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“Sure is,” she agreed, letting her smile turn saucy. “Might be quicker, too. No reason we have to walk it.”
When they swung up into their saddles, she squeezed Gypsy’s sides so she started up the hill at a lope, galloping down its far side. Hank urged Cuervo on, catching up, and they raced on, letting fresh air whip their hair and whistle across their shirts as they raced across rolling pastures back to Hobble Creek Ranch.
Slowing to a walk, they let the horses cool before crossing the creek again. Back behind her house, Hank told her, “I’ve been running the ranch myself all this year, doin’ all the books, too. My daddy’s dialysis is working, but we don’t know for how long. He’s ready to retire. He and Momma are looking at places down on the coast.”
Hank sounds just like Ty McGreer. Why did it surprise her? He’d grown up the way Ty did, putting in a full day’s work from the first light of morning ‘til well past dark, weekends and holidays, too. But Ty was almost thirty.
It felt odd, listening to Hank describe the work he’d do for the rest of his life, when Daisy had given so little thought to what she wanted to do with hers. She liked her job at McGreer’s, working young horses and pitching a hand wherever else she was needed, but she wasn’t content, not by any means. Her feet had been itchy since high school, a restless uneasiness that had gotten worse since Buck’s death.
But while Hank was managing a fortune in land and cattle, she was barely rubbing two dimes together, with no plans beyond this season’s rodeo finals.
With nothing to say, Daisy stayed quiet.
By the time they reached her yard, the horses were only warm, damp at the chest but not a bit sweaty. They hadn’t said a word about what was going to happen next between them, but that didn’t stop Hank from taking his saddle from Cuervo’s back and letting the tall bay gelding loose in the small corral next to Gypsy.
Carrying both saddles, he followed her, passing under the shady cottonwoods that Daddy had planted before she was born, entering the small, ramshackle barn.
It was cool inside, smelling of fresh Bermuda hay and sweet, good grain. She put her saddle on its rack with the blanket face up so it would dry out. “Thank your mom for the picnic for me, Hank.”
“Sure.” He put his saddle on the stall door and stepped closer, eyes solemn. Cupping her elbows with his hands, his voice was quiet. “I like being with you, Daisy Mae. Feels like there’s somethin’ right about you and me together.”
“Does it?” It wasn’t really a question; she knew what he meant. To show him she understood, she stood up on tip-toes and touched her mouth to his lips, smooth and firm, underneath hers. He stroked her hair, letting his hand fall to her waist.
“Daisy,” he breathed. “I just really want. . .” His words trailed off as the tips of their tongues touched, and then he was kissing her back, holding on like she really meant something to him.
Her hands snuck up under his t-shirt to the damp hollow of his back. Then they moved around his ribs, up over smooth, muscular chest. When she pressed a hand to his heart and felt its solid beat, the hairs in the ridge between his chiseled pectorals tickled her fingertips. She reached for the little nests around his nipples, nubs that grew hard as her fingertips wandered across them.
He groaned, taking her mouth with a quick thrust of his tongue, then licking inside slowly, so she felt its thick, rough, taste-bud texture. A long trail of desire and need unfurled from behind her breasts, coiling into her nipples and then down between her legs, where it thickened and pulsed, reminding her of what the long months watching Daddy die had taken from her.
Physical desire was in no short supply when she looked into the eyes of the male riders that stood at the edge of the rodeo party tent, biding their time. Any of that hard-muscled band would happily take a girl back to their trailer for a one-and-done night of passion. She didn’t want that, and she couldn’t endure the reckless heartbreak of another T.J., not after losing Daddy. She had nobody but Daphne to count on, and sometimes that wasn’t enough.
Hank had been so careful, even from a distance, considerate and respectful all these years. But could she trust Hank Gallagher? Could she count on him?
Daphne thought so.
She let her hands move down his taut-muscled back into the waistband of his jeans, where she found the two firmest loaves of butt muscle she’d ever put palms to. Suddenly, she knew she could be naughty with Hank, badder than she’d ever been with a boy. . . That would be fun.
“Daisy,” he groaned, putting his big hands to her armpits, hoisting her against the wall. Still kissing him, she put her elbows to his shoulders and wrapped her thighs around his hips. “You’re about killin’ me, here,” he breathed, letting his hands drop to her denim-clad butt.
As he tongue-thrust her, she used her calves to pull him close so his hard bulge fit right into the crotch of her jeans. “Uhh, Daize,” he sighed, clutching at her thighs, pinning her back against the wall, kissing her like they’d never stop. Her ankles crossed behind his butt, and she rocked against him. Everything began to spin, and she whispered, “I think you’re right, Hank Gallagher. We’ve got somethin’ special here. It feels real good between us.”
*****
Hank unbuttoned the topmost tiny buttons of Daisy’s thin plaid cotton shirt and found her pale breasts clad in a fancy bra. The pink satin and lace surprised him—another Daisy surprise. He hadn’t expected her underthings to be so girly. Kissing her lips, he worked his way down the buttons, exposing a tight, flat belly.
She shrugged her shirt off impatiently. Bare shoulders exposed, she looked like a virgin angel against the barn wall as the glow of afternoon shone through the windows, making her hair glint like spun gold.
He kissed her again and again, until every one of Daisy’s sharp edges was gone and her soft flesh and melty little sounds were just for him. Wresting a palm in, he fondled each plump, satin-clad breast gently, then unsnapped the front clip so her bra popped off. Delicious peachy orbs bounced free, and her rose-tinted nipples grew irresistibly hard as his fingertips stroked them. “Your sister inside?” he asked, lips to her ear.
“Her car’s gone. She works tonight.”
Unable to believe his luck, Hank took Daisy’s mouth, her neck, and then her nipples. Rolling his tongue over her little pink nubs, he sucked and teased until she gasped, rocking her hips against his bulge; it felt like pure sin, and made him hard enough to pound iron. A hunger he’d never felt before coursed through him, but he didn’t want to rush her, not when she’d seemed so undecided earlier, back on the blanket. Her strong arms clutched his neck, her thighs tightened to his hips. Begging for more, she ground against him, moaning, “Hank, let’s do this.”
“You want to wait? We sure can, Daize. Nothin’ wrong with just takin’ our time,” he hissed, wondering how long he could keep control. Olive-striped eyes dizzy with heat, her eager hands fell to his belt buckle.
“This is so good between us,” she breathed, “I don’t want to stop, Hank.” She went a little wild then. Her mouth, full and pouty from all his kissing, took over as her hands moved to his crotch, cupping the denim of his jeans. His package strained against it. Tongue stroking into his hungry lips, she whispered, “I want some of this, Hank Gallagher. What have you got in here?”
He chuckled low, licking her neck down to her bare collarbone, making her shudder, then let his tongue taste all the way across her shoulder. “You want the good stuff, Daisy Mae? I’ve got plenty of it, just for you.”
