enough to be my nephews, and then there's men; my age who look at her longingly when she gives them a peck on the cheek. I finally come to my senses and stalk toward her as she nears my college buddies, seeing the fervent gleam in their eyes and plans of taking more liberties than I'll allow.

"That's enough." My voice gruff, the glare plain on my face. "Go grab some punch. We'll meet you at our tent in a little while."

We take pictures. Outside and then inside the barn. I've never seen it so clean or prepped for photos. I naively thought the pictures taken before the wedding were enough. But those had been of Jacy and me apart. Now, there are ones of us alone, with the minister, the wedding party, family, grandparents, every server. "Of course, we can't leave out Ms. Flory and Gramma Barton," mama said. And countless others.

I can't tell you who attended the wedding, I never let my gaze stray from Jacy for long, but knowing these people, it's every single living soul in the county. Finally, the photographer dismisses us, though taking pictures brings back fond memories of the ones Jacy and I took the night we first met.

Who would have thought an accidental photo shoot and my picture on Stasia's romance novel would bring me to the woman I would fall in love with? I awoke with her lips pressed to mine and haven't been the same since. Yet it is just one part of why I love Jacy.

It is more than her body, a perfection of curves and lines before me as we make our way through the crowd. It's her pretty face open and bright; her adoring green eyes and full mouth that I can't stop kissing. I know. Addie, Jacy's photographer friend, said more than once, "If you'd stop kissing your bride we can finish up in just a few more minutes." Yeah, that didn't happen.

I search the woman in front of me. Man, I thought I'd never marry, or at least be much older when it happened. I wasn't ready to settle down until her. And to think she'd said no when I asked her out, and now, she's my wife.

"Yes," I shout. No one flinches or looks my way any longer. I guess I've been saying that for a while now. How can I not? Jacy is my wife.

Thank God, she forgave me. I screwed up. The biggest one was when I lost my phone while chasing after that damn bull Bradley tried to stiff me with. Not calling her for a month, I almost lost Jacy. I told her, the night we made up, over and over I never meant to hurt her and I have tried to make it up since.

Jacy has her faults too, her words not mine. And I am smart enough not to tell her how wrong she was to not faith in me, us. She looks so sweet when she's lying through her teeth that I have nothing to make up for. The woman is shrewd, saying we both were at fault and for us to put the past behind us.

Looking at Jacy, our happenstance meeting was the best outcome of a shitty day. A part of me knew from the beginning she would hold my heart in her hands and lift me up, never use me for her own selfish gain or maliciously stomp me into the ground. Still, I haven't told her nearly enough how much I love her. But I hope she feels it in my touch and sees it in my actions.

I want to tell her in a way that's perfect. So, I requested only one song for our wedding. It will be the first thing she hears when we sit down at our tent. We're almost there. My body comes alive with anticipation. I sit down, and pull her onto my lap. We're facing the band. I take off my Stetson, and nod to my brother.

The band plays a few bars of the song I requested and then Bohdon steps up to the mic getting everyone's attention. "Jacy, this is from Trace." He nods in our direction, moves to the side of the stage, and turns on the player.

"All of Me," by John Legend begins. "Jacy." I place a kiss on the soft spot just behind her ear. It's at once electrifying for us both. "It may be Legend's voice and words, the words I am not equipped to speak, but they come from my heart, from your husband to my wife."

When the song ends, I stand, holding Jacy close, yelling. "Whoop." I twirl and spin us in a tight circle. Answering whooping and hollering erupt from the crowd.

"Yeah. Jacy, my wife, I love you." I plant a hungry a kiss on her lips.

"Ye-haw," I pull back, yelling one last time.

I'm a married man to the love of my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

# Jacy and Trace: Honeymoon

"IT'S BREATHTAKING," Jacy says, her eyes drawn to the large bed as she passes it on her way down the steps to the living area and tiled verandah. "I thought flying into the island," she continues, her head swiveling in all directions to take in the view, "the glass and concrete building, barely visible beneath a green metal roof nestled between the mountains and ocean was gorgeous, but this view..."

"Mmm-mm-mmm, it sure is something to look at..." Trace interrupts.

Jacy feels the baritone drawl seeping into her body like the aged scotch Trace is fond of. She turns swiftly, inhaling sharply. Sure enough, he's sizing her up like prime beef. She can't wait to make love to him again. For now, she likes the game they have been playing since leaving Tampa. Just a little more and she'll have him where she wants him.

"You're not even looking at the view. I mean this swing..." She glances over her shoulder, lifts a hand, and waves it at the wooden structure hanging above their private pool.

"Looking at what I've wanted for days now. Come here, woman." Her pussy throbs at his command. God, his drawl, slow and deep and—commanding heart pounding thunderously in her chest.

Her head swivels back toward Trace, his eyes, glacial pin lights, bore into her body. The hairs on her neck rise and sensual shivers skate down her spine. She knows that look. It means all kinds of delicious plans for her body. Her nerves ratchet up a bit. She takes a small step back. Luring him to her, more like trying not to annoy the big bad lion. "I thought we agreed sightseeing was one of our first priorities."

"Nuh unh." His gaze travels over her body, hungrily. Her nipples react, tightening to hard points. She closes her eyes at the image of him sucking one into his mouth. Biting then laving away the hurt. Before she stops herself, she takes a step toward him.

"You know exactly what I said when you suggested sightseeing." His growl is both erotic and predatory.

How could she forget? He had leaned across the narrow strip separating them, nuzzled his face in her hair, whispering dirty things he planned for her for the next forty-eight hours.

"Answer me, Jace." His low drawl instinctively draws her to him.

He steps into her space, and she dares take another step back. With his finger beneath her chin, he lifts her face upward. "Um." She wets her dry lips. His blue-eyed glare blazes with a hunger that takes her breath away. And his slightest touch has her feet glued to the floor.

"Now," he leans in and nibbles at her mouth, "what..." his tongue slides over the bite... "tell me..." he wraps an arm around her waist... "what did I say?"

Jacy is afloat, drifting, and much like the hazy memory of the first time his mouth moved over hers expertly, her nerve endings are clanging like a fire bell, all hypersensitive to this man.

"Jacy—" She chases his mouth as he leans back.

"What did I tell you?"

"Hmm?" Her fuddled mind can't keep up.

"Sightseeing."

Her eyes grow wide as Trace shifts, so he grips her waist in both large hands. He extends his arms and takes a few steps forward—

"Trace." She giggles. Her legs dangle over the pool. "Put me down, I'm too heavy..."

"Wait." It comes out in a shriek as she falls a few inches. She clutches his thick biceps and lifts her feet up to her buttocks. "Don't drop me."

"Put you down or don't, which is it, my love?"

"Don't." She eyes him through lidded lashes. She aches to kiss him, but she's not sure of the hold on her own control and if she makes the wrong move they'll wind up in the pool.

"Then answer my question, darling." How does his Texas drawl, so smooth and deep, sound so intimidating?

Jacy takes a deep breath. "All you wanted to see for the next twenty-four hours is the hills and valleys that make up my body." Her chest rises and falls with short heaving breaths. "And...?"

Darn, he's not going to let her leave it at that. "And," her cheeks heat. Trace has made love to every inch of her body, but still she can't help but be embarrassed by his words.

"Wrap your legs around me darlin'."

She obeys. He moves his hands to cup her buttocks, pulling her into the erection now nestled between her damp thighs.

"Now, continue."

Jacy decides to ignore the smirk in Trace's voice. She knows what he wants to hear. But, it occurs to her, wrapped around him like she is, she can deliver the message any way she wishes. She leans in, nipping at the lobe of his ear. In a breathless whisper, she says, "The only water you want to see is from our pool or shower." A bolt of lust shoots straight to her pussy. "And..." her tongue darts out circling the shell, then she softly blows. She feels the shudder run through his muscular body. Good, she has the upper hand again. "The only nourishment you need is my body."

