Page 88 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

Then she squeezed her eyes tight and started to move. Holding onto his shoulders, starting slow before building up, the taut wire stretching out again, through her whole body.

She rode him harder, sweat beading over her skin, his hands moving over her curves before gripping her hips and holding on tight.

“Oh... Zack,” she said.

She wasn’t ready for the second climax. It crashed over her like a wave, sudden and shocking, moving through her whole body, taking her over completely.

It was enough to send him over, too. He thrust up into her two more times before freezing, fingers digging hard into her flesh as he gave up control, his head falling back, his expression that of a man in pain, a harsh groan on his lips.

Then he released his hold on her, his arms thrown back above his head, his chest rising and falling sharply with each breath.

“Dammit,” he said, short and sharp.

“What?” She got off him, her hand still planted on his chest, her heart beating fast. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just... I couldn’t think of anything else to say because I think you might have killed me.”

She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm. “You’re still alive. I can feel it.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure...yep, pretty sure I’m dead.”

“Because it was good? Or are you now an emotionally scarred ghost due to some terrible error in my intercourse technique?”

“Because I didn’t remember sex was this damn good,” he said, rolling onto his side.

“So the condoms weren’t from a recent encounter with Marsha?”

He looked stricken. “What? No. I mean...she probably made sure they were here. Trying to keep me out of trouble. I think she’s of the opinion I land on the evolutionary scale several positions below her basset hound. That is an ugly dog. She thinks he’s beautiful.”

“Who is Marsha?”

“Do you really want to talk about this now?”

“Only if she’s your lover or your wife.”

“None of the above. She’s my manager.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Your manager?”

“Oh...artsy shit.” He waved his hand. “Not a big deal.”

She flashed back to the fox. “What kind of artsy...stuff?”

“I’m an artist, I guess,” he said, looking painfully uncomfortable.

“You’re an artist?” she asked, feeling completely incredulous that the rather rough, uncultured man who’d just taken her against a wall was an artist. “That’s how you make your living?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s...incredibly hard to do.”

He lifted a shoulder. “I got lucky. I got some recognition for some things early on. And then I signed on with Marsha and she’s...well, she’s not a basset hound. She runs more toward pit bull. But that’s what you want in a manager, right?”

“I suppose you do.”

“I’m here for a gallery thing,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “I’m not very comfortable with any of it yet.”

It was so weird, sitting on a stranger’s bed, naked, talking about work.

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