Texas Trio Pt. 02 - Becky's Debt Ch. 19-20

Again he didn't wait for her to finish. "You're going to get yourself killed, Miss Connor, sneaking around like this." Brody re-holstered the Colt without releasing her. "I thought you were a burglar."

She swallowed, trying to sound calm and reasonable. "Well, obviously I'm not, so you can let me go now."

Brody didn't move, at least not the way she wanted. Instead, he shifted his weight, one hand landing on the wall next to hers. "As a matter of fact, how do I know you aren't a burglar?"

Becky didn't know exactly where he was headed, but she didn't need specifics to feel the danger. Sparks of alarm skittered up her spine. "Let me go, Brody, before I scream."

Brody noticed the slip before she did– it was the first time she'd used his Christian name. His low, rough chuckle sent a chill chasing the sparks, while the warmth pooling between her legs proved her body was as conflicted as her brain.

"If anyone was close enough to hear you, Miss Connor, the first thing they'd discover is that you're riding around the ranch in trousers again and that you arrived here by your own steam. So, you go right ahead and holler."

Brody's lips brushed against her hair, and Becky inhaled sharply. Neither moved for a moment. Her head was swimming, the warm, male smell of his skin assailing her senses. "Brody–"

The tempo of her breathing told him what he needed to know. He didn't think he'd been wrong about her reaction in the stable: she was excited now, as she'd been excited then. What exactly was exciting her remained to be seen.

"Maybe you stole something before I arrived." Brody smiled wickedly, moving his foot between her own. "I think I better check, don't you?"

His hands on the wall below her elbows would have prevented any interference as he nudged her feet apart, but Becky never thought to struggle. She closed her eyes, reveling in the feeling of his hard body pressed against her. She'd thought of little else since that day in the stable, and she was going to give in and enjoy it for a few brief moments this time. After all, it wasn't like she had a choice.

When first he touched her, she jumped, but as he stroked from her lower arm inward, she hardly dared to breathe. When he moved from her arm to her side, his fingertips brushed the outer curve of her breast and Becky shivered. Nobody had ever touched her there.

Brody inhaled her scent as his hand swept downward, dipping slowly into the curve of her waist and out over the swell of her hip. He used every bit of willpower he had withstanding his desire. He wanted to lean his weight fully against her, to slot his cock between the soft mounds of her bottom and let her feel how she excited him.

As much as he wanted to claim her physically, though, Brody wanted something else more. He wanted Becky to give in, to admit she felt the same way he did and acknowledge the heat between them. So instead of thrusting his hips at her, he leaned his head forward, his lips moving against the soft flesh of her neck.

"Turn around."

"Brody, I–" She didn't know what she would have said, but he stopped her there.

"Now, Becky."

She trembled when he used that voice. Closing her eyes, she began to turn.

"Keep your hands up."

Becky did as she was told, until her back was to the wall, her heaving breasts only millimeters from Brody's broad chest. With her eyes closed, she could feel his heat.

Brody never moved, so she ended up still against the wall, still between his hands. He used his foot to spread hers apart again. "Open your eyes."

Slowly, she shook her head.

His weight shifted, and Becky felt the top button of her shirt spring free. Her eyes opened then, her nostrils flaring delicately. She didn't look down at her blouse, though, but up, at Brody's mouth.

He felt it like a hammer to the gut. The desire in her eyes, the direction of her gaze, the subtle softening of her expression. Her arms were pressed against the wall as firmly as though he'd shackled her there, but Becky's fingers were relaxed, her posture complaisant: she knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was to do as Brody asked.

He'd meant to play, to see how far toward total submission he could push her, but he found that he was the one submitting. Not touching her otherwise, Brody bent his knees and kissed her.

Unlike the first two times he'd kissed her, Becky responded instantly, tilting her head as her mouth molded itself to his. When Brody's tongue slid tentatively between her lips, Becky responded in kind, and again Brody was the one to capitulate. Unable to maintain the emotional and physical distance he needed to bend Becky's will to his own, Brody couldn't tolerate even the six inches of air between them. He straightened, pulling her into his arms.