"Damn, girl. You turn the tables on me every time."

"Mmm. Trace." Jacy grinds her hips into his.

"Yes, love." She smiles at the choked reply.

"Make love to me." Jacy plants small kisses along his stubbled jaw.

Trace's mouth meets hers. He lowers his voice to a husky whisper before kissing her thoroughly. "I intend to darlin'. I intend to."

The trip from the tiled area of the pool through the seating room, with its wood floors, walls, and ceiling, up three steps, and to their bed is a short one, but still too long for Trace's liking. "Stand for me, darlin'." Jacy lowers her feet to the floor, and Trace takes a step back. He slides his palms up her slim back to her neck, loosening the ties and letting them fall to the side of the purple halter sundress she is wearing. Seeing her in it, the low cut V between her fleshy breasts but unable to feel them, tempted him sorely for the last ten hours.

He's on the verge of losing the control he mastered years ago, but then again, it's always that way with Jacy. He skims his fingers along her collarbones. The rough pads a sharp contrast to the luxurious softness of her skin.

"I have plans for you, baby." He cups his hands around her neck, rubbing his thumbs over her pulse. It spikes. He smiles inwardly. His own heartbeat hasn't been normal since the day he met this woman.

"This dress." The intensity of his emotions turns his voice rough, harsh.

Jacy's lowered gaze shoots back toward his eyes. "Don't you like it?" Doubt fills her eyes as she rubs her free hand down the side, nervously.

"Me and every other man in the hotel this morning. The taxi driver, who I almost punched, and the men in the airport and on the airplane."

"I wore it for you, Trace." He hears the smile in her voice and sees the hint of seduction creeping over her face.

"I know, darlin' and believe me, any other time, I'd love it. But, seein' you like this and not bein' able to touch you more than hold your hand..." Trace tsks twice, lifts a hand and brushes his thumb across her lower lip. "You chose this dress to purposefully torment me."

"What? No. I..." Jacy shakes her head, the loose waves of her auburn hair caressing the back of his hand. It's like a lightning coursing through his body.

"You just wanted to look nice for me, to make me look at you, right?"

"Uh, yes." His stare is directed toward her mouth as her tongue darts out wetting her lips. The glistening reminds him of the way they look wrapped around his cock. And his shaft presses harder against the fly of his jeans.

"And it worked, darlin', too well."

Trace slides a hand down her chest, pausing at her breast, giving it a gentle squeeze, and then abruptly removes it. He grips her wrist in his big hand and pulls it to his groin. He drops his head back as she instinctively wraps her fingers around his steely stalk and rubs.

He swallows around the constriction in his throat, lifts his head, and finds Jacy's eyes. "Feel how hard you make me, baby."

"Mmm. Nice." She purrs.

"You like it don't you?"

"Yes."

"You want me, can't wait until my hard cock's crammed inside your tight, greedy little cunt, can you?"

"Yes, please. I...don't make me wait any longer." Her breasts lift and fall in short pants, and she grips his shaft harder, squeezing just the way he likes it. She rubs the heel of her palm up and down the length over and over. It's ecstasy and agony, and Trace can't help but push into her soft hand relishing in the friction.

Abruptly, he forces Jacy's hand from his body and leans down and whispers, "I've been hard for the last twelve hours, seeing you, touching you, wanting you."

"Sssss." Jacy hisses at his confession.

"You'll wait as long as I want you to. Now," he pulls her hand away, "keep your hands at your side."

Not waiting to see if she obeys, he cups her face in his palms and stares into Jacy's green eyes. God, he could get lost in them. They speak volumes. Wide and bright with love and lust. Good. He can't help but say, "I feel the same way, Jacy." He leans down, brushing his lips against hers with the slightest of touches. He needs to plunder, devour, claim her so she'll never know anything but him, but if he keeps this up, he'll fuck her quickly, and that isn't happening.

Jacy's lips part immediately. He pulls back. "Not yet, baby."

"Trace."

"Baby, the whine in your voice is sweet and needy just the way I like, but not yet. Now," he pauses, staring at her until he has her undivided attention. "Tell me you don't deserve to be punished."

"Punished, what, why?" Her voice rises and octave, uncertain.

Good, he has her worried. "This dress for one."

"But, I thought..." she tenses in his grasp.

"Uh unh. You know exactly what I said. Do I need to start a count, let's say ten and go up five each time from there?" Trace sees the pout form on her face. He chuckles. "Brat." She bites her lip, and he can't help but swoop down and run his tongue around her plump mouth. He straightens before she can react. "And, that little stunt you pulled as we walked down the aisle yesterday knowing full well we couldn't slip away. I spent the evening with my cock pressed painfully against the zip of my pants."

He sees the mirth form in her wide eyes.

"Jacy," he warns.

She bites her lip harder and clears her throat to keep from giggling.

"Go ahead, baby and laugh. I'd like nothing more than to have you naked and tied to the rail by the pool steps, your lovely ass a nice shade of red."

"You wouldn't?" Jacy jerks back. He tightens his hold.

"Why do I have the feeling you'd like it? Then there's that comment about my looks you made yesterday."

"I..." she shakes her head in denial.

"Don't finish it, Jacy." Trace gently grips her chin with his thumb and finger. "Or I'll spend the next few hours proving you wrong.

"I'm sure I can find something around here to fill your sweet puss." His voice grows course. Hell, his threats are backfiring as his need rises. He pushes on unable to stop. "I'll slide my tongue along your outer lips, circle your engorged clit over and over, but never touch it. I'll bring you to the brink of orgasm time and again, your screams begging me to let you come will echo off the mountain all the way down to the ocean."

A satisfied smile appears at the gasp and conflicting emotions playing across her face. Her eyes widen in fear and more than a little want. He feels her body tighten, squirming to see if she can break free of his hold, and he's certain her legs are pressed together beneath the skirt of her dress. He inhales deeply and the sweet scent of strawberry shampoo mixed with her unique musk and mountain breeze wafting in from their open-air room, has his control slipping through his fingers like quicksand. Still he pushes both their limits. "I should give you the punishment you want and deserve, but maybe, if you're a good girl, I'll consider it later. Now, take your dress off for me, darlin'," he says, taking a step back.

Jacy steps forward, chasing him, but he grips her arms, holding her in place. The corners of his mouth lift in a knowing smile at her whimpers.

"Patience, baby." Yeah, tell yourself that. The wedding reception had gone on well into the early morning hours. Though, he and Jacy snuck off to a hotel in Dallas around eleven because of their early flight to St. Lucia. Jacy had fallen asleep after they made love once. He was barely satisfied, but he understood her exhaustion. He awoke in the middle of the night; his cock enveloped in the heat of her heavenly mouth.

Today was the most excruciating in his life. Their bout of lovemaking had them waking late, and they scrambled to get to the airport on time. Sitting beside her in the taxi, her soft hip and breast pressed into his side made the ride torturous. Waiting at the airport, and during the almost eight-hour flight, it was all he could do not to find a bathroom and take her in a stall.

His gaze roams over her body as the dress falls to the floor. The sight of her standing before him in only her low-heeled sandals and a black lace thong makes his mouth go dry and heat surge through his blood. Take his time? Hell, his body silently screams for him to ravish her, satisfy his hunger not once but dozens of times.

Clamping down on his own need, he lifts a trembling hand to her breast. Good God, he's acting like a teenager that's never had sex. At the first swipe of his thumb over her nipple, it tightens, poking his digit as if asking for more.

He aims to oblige.

Leaning in, he takes the other orb in his mouth, suckling.

Jacy arches wantonly into Trace's mouth and hand, uttering little mewling sounds of unadulterated need. Surely, it couldn't have been less than twenty-four hours since they last made love.

