Page 19 of My Cowboy Temptation

Chapter 6

Callie

When I openmy eyes the next morning, it takes me a few seconds to recognize where I am.

That’s right. The cabin.

Immediately, images from last night flood my mind, images of me giving a tantalizing strip tease to Brody that he tried valiantly to resist. I don’t know what finally pushed him past his limits, but I’ll forever remember the look of desire and determination in his eyes as he planted himself between my thighs and licked and sucked me until I came.

Snuggling back into the covers, I close my eyes as I remember some of the better sensations. Like the tickling of his beard on my thighs, his thick, rough fingers pushing inside me as my legs widened to him. Of his very dexterous tongue as it lapped at my clit with such fervor he put my best vibrator to shame.

Just remembering it all is getting me worked up all over again.

Which brings me to wondering… where is the cowboy in question?

I sit up slowly and look around. The blanket he slept under is folded on top of the couch, and the fire he built last night is blazing again, telling me it’s been tended to since then.

But Brody is nowhere in sight. I glance over to the bathroom that’s dark now, the door left open. Last time I saw Brody, he was shutting that door behind him. I’d fallen asleep listening to the soft grunts coming from the other side that told me he was likely thrusting his cock through his fist, wishing he were inside me.

What had he said just before he pulled away from me?

When we do this, I need you to be dead sober, knowing the consequences of what we’re going to do.

When we do this. Not, the whole, it’s never going to happen that he’s been saying these past days.

If we do this…if we do this…

Hope and excitement, and definitely a whole load of lust, has me sitting up in bed and reaching for my phone from the nightstand. It’s not even seven in the morning. Making this an unheard-of hour for me to be awake. For Brody, however, it’s the start of his work day, meaning he’s probably off making sure everyone is up and doing what they need to be doing to keep the operation of this ranch running smoothly. It’s unlikely I’ll see him again until tonight.

There’s nothing on my schedule for this early Monday morning, and I know I could just sleep a little longer before running up to the house for breakfast. But I’m not the least bit tired, and I doubt I could fall asleep again even if I want to. I’m feeling energized and something else I haven’t felt in a long time.

Inspired.

I throw off the covers, the cool morning air tickling my skin, and I search the room for my clothes, spotting my bra and my dress on the floor. I also notice a black flannel shirt folded on the foot of the bed that looks vaguely like one I’ve seen Brody wear before.

He left it for me. Probably guessing correctly that the gauzy, short dress I wore last night isn’t going to keep me warm in the early morning temperatures of May in northern Montana. I reach over and pull the shirt up to my nose, inhaling the unmistakable scent of Brody Dalton, of leather and musk and tobacco from his evening cigars that have left their imprint on his skin.

Unlike some women who might recoil from any hint of cigar or cigarette smoke, I don’t find it similarly distasteful. For me, it invokes memories of evenings on the ranch, sitting out on the porch on a rocking chair or tangled over a fence by the paddock, listening to the wranglers recap their day, smoking and drinking and laughing with each other while I enjoyed their warm camaraderie and the comfort of being close to the two men I loved so dearly, even then. My dad and Brody.

I push my arms through the sleeves and bring it to my face for another deep breath, then do the buttons up and scamper from the bed. My panties are still missing, and after a thorough search of the floor, the couch cushions, and any other place I can think of, I come up empty. Leaving only one last place they can be.

With Brody.

Feeling a little smug, I head to the closet and search through the supplies that haven’t been touched since high school. There are some blank canvases, some finished paintings, some works-in-progress, brushes that were at least cleaned properly before they were tucked away, and watercolors and oil paint that may or may not be past their prime. I pull them all out, along with an easel, and set everything up by the window.

Normally, I don’t usually start to paint until I have a clear idea of what I’m working on, which I usually find through my sketches. But I’m too impatient for that, and I just want to see the bright stroke of paint against the canvas, maybe see if I can emulate the soft pinks in the sky as the sun prepares to rise in the sky out the window or the lush green grass that fills the open meadow. Or maybe the bright, happy yellow of the sagebrush buttercup that’s spreading across the hills.

It’s not long before I’m lost in my work, and even though a cup of coffee sounds incredibly delicious, I don’t want to stop my momentum by bothering with walking up to the house and having to answer questions about my night. It’s only when my phone rings that I pause to look around the room to see where I left it, wondering as I do what the chances are that it might be Brody wanting to check in on me.

Spotting it on the nightstand, I race over and pick it up.

The caller ID flashing on my screen confirms it’s not Brody, however, but the international number flashing is no less heart-stopping.

Twenty minutes later, I hang up the phone in shock. Theodore De Longer—the Theodore De Longer—wants me to come to London and work as his assistant in two weeks’ time. This is a huge win for a novice artist who has always wanted to be introduced to the international art scene with the hope that my career would only go up from here.

A prospect that excites me and gives me a sense of accomplishment, and yet…

It only leaves me with two weeks. Two weeks to figure out if anything is there between Brody and me. A guy who tells me that nothing can happen in one breath and in the next is kissing me and touching me like no one else, treating me like I’m a fucking piece of art deserving of reverence and adoration.

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