Becky forgot she was supposed to keep her hands against the wall and wrapped her arms around his neck, instinctively pressing her body to his. Brody was so much taller than her that her toes barely touched the ground, but his grip around her waist supported her. Her hands were free to roam the broad shoulders, and her fingers entangled themselves in the hair on the back of his head. Without realizing it, she tugged furiously, trying to pull his mouth closer to hers.

Brody rolled his shoulders back, pulling her higher and tighter as he straightened. She slid upward over the leg he'd thrust between her thighs in order to "search" her properly.

Becky moaned against his mouth as Brody dragged her most intimate flesh upward over his long, hard thigh, their skin separated only by a few thin layers of fabric.

Brody could feel the womanly heat of her through their two pairs of trousers, and imagined he could feel her wetness, too. He groaned and shifted his hands, one moving to her side and the other pulling her more firmly against him.

Becky arched her back and tore her mouth from his, keening.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, attacking the buttons of her shirt one-handed while he tried to keep her pinned astride his leg. She was wiggling so much it was a wonder she hadn't climbed all the way to his shoulders. Brody groaned again, imagining the soft skin of her naked thighs wrapped around his head. He finally got her shirt undone and pushed it aside. He didn't bother with the buttons of the silk chemise she wore: he lifted her to his mouth and bit one side while pulling the other, tearing the garment down the middle. As his fingers dipped inside her shirt, his lips traced a hot path along the side of her neck.

Becky's hips froze, and for a long moment she didn't move at all. Brody was the first person ever to touch her there, the first man to see more than the upper slope of her breasts. When his warm palm curved around her, she released the breath she'd been holding and relaxed into his embrace.

Brody's touch was a combination of the softest breeze and the hottest lava, sending flames licking along her flesh and shivers climbing her spine. His fingers traced teasing circles around her nipple and Becky whimpered, wanting more.

Brody obliged, cupping her breast and letting the broad surface of his thumb brush against the peak. Focused intently on her smallest reaction, he repeated the motion more slowly, dragging his thumb across the pebbled nub.

Becky quivered, her muscles trembling as she unconsciously clutched at him.

Brody lifted his head to see her face.

Her eyes were closed, a tiny furrow creasing the skin between her brows. Her head was tipped back, her lips slightly pursed and parted.

He couldn't resist; he tasted.

Suddenly, Becky's stillness dissolved, her entire being centered on getting closer to Brody.

Becky wasn't aware of the way her body surged against him, but Brody knew what she needed. The hand on her lower back went lower still, cupping one lusciously round cheek. He pressed upward and inward. Pulling her higher on his thigh, he rocked his hips.

Becky arched her back, trying to direct the sensation where she needed it so desperately.

He helped, shifting his thigh from side to side, using the weight of her body to part the swollen folds between her legs. When the center seam of her trousers came in contact with her most sensitive flesh, Becky shuddered, and Brody took over, moving her body for her. The large hand on her bottom lifted and lowered, lifted and lowered, his fingers sweeping in to squeeze her thigh, pressing the folds apart and exposing her clit more fully to the delicious friction created by his leg between her own.

Her hand fisted in his hair, and Brody smiled grimly at the tiny tug; his erection was causing him far more pain than her fingers in his hair. He released her lips and opened his eyes to watch the pleasure play across Becky's face. She was panting now, no longer squirming but tilting her hips in tempo with his hands working her pussy against his thigh. Brody had everything he could do not to rend the two pairs of trousers into a mound of shredded threads to get his cock inside her, but watching Becky's arousal was its own sweet reward.

The wrinkle between her brows softened and her mouth opened wider as a sheen of sweat began to glisten at her temples and throat. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, and rosy with the rush of blood beneath her skin. The sight of her pursed and parted lips alone would have brought Brody to full arousal if he weren't already there; there was no way to see her like that and not think of those lips wrapping themselves around his cock, though it wasn't something he ever expected to see.