Anticipation makes her breathless. He's not the only one who's suffered. In the last twelve hours, the man never stopped touching her. She isn't complaining; far from it. His fingers glided along her arm absent-mindedly as they sat side by side on the plane. The heat of his palm scorching her back through her dress as he guided her through both airports. Inside the taxis he had tucked her body into his, his hard planes fitting her soft ones; her insides clenched, her breasts swelled, and her pussy drenched her panties.

She had been wet for him since they left the hotel hours ago.

More than once, she nearly begged him to meet her in the miniscule toilet on the plane where they'd become members of the mile-high club. But she had a feeling he would refuse. Not because he didn't want her, she sensed he did, but because they wouldn't come out for hours, and he didn't want the passengers to hear her scream his name in ecstasy.

Jacy shifts her feet, her entire body throbs. She pushes her breasts greedily into his mouth and hand, wanting, needing more. He bites and licks and pinches causing a storm to brew inside her.

"Trace." She hisses, inhaling much-needed air into her lungs. "I...need..." They'd had sex for a few months now. Each time intense, physically and emotionally. Trace was so dominant, and she enjoyed him taking charge, but he also made love to her. Never gentle, but caring. He took care of her needs and his. Sometimes hers first at other times his, and each time she fell in love with him a little more.

"Soon, baby," he murmurs his breath feathering over her moist breasts bringing her out of her reverie. Goosebumps rise on her heated skin. "Oh." She sighs, her hips rock toward him. Certainly he knows how much she needs him right now. He ignores her moans and motions all the while making love to her body.

Jacy's head falls to her shoulders, and she lifts a hand, running her fingers through his short, thick hair, trying to guide his mouth to the other nipple. He growls his dissatisfaction. She doesn't stop, aching for the want of him. He flicks his tongue, and it ignites a fire in her belly. Just a little harder and she might come from him playing with her breasts alone. Finally, after he has thoroughly loved the one breast, he moves to the other, laving, kissing, licking, and biting until she's barely able to hold herself up on spaghetti legs.

"Please, Trace..." She grips his head in both hands now.

"I know, baby. Look at me." He grabs her wrists and lowers her hands to her sides. Slowly she lifts the lid of her eyes, fighting the languid feeling of floating as she searches her husband's face. Her world unravels. Blue lasers replace his eyes, piercing straight into her soul. She can't speak. The craving to kiss him returns, but she can't seem to make her limbs respond to her brain's command. All she can do is watch in fascination at the man kneeling in front of her.

He places an open-mouth kiss on her torso before his tongue darts out gliding down to her belly-button. His tongue rims the narrow edge before pushing into the slight indention.

Jacy grips Trace's shoulders, her nails biting into his skin. She hisses loudly. Who knew that area was an erogenous zone?

"Mmm. Love the way you respond to me, darlin'. Hold on a few more minutes. Can you do that for me?"

His eyes meet hers, and she unconsciously responds because he smiles, his entire face lighting up with pleasure. "Good girl. I promise it'll be worth it."

Jacy's mesmerized. She watches Trace plant a kiss just below her belly-button. He leans back. Looks up at her and gives her a sinful smirk. She yelps then sighs at the unexpected squeezing of her butt cheeks in his large calloused hands. Her juices gush from her pussy, flooding her already wet panties.

"Oh, darlin', I can smell your honey, and it's heavenly."

Jacy cries out, in relief and surprise, at the first touch of his tongue to her leg. He licks a path up her thigh, pausing and sucks hard on the tender inner flesh near her pulsing pussy. She can't stop from gripping his head in her hands and pushing her hips into his face.

"Unh, unh, darlin', none of that, now." He leans back. "Be patient." He rakes his fingernails across one buttock before giving it a playful swat. "Now, I want to see your pretty pussy. Hands by your side." He hooks his forefingers in the straps of her thong, drawing them over her hips, the scrap of lace barely concealing her sex. "So cute." He gives her a baleful stare, but Jacy pays no attention. She blushes as his gaze hones in on her trimmed curls peeking out from beneath the lace. "Spread your legs just a little." Yes. If he doesn't fill her soon, she's going implode. Jacy follows his instruction. He slides the straps lower, pausing to pull them wide, letting them snap back on her legs.

"Oh." She jumps.

"You like that?"

"Stings a little, but..." she cocks her head to the side. "In a good way."

"I'll remember that for another time." He makes short work of getting her out of her underwear and slips the straps off the heels of her feet, taking them off and setting them aside.

"Now you," Jacy says, but he ignores her, flicking his gaze up to her face and then zeroing in on what's in front of him. Why does he look as if he is starving and this is his last meal?

She has no time to protest. He leans in and swipes his tongue over the outer folds of her labia. His hands grip her thighs, "Spread your legs, wide, darlin'," forcing them apart. Using his thumbs, he pulls her outer lips apart. He leans in. His hot breath glides over her trembling sex. "Feels so good," she gasps.

He draws a line the length of her slit with his tongue. The velvet texture and slow slide sends sensual signals from her pussy fanning outward to the rest of her body. He licks once, then twice more before covering her clit, sucking the pearl gently into his mouth. Jacy gasps, her breath backing up in her throat.

"Look how wet you are," he says, leaning back and looking up at her, his face glistening with her juices. "And this little nub," he scrapes it with his fingernail, "is just begging me to play with it."

"Trace," Jacy squeals and jumps.

Moving his hands to her hips, he grasps them tightly. "Be still, now. I've been waiting to do this all day." Her legs quiver at his command, threatening to buckle beneath her.

Fresh cream spills from her body. He laps it up. Licking up one side then down the other, twirling close but not quite touching her engorged clit. "More, please." She pushes her mound greedily into his mouth. "I need..."

"Is this what you want?" He pushes a finger inside her pussy, it covetously clenches around the digit, taking it further inside her body.

"You're driving me mad, Trace."

"How so, darlin'?" She screams as his teeth graze the engorged flesh.

"Like... I... need..."

"What do you need, darlin'? This..." He inserts a second finger, inching both in and out, only to repeat the painfully slow process again and again. If he didn't hurry up, her tombstone would read; expired from orgasm denial.

"More, Trace, I..." Jacy tries to impale herself on his fingers. "Need... you... cock."

Trace removes his fingers and laps up her juices. He stands abruptly and Jacy screams in frustration.

Cupping her face in his hands, he tilts her head up, pressing his lips to hers. "Taste yourself, darlin'." She kisses his mouth, slick with her juices. The combination of her musk and Trace, it's an arousing blend of flavors.

He glides his tongue over her lips, and she parts her mouth inviting him in. He kisses her slowly, thoroughly, seeking and exploring. His hold on her face tightens, pulling her into him. Jacy meets the hard press of his mouth, stroking his tongue with hers.

Every fiber of her being is on fire for her husband. She wants to inhale him, take his masculine scent into her lungs and body until they are one. All too soon, his mouth leaves hers. Coherent thought slowly returns, and she opens her eyes.

He stands in front of her, his chest heaving laboriously from their breathless kiss. His gaze roves her body like a starving wildcat. She reaches out, needing to touch him, running a hand up his arm. The sleeve of his cotton shirt coarse against her palm. "You're still dressed?" She suddenly realizes.

A wicked grin slowly fills his face. "What do you plan to do about it?"

Her eyes go round with surprise and desire. "This." She pounces.

The heat of Jacy's palms sears him through his shirt. He stands; arms at his sides, spine stiff, to keep from turning her, bending her over the edge of the bed, releasing his cock, and taking her from behind.

Good God. He has no control where Jacy is concerned.

Her fingers deftly ease the buttons on his shirt through the narrow openings. She grabs a handful of material, snatching the hem from his jeans. Good, she's not as calm as she appears to be.

Trace runs his fingers lightly up and down her bare arms, unable to stop touching her. He never dreamed he would find one woman to satisfy him, but he fell for her the moment he awoke with her mouth on his.

His head falls back as she parts the cloth and presses her hands to his chest. "Mmm." She leans in kissing the valley between his pecs. His heart nearly explodes from his chest with want.

Her fingernails scrape over his pecs and nipples. She may have been amiss when he awoke with her mouth on his, but then he flipped her, pinning her back to the bed. Since then, being with Jacy has been a wild ride ever since.

"Take the rest of my clothes off, Jacy."

"I want to play," she pouts, her tongue darting out to lave his hard nipple. She raises her eyes, giving him a smoldering look through lidded lashes.

"And you will, but, baby, I need to be inside you in the worst way."

She stares longingly at the waistband of his jeans as he shrugs out of his shirt, impatiently finding and unbuttoning the cuffs caught on his wrists.

The delicate touch of her fingers sliding down his torso is like sandpaper on his sensitized skin. It seems he waits an eternity before she clumsily pushes the button through the opening and finally hears the familiar zip as she lowers the tab.

A hand slides beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, the palm cool against his nearly scorched skin. The contrast dials his desire up a notch.

"Baby, you're killing me."

"Pay..."

"Don't say it." He grabs her wrists pushing her away. In seconds, he sheds his jeans and boxer briefs and socks.

His shaft springs up, hard and hot against his belly. His blood rushes hotly through his veins imagining his cock lying on her plump, pink lower lip.

As if she reads his mind, His eyes laser on her as she drops to the floor, kneeling before him. She closes her fingers around the silk-covered steel of his sex, slowly pumping up and down. "Feels so good, baby." Trace struggles to push back the need to come.

She leans in and licks the bead of precum off the head. He jerks beneath her touch, and then drags in air into his burning lungs. "Suck me, darlin'."

"Mmm." She moans and then her lips part and the engorged head slides inside the hot cavern of her mouth.

He places a hand on the back of her head, pressing gently. Her head bobs up and down, her small hands cling to his hips. Trace tilts his head back as his hips rock forward. She takes more until the head bumps the back of her throat.

The depths of her mouth hold pure hot sin. He almost shoots his load. "Enough, darlin'." He leans down, placing his hands beneath her elbows and pulls Jacy to her feet.

She licks her lips savoring the flavor him. "God, woman, you're driving me insane." He pulls her into him, groaning, feeling her soft curves mold to his hard planes. She leans on her toes, her mouth seeking his. The tender touch of her tongue to his is innocent-like compared to the sinful way she devoured his penis moments ago.

Needing her more than he ever thought he'd need someone, Trace reluctantly ends the kiss. "Up on the bed, darlin'." He leans down fumbling in the pocket of his jeans.

Jacy pulls back the sheer gauze surrounding the king-size bed and climbs in. "Hurry." Her plea is breathless and hungry.

"Just grabbing the condoms."

"You don't need them."

Stunned at her words, he stops rummaging in his pants pockets, straightens, then turns and stares at his wife.

"No more condoms," she says as her face lights up in a wide smile.

He's not sure he can formulate words. Sure, every time inside Jacy has been heaven on earth, but to feel her, skin to skin, it's something he's only dreamed about.

"The doctor gave me a clean bill of health, and I'm on birth control. Have been for years to regulate my periods."

"Why you little minx." He prowls toward her. Jacy scrambles backward, her shoulders bumping the wood headboard. He grips an ankle and tugs, pulling her toward him as he climbs into bed and atop her in one smooth move.

"Trace," she squeals and giggles, then sighs at the familiar weight of his body. Cocooned in his embrace, she feels safe, protected, loved.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" She licks her lower lip, Trace's eyes hone in on the moist spot he plans to devour soon.

"Um, I just... well... when I thought this was a temporary..."

"I understand, baby." His voice softens. Lowering his head, he runs his nose up the side of her neck, inhaling Jacy's scent into his lungs. Jolts of pure lust arc from him to her. His tongue darts out, licking the path he just took, reveling in the exotic flavors that are Jacy.

Her throaty moan is music to his ears. Pulling back onto his knees, Trace looks his fill. She is perfect. Her breasts, high and full and round. Her pretty nipples, rosy pink buds, tight and eager for his touch. Her parted thighs beckon him; his hands roam the soft inner flesh.

"Trace, I need more." Jacy's eyes flutter like wings of a butterfly at the friction of his calloused hands on her body. Her thoughts scatter. Her hips arch into his touch, sending delicious shockwaves through her core. Her nipples bead to tight painful points and her stomach contracts with need.

"Darlin', I'm just getting started." Electricity flows between them, and Trace is certain he is holding a live wire. His knuckles brush the seam of her pussy. They become wet with her juices.

Jacy quivers under his touch. He runs his fingers along her silky inner thighs until he reaches the juncture. Trace repeats the process, sliding up her thighs to her knees then back to the V just barely skimming the backs of his fingers over the seam and pulling away until she's bucking and begging with need.

Dipping his head, he nips playfully at her mound, inhaling her musky scent. It shoots straight to his groin. Just getting started, he parts her plump, wet labia with his thumbs. His tongue sweeps tongue up one side of her slit and down the other. "Sweet as honey," he murmurs, lapping at her juices. Good God, he could feast on her for hours.

"More, Trace." Her hips move in a rhythm as old as time.

His low chuckle has Jacy's eyes snapping open. "Please, no more teasing."

"Just getting you nice and wet for me, baby. Besides," he leans in sucking the beaded knot of her sex into his mouth then letting go with a pop, "I'm gonna make you come over and over before I'm through with you."

His painfully hard cock throbs between his legs. He won't last much longer, but he is damn sure going to make this a night Jacy will never forget. Mercy he needs more. More of her taste. Her musky juices under his tongue. He wants her open to his every desire.

Jacy gasps as he grazes his teeth across her clit. "Oh, yes, right there." She almost bolts off the bed. He teases her with light strokes, sliding his tongue up and down, thrusting into her soaked pussy then gently sucks the engorged clit into his mouth, repeating the process until she vibrates with need. "I'm going to come," she hisses.

"That's it." He licks her clit, thrusting two fingers into her greedy cunt. "Come for me baby." He takes the hard knot into his mouth and sucks hard.

Jacy comes at his command. She is so responsive, pushing into his hand, shattering beneath him.

Mine.

He places a kiss on her mound, gliding his tongue up the soft curve her belly to the indention of her belly button. Her muscles contract and she writhes beneath him. "Hurry Trace," she says. He ignores her pleas, inching upward, latching onto one breast with his teeth. He pulls the beaded tip into his mouth, suckling. He groans and thanks God for the woman beneath him. His tongue laves the underside, circling, then sucking hard on her nipple once more. He seeks her other breast with his hand. Latching onto it, he rolls and pinches the nipple between his fingers.

She thought she couldn't feel any more love for him than she already did. She was wrong. Her emotions shift and scatter with every touch of his hands and mouth, as if he's drawing her essence into him until she has no idea where he begins and she ends.

With a ferocious need to have him inside her now, Jacy plants her feet on the bed and surges upward, trapping his sensitive cock in the cleft of her hot, wet core. She wraps a leg around his waist, bucking beneath him. His throbbing member, gliding in her wet juices, drives her insane with need.

Drinking in the sight of Jacy, wanton and wild, Trace fists his hands in the silky strands of her hair, baring her neck to him. "Have to have you now." Desperate need fills his voice. "Open your eyes, baby. Watch my cock slide into your greedy pussy."

Bracing his legs against the back of her thighs, Trace grips the base of his cock, pushing the throbbing head into the channel inching in just past the opening. His gut clenches as his cock threatens to spew before he can claim her.

He places his hands on her hips, lifting her, impaling himself in one hard thrust. "Fuck, yeah." He moans loudly, her small cry renders him motionless just as much as her convulsing walls do. He loses all control when she swivels her hips, stabbing herself further on his cock.

Jacy moans at Trace's sensual onslaught. Her fingers slide up his back, taking time to explore each indention in his spine and powerful muscles of his back.