Becky's entire being was centered on the delicious sensations radiating from the secret skin between her folds. She couldn't feel the subtle shaking of Brody's big body as his soul came apart, but Brody knew the exact moment his epiphany occurred.

Becky's body writhing against him showed Brody not just the depth of his desire, but the true nature of the heat flooding his veins, because no mere infatuation had ever been able to wring such pleasure from his heart in response to someone else's satisfaction. He was hard as a rock, sweating and in a great deal of existential and physical pain at having to restrain himself, yet he was more complete in that moment than he'd ever been when burying himself in another woman's flesh.

He wasn't just infatuated with Becky Connor. This wasn't a temporary affair. He loved her. There was no woman on earth who could possibly compare to the woman in his arms. She was complicated and stubborn, reckless, immature, and didn't know what was good for her yet– namely, Brody Easton– but she was the only woman for him.

Brody lowered his head to nibble at her lower lip, feeling her tension. He turned slightly to one side, which had the dual effect of allowing him easier access to her breasts and lessening the stimulation of his penis. If he wasn't careful, he'd come in his pants like an over-eager schoolboy.

He dragged his rough knuckles up and down across the tip of the breast he'd been neglecting. Despite their blocky, workmanlike form, Brody's hands were sensitive, so the tiny, velvet nub scraping across the back of his hand gave him as much pleasure as it gave Becky. She gasped when his two first fingers pinched it between them, tweaking up and away from her body.

The twinge of sensation shot in a fiery line from her nipple to her molten core, and the tension in her lower body rose to an unbearable level. Brody's thumb tweaked the aching tip of her left breast now, pressing it firmly against the side of his hand as he turned his palm up, cupping her swollen breast and pinching the nipple. Pinch and pull, pinch and pull, in time with the motions of her hips against his thigh. A few more tugs and Becky broke, a low wail slipping between her lips as her body convulsed.

Brody held her close, watching with painful satisfaction as waves of sensual delight flowed across Becky's face. Her legs clutched at his, her arms clamped down around his shoulders, her slim body arched.

One last shudder ran through her body as her climax receded, leaving her limp and clinging to Brody's shoulders. Her amber eyes blinked open, meeting the fierce arrogance of Brody's stare as he studied her face. That look– and the knowledge he'd been watching her– was enough to set off another small ripple within her, and Becky quivered in his arms, blinking in confusion. When the pulsations of her inner muscles quieted, she smiled shyly, lowering her hands and hiding her face against his body.

Brody's arms tightened around her. The furious timpani of Becky's heartbeat slowed, but Brody's was thundering in his chest. He bit back the nearly overwhelming urge to tell her how he felt and settled for kissing the top of her head as he stroked her back, soothing her.

Becky shivered, her thoughts adrift.

If he hadn't been afraid someone would find them there like that, Brody would have let her linger in his arms, hoping she'd fall asleep. He could have tucked her into bed and wrapped his body around her, waiting for her to wake so he could make love to her properly, with her clothes off. With his clothes off.

Brody grimaced, thinking of the rough cornhusk mattress. Maybe not. He kissed her hair again, lowering his thigh. The woman in his arms deserved piles of down and silken pillows, a suite at the Grand in Paris. Even his richly appointed room at the Scribe wouldn't have been good enough for Becky Connor.

Becky's legs shook as he stood her gently on her feet, but Brody kept his arms around her waist, supporting her weight.

She was too tired for embarrassment, but she didn't know how to breach the awkward silence.

Brody took care of that, leaning back to see her face as he spoke sternly down to her. "Now, see what happens to burglars around these parts, young lady? Let that be a lesson to you!"

With a hiccup of surprise, Becky dissolved in giggles, falling forward against his chest.