A primal urge takes over. With a growl, Trace slowly withdraws, her drenched core spasming around him as her climax draws out making his retreat that much more difficult. The pain, from where her fingernails bite into his shoulders, urges him on. He plunges in. Her inner walls grip him, pulling him deeper into her core.

God, he loves this woman. She is his, his for the taking. His to make love to over and over, just his.

Jacy opens her thighs wider, taking every bit of him. His mouth covers hers in a brutal kiss. Gathering his control, he slams into her over and over and over again, pushing deep, deeper into her core, knowing he is lost.

Her sweet moans and throaty whimpers spur him into a frenzy of need. Her pussy tightens around him, signaling her impending climax.

"So close. Hold off baby. Don't come until I tell you."

Trace feels the first fluttering of her sweet walls contracting around him. It is heaven. "Now, baby." He lowers his mouth to her shoulder and bites.

She screams, tightening, spasming around him. "Gonna, so damn good." He thrusts once more. "Jacy." Throwing back his head, he roars her name, plummeting over the edge.

"Good God," he murmurs, smoothing the damp strands of hair from her sweat-slickened brow, never taking his eyes off her, "love you, Mrs. Blackwell."

Snuggling into Trace's embrace, Jacy smiles dreamily and lets out a contented sigh. "Back atcha, cowboy."

As always, thank you for your purchase.

One way readers can show their appreciation is through leaving feedback. I would truly appreciate it.

Thank you Sadie McKane for editing my book.

# About the Author

Áine Blaze is a writer, a copy editor, and in her spare time designs book covers and enjoys digital painting. She has been writing for almost six years now, but with her work schedule has published little. She has finished manuscripts just waiting for final editing.

In her personal life, Áine is a homebody. She spends time with family and a few close writer and non-writer friends. She enjoys all types of fiction; mystery and crime are at the top of her list, along with romance. She and her son are collaborating on fantasy paranormal teen and YA fiction. Alas, his schedule is worse than hers, so those are still in the planning stages.

She lives in Tennessee with her husband and a dog named Louise. She enjoys day trips to mom and pop diners seeking the best hamburgers around, taking the back road to her favorite beach, and of course, the beach itself.

Please connect with me @

http://aineblazeromance.blogspot.com/

https://www.facebook.com/aineblaze

https://twitter.com/AineBlaze

 https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/47138537-aine-blaze

https://www.pinterest.com/aineblaze/

# Boxer Briefs & Boots: Cowboy Cover Models book 1

http://amzn.to/1UpESz1

http://bit.ly/1VYiKyn

Synopsis:

Jacy Rawlins' big break became a big flop almost overnight. What was to be her leap from a plain photographer of weddings, babies, and school children turned disastrous when she photographed the wrong man. And boy howdy, what a man he was. But now the author and cowboy are gunning for her and Jacy has no recourse but to make the walk of shame; get him to sign on the dotted line or her new career as a book cover designer will be over before it's begun. There's only one problem. Jacy thinks she slept with him the night of the shoot.

Trace Blackwell doesn't need the unwelcome attention of his likeness plastered on the cover of a romance novel even if it is just his torso. He's a respected businessman; his parents, siblings, and the people of Landmark look up to him; and the annoying publicity would just make the lawsuit he's fighting in court that much worse. On top of that, he's distracted by dreams of making love to a feisty redhead. The photographer unexpectedly turning up on his ranch has Trace realizing those images of them making love are real. Now, he'll do anything, like allowing his likeness to stay on the cover, just as long as he can get to know the woman who has haunted his dreams.

Chapter One

"Annoying diva," Jacy muttered, her voice barely low enough for him not to hear, all the while, shaking her head. She watched, her gaze transfixed on the male model a few feet in front of her. He turned and gave an exaggerated wiggle of his narrow hips, a blatant come-on, and then sashayed around the oversized bed that was the backdrop for the shoot as if to say, 'follow me'.

Jacy's body shuttered involuntarily.

What had she gotten into? This shoot was supposed to be short, easy. "A few hours, tops," Jacy mouthed her friend's, Tamara, words sarcastically.

Now, ten hours later, hot, tired, hungry, she was a little more than angry at the model's repeated attempts to get her in the bed he stood next to.

The churning revulsion in Jacy's gut sent her swiftly back to packing up her equipment. With practiced ease, she removed the zoom lens from her camera and nestled it into its foam slot. She gently laid the camera into the leather bag on the floor, careful not to jostle the other already inside.

A movement caught her eye and she jerked her head up just in time to witness the model shimmying around the room once more. The tighty-whitey boxer briefs dipped or hitched. Shocked, her eyes widened. Was he dancing she really couldn't tell?

Dread settled into the pit of her stomach as his hands clutched a bedpost, and he proceeded to wiggle his ass, twirl and buck his hips to an off-kilter rhythm playing only in his distorted mind.

Jacy rolled her eyes, not bothering, this time, to conceal the loathing growing inside. She quickly picked up the pace. It was way past time to get out of here.

She heard one boot, an expensive black leather pair used as a prop for the shoot, hit the floor. The other followed. She ignored him. Double-checking that she had packed everything, lenses, cameras, memory cards, check. Satisfied all was done, Jacy looked up.

"No freaking way." Her jaw dropped. He was naked. Thank the good Lord. His attention was on his manager and not her. Until he turned his head, flashing her a smile. Brilliant white teeth shone against his golden skin. Had to be capped. Not a muscle in his face moved. Good grief. Botoxed. At the thought, Jacy peered closely. His tanned skin— Sprayed on. Thick pecs. Implants.

Another revolting shudder coursed through her body. He wasn't more than four inches taller than Jacy's five-six-and-a-half frame and didn't outweigh her by twenty-five pounds. He'd weigh more if you lost a little weight, her inner thin girl chimed in.

Not the freaking time. Still, Jacy peeked down at her body. The hot-pink tank top and black capris fit comfortably, not too tight or loose. Just enough to hide your size fourteen body. Jacy squelched the sarcastic little bitch arguing, Stuck with psycho model and his deranged manager.

Besides, she was comfortable with the five extra pounds. More like fifteen, the bitch chimed in. "Got it." Jacy gritted her teeth, putting a stop to the tired argument she had with herself, agreeing there were ten extra pounds glued to her shapely butt and thighs just to get the heck out of here.

Jacy refocused on the job at hand. "Why in the world would Anastasia want a guy like him as her latest cover model?" she murmured as she fished for her cases. Nothing about him screamed cowboy.

Shooting him her best smile, courtesy of her nana's upbringing, Jacy set the bags by the door. She knew exactly what her problem with the man was, and his manager—or agent or boyfriend or whatever label they used. She'd never been treated so badly by clients in her life. The "drama king" complained when she didn't take a face shot, whined for a break every ten to fifteen minutes, argued that this shoot was beneath him, boasted and bragged last year he'd been on billboards and in magazines featuring Calvin Klein underwear. Then his manager had the gall to tell her how to take pictures: she wasn't holding the camera right, she was too far away, "get a close-up of his junk"—his words, not hers—and she was using the wrong zoom lens. All the while, both men hit on her as if she was a street corner prostitute.

Jacy was well-acquainted with dicks like him. She had lived in San Francisco for a few years, and even had dated a few self-absorbed males like these two, but the pair was by far the worst men to cross her path. Ever. Jacy grumbled beneath her breath, "I can understand why Klein let you go." What should have been a few hours of work dragged into ten.

Now, she was tired and hungry and put out with their silly shenanigans. Snapping the lid shut on the last case, she set it beside the other two. Ho, ho. His little show had lost its potency after the model's manager/boyfriend rushed up, wrapped a short robe around his shoulders and kissed him, gushing how good he looked, what a great job he was doing, blah, blah, blah, for the thousandth time.

Jacy didn't care whether they were gay or bi after the way they both had insinuated the three of them test the king-sized bed after the shoot. But these two? "Obnoxious turds," she murmured. Her gaze darted toward the manager fawning over the model, and Jacy mumbled a nasty swear word at both men.

Their eyes were lined in kohl, slightly understandable for the model considering he was under bright lights all day, but he'd put it on a little too thick, and Jacy had a feeling he wore makeup every day. Not a hair was out of place, their waxed bodies as hairless as a baby's bottom. She had wanted to tell the manager shirts unbuttoned to the waist had gone out style in the '80s. Heck they never really were in style.

As far as Jacy was concerned, today had been a waste of time and Anastasia's hard-earned money. It wasn't that the model wasn't gorgeous. Or that the setting was wrong. Or that, even pushing forty or a little past it, his body was a solid mass of muscle. He was and they were not cowboy material. That was the problem. The guy knew it. It came through each shot of his cheesy smile that Jacy took.

She felt it in her being: none of the pictures were what Anastasia wanted. She sighed heavily. It wasn't her call. She took one last look around the one-room, rustic cabin. It was homey, if not masculine. Blue plaid curtains covered the windows. A navy spread covered the king-sized bed, pushed up against the back wall. The combination kitchen and living area to her back had state-of-the-art appliances, and the oversized couch and chair in leather still managed to make the place feel country.

She called toward the closed bathroom door, grateful they had disappeared in there some time ago, leaving her alone. "Tom, you and Drake almost done?" If that was his real name.

Jacy squelched a threatening yawn. She lifted her hands over her head and stretched the kinks out of her back. Silence met her query. She rolled her eyes. It had been bad enough the manager rushed toward the model between each take, kissing and bootlicking, but this was too much. "Really—can't these two keep their hands off each other for three minutes?" she groused, shaking her head in utter disbelief.

"Tom," Jacy yelled louder as she pushed open the bathroom door.

Mistake. "Crapola!" she shrieked. She couldn't stop her eyes from dropping to where Tom crouched in front of... Big mistake. "What the...?"

Drake was bent at the waist, snorting lines of white powder off the marble vanity top while Tom had his lips wrapped around—her hand flew up to cover her eyes. "Oooh. Stop it."

Jacy tripped backward and slammed the door shut. "Guys, get a room. ...Somewhere else," she yelled through the door, now, thankfully, blocking her view of them.

A muffled, "Sure thing," sounded through the barrier before a moan escaped someone's lips. Jacy clenched her eyes shut, tight, trying to wipe the image of the two naked men out of her head. It didn't work.

She had nothing against men having sex with each other. She'd seen a lot, attending college in San Francisco, and had a few offers of threesomes as well. Jacy wasn't that adventurous. She could barely handle one guy, let alone two, and call her old-fashioned, but she liked the idea of being someone's one and only.

These guys were pushing the envelope of Southern generosity. "Mr. Blackwell asked us to make sure the lights were off and the place was closed up tight before we left," she called again, hearing wet noises and moans that should have stopped moments ago.

To hell with it. "I'm outta here," Jacy called over her shoulder. "You two close up. Don't forget the lights and door." She grabbed her bags and beat a hasty retreat out of the house.

She should feel bad about leaving, but she wasn't sticking around while the two went at it. Heck, they would probably move on to the bed next, expecting her to join them and then most likely provide a deplorable display of fornication when she vehemently declined.

* * * *

Trace Blackwell loosened his grip on the steering wheel and rolled his neck and upper body, trying to work the kinks out of the stiff muscles in his shoulders and back. It did not work. He was more than tired; he was bone-weary and pissed. An entire day wasted in Dallas when there was work to be done at the ranch.

He was on the road before sunup, met his lawyers at their office for a brief breakfast strategy meeting before driving to the courthouse. His high hopes that the case against Bradley would finally be settled today dwindled with every passing hour he sat on the hard wood bench outside their assigned courtroom awaiting his turn. By the time they were called, not in the courtroom, but the judge's chambers around three o'clock only to be told the case was postponed, yet again, Trace's patience had been tested beyond its limit.

"What the hell is going on here?" He had shot to his feet and leaned over the judge's desk getting into the elderly man's face. "That motherfucker's had plenty of time..." Parker hustled him out of the room before he could really let loose and amid the judge's warnings of contempt of court and fines and jail time for Trace and his lawyers if they didn't control their client.

"Okay by me." He grabbed Parker, pushing against his grasp only to have Kincaid, Parker's business partner, slam the door in his face.

"Derek Bradley's lawyer insisted they needed more time to prepare their defense. That new evidence had come to light and he needed time to examine it."

"The asshole's stalling." Trace paced Parker and Kincaid's ample office several hours later.

"We know that. But, you trying to assault the judge won't garner any favors."

"He's crooked. Bradley has him in his pocket," Trace spouted, glaring at the pair.

"That may be the case. And if so, we'll find out. But," Kincaid, the larger of the two men and usually the calmest stepped into Trace's space, gripped his shirt, and uttered, "we don't need you going off half-cocked and getting the case thrown out of court."

Trace gritted his teeth and clenched his fists at his sides to keep from taking a swing at his friend. His shoulders slumped in his friend's grasp, and he took a step back. He clasped his friend's shoulder and said, "You're right. I'm sorry." Taking a deep breath, he asked, "How badly did I screw up?"

"Not much." Parker chuckled from across the room. He gestured to the man in front of Trace. "Kin here smoothed things over and got what little information we just passed along to you out of the judge. We'll get the rest from St. Johns, Bradley's lawyer."

"Go home, get some rest. Let us do the job you pay us for." Both men instructed. Kincaid clamped his hand on Trace's shoulder.

All was good between them and Trace reluctantly left their office and made the two-and- half-hour drive home with nothing but time to think and fume.

"Derek damn well knows that bull was sterile when he sold it to me." His voice rang loud and harsh in the empty truck cab. Frustration made his blood boil. "And what new evidence?" Trace swiped his hat off his head, throwing it to the passenger seat, and ran his fingers through his thick blond hair.

Bradley had one of the few Piedmontese herds in the United States an Italian breed that had a double-muscling gene, which made it a higher lean-to-fat ratio, with less marbling. Trace had heard of the breed while studying in college and found it unsuitable for American's taste on its own.

However, Bradley was correct, claiming cross-breeding it with Angus beef produced a high-grade calf with lean meat that catered to discriminating tastes of the modern public.

Trace researched the crossbreeds once more, gathering statistics and information. He had been impressed. He took the idea to his dad and brothers and sold them on it. Trace made a grave error. He hadn't tested Bradleys' stock. Within one breeding season, they realized the bull was sterile. Almost. His sperm count was so low, even if they had tried artificial stimulation and implanting heifers, it would have cost them a fortune with no guarantee of calves. They'd wasted almost twenty-five grand on the bull, not to mention pasturing, feed, and the loss in new stock.

Irritated, Trace focused on his surroundings and found he was about fifteen minutes outside of Landmark. Another forty-five minutes and he'd be home. His shoulders relaxed a little. His jaw ached and his temples throbbed with a mind-numbing headache. To top it off, his stomach chose that moment to growl in protest. He hadn't eaten in eight hours, longer if counting the fact, he mostly pushed lunch around his plate.

Masters' Steakhouse Bar & Grille was a mile up the road. He'd stop there for a bite before heading home. He could probably find leftovers in the fridge, but a beer, burger, and fries was more to his taste. Coming up on the wooden structure, Trace slowed the truck and swung into the gravel lot. He put the vehicle into park, cut the engine, and opened the door, alighting from the truck, all the while racking is brain trying to figure out what "new development" Bradley and his lawyer had come up with.

* * * *

Trace ate moderately and drank heavily. A bad combination. He blamed it on Bradley. It seemed each time a solution presented itself a new problem cropped up. Frustrated, he drank.

He called his limit after the fourth one, though. He sat nursing the drink for an hour, forcing down the soggy burger and cold fries. Trace waited another fifteen minutes, until the place closed, before getting into his truck and driving home.