Brody smiled in satisfaction, ignoring the throbbing needs of his body. He took care to hold himself turned slightly away. She'd be fragile enough in these circumstances without encountering the evidence of his desire. He stroked her spine and shoulders, and shifted his weight away from her. With his hands on either side of her head, he tilted her face up for one last sweet, tender taste of that delicious mouth.

She met his eyes less shyly this time, he noted as he brushed her hair away from the dampness at her temples.

He bit back another impulse to declare himself and turned away, giving her a chance to straighten her clothing while he stepped outside to make sure no one was nearby to see her leave.

Taking her hand, he walked her out in companionable silence.

Becky mounted by herself, though she was somewhat surprised her legs could hold her, and trotted away toward the ranch-house, looking over her shoulder once to find Brody watching her departure.

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From the laurel bushes near the creek, Lemuel watched her leave, wondering what the hell Becky Connor was getting up to in the cowhands' bunkhouse. When he'd seen her ride out alone this afternoon, he'd mounted up fast as a darkie fleein' a lynch mob, his elation lending wings to his galloping descent from the ridge line, and his spurs lending wings to the nag he was riding. Fortunately for him, a couple bends in the creek meant she had a longer ride than he did, and he was already waitin' at the south side of the bunkhouse when Becky rode up. She'd confused him for a minute, because he'd meant to ambush her as she went past, but she didn't go past. She dismounted behind the building– thank Jesus he'd left his horse in the trees– and gone inside.

He waited for a few minutes to see if she'd come back out, then thought better of going in there unarmed. What if she was meetin' some cowboy? He didn't hear anything, but he didn't want to risk it. As he was creeping 'round the back to see if she had a rifle on her mount, a sound from the front made him freeze. Was she comin' out?

He crept around to the side again, listening. The faintest of jingles told him the newcomer wore spurs, and none of the women on the ranch wore spurs.

Goddammit! If some shit-eatin' cowboy got to her before Lem did, he was gonna . . . he couldn't think of anything bad enough, short of killin' somebody, and killin' stirred up more trouble than it was generally worth.

Becky's voice silenced the rambling voices in his head and, sure enough, a man answered her.

Shit, shit, shit, and Goddammit!

Lem leaned against the bunkhouse wall, his ears working overtime trying to decipher what they were saying, but he only caught a word here and there. He peeked around the back, but Becky's horse was tied right between the two windows at the back of the building, and he didn't dare go around front, 'specially since her rifle scabbard was empty.

He waited a few minutes, getting more and more antsy, worryin' about the men comin' back and seeing him here, then took off walking fast through the cornfield for the trees where his horse was hidden. He'd wired his spurs down weeks ago, so they didn't make any noise. Cut the horse sometimes, since they didn't spin, but the nag was worthless, anyway.

When she came out half an hour later, holdin' hands with a tall, lean cowhand, it was plain to see she wasn't fightin' whatever that cowboy had been doin' to her in the bunkhouse.

Lem went back to cursing under his breath as Becky trotted off toward the main house, spoiling his plans again, since there was no place he could get to her between here and there. He swung the bi-noculars back to find the cowboy still standin' there, starin' like a moonsick hound.

Lem drew in a breath and held it, squeezing the bi-noculars absolutely motionless against the bridge of his nose. It wasn't from the KCW, but he knew that cowboy from somewhere. Lem watched the man until Becky was outa sight, when he lifted his hat to swipe his hair back.

"Sonofabitch!" Lem hissed.

It was that too-pretty city-boy him and Ernesto had sent up here a couple months ago with a tale that shoulda got the bastard killed! What the hell was he doin' alive, chasin' after Becky Connor? The bastard went back in the bunkhouse, leaving Lem with nothing to do but creep back across the stream and sneak up into the hills, where he'd wait some more. 'Cuz someday soon Becky Connor would go out riding with no Clancy, no Co-chise, and no goddamn cowboy to protect her.

Then he'd see if Ernesto would still have a cherry to pop, or if they'd both be bouncing on used goods. Either way, it didn't matter to Lem.

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