He wasn't drunk—that much he was certain of. Tired, his nerves frazzled by the justice system's incompetence, but not drunk. His adrenaline continued to spike whenever thoughts of Bradley surfaced. And that was still too often. spiked. Blood roared through his veins. He was madder than a bull chasing steers away from heifers about the way he'd been duped in the first place and this new postponement.

The turnoff onto the one-lane gravel road, more of a driveway to the Tumbling B—the land on both sides had been in his family for a hundred years or more.

Thought of a hot shower and bed were forefront in his mind when he topped the hill. Lights gleamed in the darkness from every window of the small cabin. "Fuck." He slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. Trace stomped the brakes. The back fishtailed before his foot eased a bit.

Anastasia assured him the house would be left intact. "The place doesn't look shut down to me," Trace yelled. His foul mood returning.

Maybe they're still there. One way to find out. Speeding up, he took the left turn into the drive a little too fast. Tires bobbled over the cattle grates. He jerked the wheel farther left to compensate for the right pull. The truck bounced along the shallow gulch for about thirty feet before he was able to ease it back onto the road.

Trace shook his head, trying to clear the fog. Dammit, his thinly veiled patience had snapped. The one thing he didn't need right now was to wreck, but also, he needed to cool down. Anger and alcohol didn't mix and he knew better. Slowing, he eased into the hard turn.

The front door stood wide open. "Shit." He slapped the wheel, again.

What was he thinking, letting Stasia use the cabin? The woman was a menace. Not true. She was a good friend who'd moved back to take care of her aging grandparents. In honor of this town—her words—she wanted to try her hand at cowboy romances. And, if truth be told, many a folk, here in Landmark and nearby Clarksville and Paris, had bought her racier novels. Information he could have lived without, but small town life didn't offer that possibility.

What the hell had possessed him to let her shoot her book cover on their land?

Yeah, something about cowboy boots and.... Trace shook his head, trying to recall. He was too damn tired to recall. Trace opened the door, slid from behind the wheel, and slammed it shut. He stood, staring, at the small structure. His great-great-great-grandfather had built the one-room dwelling for his bride, and it had been home to several Blackwell's over the years until they'd built the house deeper into the property.

"Well, this is just great!" Hands fisted on his hips, he stomped up the stairs, walked across the porch, and stepped across the threshold.

Empty. Shitdamnfuck. And, it looked as if a tornado had hit. The quilt and sheets were bunched up on the floor. The sofa was pushed up against the wall. The chair angled away from the couch. The edge of the rug was flipped over, revealing hardwood a shade darker than where it had been covered for years. Something that looked like an umbrella on legs lay on its side.

"What the hell went on here?"

His mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. Trace pulled out his phone. His finger hovered over the screen, ready to call up Stasia's number and noticed the time. Half past midnight. Trace looked up and glared at the mess before he toured the room, setting it in order. Nothing was broken; things were just not where they belonged.

No need to yell at Stasia tonight. Fatigue and the waste of the day weighed his body as he tossed the bedding back on the bed. Glancing at the soft sheets and comfortable mattress made Trace long for his own bed. He could sleep here or drive another half hour to the ranch. His drooping eyelids and the fifth yawn in the last thirty-seconds made the decision for him.

Dropping onto the mattress, he undressed and crawled onto the bed.
Chapter Two

"Aw—for crying out loud." Jacy pulled up to the cabin and cut the engine, glaring at the truck parked beside her. "What now?" She knew something was wrong the moment she rounded the curve and saw the vehicle.

"T.R.O.U.B.L.E. The story of my life," she mumbled. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck arose. "Those two are going to cost me my job." She huffed before she pried her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel. She silently seethed and thanked Nana for teaching her foresight. She had grabbed supper at the bar down the road instead of immediately heading home to Clarksville.

After she ate and drank more than she should, back-aching tired, Jacy drove to the cabin, arguing the fifteen-minute detour to make sure those two left the house in order wasn't too far out of the way. Besides, she'd go ahead and get the rest of the equipment she left when she skedaddled out of there earlier. She was certain Anastasia wouldn't be using this place—or Jacy's services, for that matter—again.

Jerking the handle, she opened the door then hesitated. It looked as if they left every light on inside. "Jerks." Jacy tore her gaze away from the building and back to the vehicle. A monstrous black truck with chrome accents. The word Platinum written on the side screamed insecure, phallic symbol. She shook her head. Models and the things they needed to feel confident about themselves.

Had Anastasia sent another model? At this time of night? In the dim light, she peered at her wrist-watch. Twelve-thirty. Nope couldn't be another guy here for a shoot—unless Tamara sent him right after her text hours ago. Jacy reached for her phone, swiped the screen—only to immediately forget her password. The right side of her mouth screwed up in concentration; she tapped in a few numbers and was relieved they worked. No new messages.

Well, she just had to make the best of a bad situation. Smug satisfaction slowly eased away some of her raw anger. She was glad she had sent the text regarding that has-been and his agent.

They deserved it after the crap they pulled.

Yeah, but this was her big break. Anastasia Barton, queen of BDSM ménage novellas, had taken a chance on unknown Jacy Rawlins with her new series, Cowboy Cover Models. Better not blow it before her career began. Jacy stared at the cabin feeling as if she already had.

Maybe she stared long enough the scene would change and she could drive on home and wearily crawl into bed.

Maybe it had nothing to do with her at all. Jacy was grasping at straws. Whatever it was, she wouldn't find out standing out here. Inhaling deeply, she twisted the handle, she laid her hand on the inside door panel and pushed. Cool night air hit her face, relieving some of the thick fog blocking her usually clear-headed thoughts. She alighted from the vehicle, the world tilted slightly and she grabbed for the handle until the dizziness passed. "Too much tequila." She giggled, tripping over the double Ts.

Her lips puffed outward as she blew out a heavy breath. She knew better than to drink.

She reached back for her bag, missing it on the first try, and then grabbed for it, as if she were lunging for a playful puppy scampering out of reach. "Okay," she said to no one, her camera case firmly in hand. "In and out fast. No putting up with overly priced egos making me lose my temper, and job." Jacy bolstered herself quietly with a running dialogue as she slowly zigzagged her way toward the house.

Her pep talk died as she stumbled up the first two steps. "Whoa." She grabbed for the rail and held tight. Guess those two baskets of chips and salsa and a plate of rice and beans weren't enough for the pitcher of margaritas she drank. Fascinated, she watched the lights inside pulsate like a kaleidoscope. She screwed her eyes shut, opened them, and blinked a few times until the flickering quit.

What in the world made her drink so much? Oh yeah, that dern character posing as a human being sent her into a drinking frenzy. Well, she'd sober up in the next hour, taking this guy's picture. And she was so charging Anastasia overtime.

That is, if she made it into the house anytime soon. Her feet were rooted to the tread for fear of losing her balance. Taking a cleansing breath, she lifted one foot and then another, surprisingly making it up the last step and across the porch, without too much mishap.

Gripping the doorframe for support, Jacy gingerly stepped over the threshold. Her eyes tracked straight to the bed. Sprawled out across it lay a man.

"What is it with models?" Jacy growled, not caring whether she woke him. Should've stayed in Paris or moved to Dallas or Houston. Couldn't—Nana needed me. She's gone now. No reason not to leave. Jacy knew the argument by heart. But she didn't have a stellar portfolio of graphic design that would get her recognized by huge firms. And except for designing logos for local businesses, she needed to pad it with more than babies, weddings, and prom videos and collages of the good folk of Clarksville, Landmark, and Paris to build her dream studio.

Anastasia hiring me is my big break.

Well, a step in the right direction. With another heavy sigh, she slowly eased her way toward the chair and dropped her bag, ducking her shoulders when it thudded to the floor instead of the padded seat.

It was just another reminder not to drink so much. Painful throbbing beat a regular tempo in her head. And she hoped the guy wouldn't notice she was tipsy. No need for him to see her this way and tattle to Anastasia.

Slowly lowering to her knees, she unzipped the bag and removed the camera and lenses. She'd take a few shots with props and then wake him. Turning and trying to stand at the same time proved difficult. The room tilted and spun. Her hand flew back and grabbed for the arm of the chair. She came away with a pair of jeans in her fist and fell unceremoniously on her butt. "Good idea. Sit, take a minute."

After incomprehensively staring at a wad of blue material in her hand, Jacy shook it; the material fell from her grasp. Painfully slow, it dawned on her what they were. Jeans. Men's jeans. Her gaze quickly shifted toward the bed where the model lay.

Massive blunder. Her stomach roiled in protest. Blinking several times, she tried to refocus her gaze. Finally, she could see more than blurred images. Her head fell to her shoulders. What was she seeing that was so important? Boots. Boots? Brown and tan with a firebird cutout in the worn leather.

With tremendous effort, Jacy brought the camera up to her face. She zoomed in, carefully adjusted to the right angle and light, and rapidly took shots with practiced ease.

Boots. Worn leather. Tan. Something about those boots was all wrong, but as she crawled to her left, and then right, snapping more shots, something was also so right. She had no idea why.

Jacy shook her head to try to clear the haze and immediately wished she hadn't. Scooting back to the chair, she grappled to gain purchase on the chair arm. She eased up on her knees and then hauled herself into a standing position. When the room stopped swirling around her like a tornado, she cautiously inched over to the bed. The smell of liquor filled her nostrils.

Ugh, just what she needed: a drunk dummy.

She snickered. Model—dummy. Ha-ha. Her hand shot to her mouth to lessen the noise. She meant mannequin. No, that wasn't right. This was a man, subject, model—not some wooden stiff. Well, maybe a little considering he was out cold.

Hahaha. She pressed her hand hard over her mouth to hold in the loud snorts. Not drunk. Can't be plastered on the job. It was official. She was sloshed and so fired. Oh well. She shrugged, feeling light as a feather as she sauntered toward the bed.

"Time to get..." Holy moly. Her words died on suddenly too-dry lips. He was a hunk. A large, naked hunk. She gawped like any red-blooded drunk woman would do, taking in tanned, muscular legs covered in a light fuzz of blond hair. Her fingers twitched. She clutched the camera to keep from dropping it.

She stared at his butt, firm and round and narrow. Jacy licked her dry lips. He had dimples. She had only seen those in photographs.

As if her hand had a mind of its own, it reached toward the sleeping figure. Jacy snatched it back drooling over his backside, wishing this man was hers. With a will she didn't know she had, Jacy forced her gaze upward, lusting over every ridge and valley in his muscular back and shoulders. His body was tanned to a deep gold hue and not from a bed or bottle but from being outdoors.

Jacy's pulse raced, roaring in her ears. She leaned on her toes, teetering slightly. If she could just see his face, hidden beneath that well-worn black Stetson. "Just a peek. Please let him be gorgeous," she said on a sigh.

It didn't occur to her to walk around the bed to look. Kicking off her sandals, she climbed up beside him, ogling his body. Gawd, he's more beautiful up close. Unable to resist any longer, her fingertips brushed up his thigh. The first touch was a shock to her system. Jacy immediately sobered and snatched her hand away. She slid her palm up his hip, and back, the friction making her belly contract and her core clench with need.

Jacy knew she should stop. It was wrong. He was a stranger. Blatantly ignoring the warnings her brain was sent her hand, she pushed the brim of his hat, letting it drop to the floor. Lying next to him, she dropped her chin in her hands and stared at the man before her.

Virile. The word blinked in her head like a neon sign. He was not runway-worthy gorgeous. But certainly handsome enough for commercials and magazines. His lips were full, sensual begging her to sample. She reached out and traced his mouth with the tip of a finger. Giggling at her boldness, Jacy snatched her hand away when the man moaned in his sleep. "No touching," She admonished.

Why? She liked the zing coursing through her body that she suspiciously knew had nothing to do with tequila. Her gaze landed on his eyes. Closed. What a shame; she'd love to see their color. Maybe blue or green or even chocolate-brown. Yes, chocolate would look good on him. Long, thick bleached-blond lashes lay against his golden skin.

Her gaze roved over his face. Thick brows, the same bleached-blond, but not unruly. His nose was long and straight and flared slightly at the end. Just right to separate wide, high cheekbones and a square jaw.

Her gaze landed on his lips, again. What did he taste like? Maybe one little kiss wouldn't hurt. Would it? He's asleep and would never know. Then she'd rest for a few minutes before she woke him and took more pictures. Jacy leaned in, careful not to disturb his sleep.

She pressed her lips to his. Soft and firm and full. Restraint flew out the window. She gently brushed her mouth over his. Feeling bold, her tongue darted out, daring to lick the lower lip. Pulling back, Jacy purred like a contented cat. It was full, soft and firm and he tasted like beer and burgers and man.

The bed beneath Jacy moved. Lips, full, firm, and sensual pressed against hers. Her eyes shot open, embarrassed at being caught. Closed. Her relieved sigh was forcefully pushed out of her as her back hit the mattress and his body settled on top of her. She clutched his shoulders, fingers tightening on thick sinew, the heat of his body scorching hers.

A Large hand wrapped her hair around a fist, angling her head to the side. Stunned, Jacy gasped. He took advantage and thrust his tongue inside. A delicious assault on her senses. Jacy needed more. She slid her hands over his sharp shoulder blades, pressing her hands into his spine trying to meld his body into hers.

His lips pressed hard into hers. Jacy expected harsh and brutal, a thorough plundering and just what she craved. Her core clenched readying itself for his assault.

He deepened the kiss. Unrestrained it was intimate and sweet yet a sinful invasion that left her weak and wanting. His heated skin beneath her palms ignited passion so intense, she thought it would incinerate the clothes from her body.

For the first time in ages, Jacy flung caution to the wind, needing to experience everything this man's kisses promised. She knew it was wishful thinking on her part. He shifted his weight, pressing his stiff cock into her mons.

Jacy's body stiffened then her legs parted further, giving him better access. This erotic imitation of a mating dance would be short-lived once he realized he wasn't dreaming. He'd accuse she took advantage of him and she couldn't deny it. For now, though, she decided to lose herself in the decadent scent and feel of this man for as long as he would allow it.

Her last coherent thought was, "Wow, even unconscious the cowboy can kiss."

# Coming late summer/fall

# A Six Pack of Stetsons: Cowboy Cover Models Book 2

After Jacy's first cover of a real cowboy was such a success, Anastasia Barton tasks her PA Tamara Brooks with finding the next cover model for her book. Seems like an easy job. Don't bet on it. Anastasia insists on the authenticity another real cowboy would bring to the series. And the woman wants none other than Jackson Taylor aka Jax or Stetson or Six Pack as the perfect man.

Tam's in trouble. Jax has set his sights on her and she can't deny she's drawn to his long lean body and bad boy ways ever since moving to Landmark, Texas. Furthermore, Jax has encouraged her infatuation. Tamara is more than willing or would be willing to "date" the man if his reputation as a cowboy Casanova didn't precede him and her sordid past lurking in the wings has her running the other way.

Jax doesn't do relationships. It's rumored he has a cowboy hat for every night of the week and he has encouraged that undeserved reputation to keep the women in his small town from slipping a ring on his finger, unh, more like his nose. But his love 'em and leave 'em ways leads to his current woes. He wants Tamara Brooks. Not just to bed, but, heck for more. She has him by the cock and she doesn't know it. Why would she? He's still hiding behind his good ole boy persona. But when he hears Anastasia wants him for her cover, it's the perfect opportunity to show Tamara he's changed. He just hopes she sees the real him.

