Claiming the Cowboys Read online

  “You want me to go, don’t you, Jackson?”

  For a moment he stared at her, face expressionless, then the cup crashed to the table, coffee spreading everywhere as he surged to his feet, reached across the table and hauled her close. He crushed his mouth on hers, his tongue probing and exploring, tangled one hand in her hair, spread the other out over her buttocks, pressing her against his swollen cock.

  He absorbed her, and when she could no longer breathe or stand he pulled his head back a little and grated out, “Does that answer your question?” He dropped his chin on her hair. “I have never wanted any woman the way I wanted you in that stable. I want you. I want Hamish. I want you both as hard and as often as you’ll let me have you.”

  He let her go and she sagged back into her seat. She’d misread the signals Jackson sent. Interpreted his need as dislike. Or was it that he tried to hide it and Hamish had done what he could to make Jackson admit his needs?

  “I’ll stay,” she said. She had to. She couldn’t walk away from this, not now. “I have two weeks off work.”

  “Don’t try to predict what will happen,” Hamish said. “Just let it be what it is.”

  Jackson took a step away from the table. A rare smile curved his lips. “Good. I’ll see you later. Hamish’s plan worked but he didn’t come up with anything to substitute for taking care of the horses.”

  Hamish stood too. “I have to help.”

  The two men hesitated. Sophie looked up, puzzled then realised they weren’t quite sure how to take their leave. She smiled. If this was going to work, she wanted to be able to take the lead when it suited her. She walked over and gave both of them a kiss and just because she could, a squeeze on their tight firm bums. Oh yes, there were definite advantages in having two men who filled their jeans out so very well.

  The familiar splash of colour painted Jackson’s cheekbones. She knew what it meant now. Not anger. Arousal.

  “Hold that thought,” she murmured.

  Hamish winked at her and they walked out the door.

  Sophie wandered into the kitchen. The men, her men, at least for now, were out doing hard work with the animals. She didn’t know enough to help with that, but she knew enough about cooking to prepare a decent meal.

  She bustled about the kitchen, feeling surprisingly good about the old-fashioned pursuit of feeding hungry working men.

  By the time they returned she had a beef casserole simmering away, rich with gravy and an assortment of vegetables. She’d hunted through cupboards and found a bottle of red wine she served with it.

  Throughout the meal, three sets of hands brushed against each other. Eyes met.

  Jackson held out a slice of beef. “This is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  The words were simple and direct. The atmosphere was heated and redolent with the spice of sexual awareness.

  Together Jackson, Hamish and Sophie washed and put away the dishes. It should have been simple and mechanical, but the dishes, slippery with suds, passed from hand to hand, and the touch of damp skin on skin was so reminiscent of the things they’d done that afternoon, Sophie shook so much that the last plate slid from her grasp, only saved from destruction by Jackson’s quick reflexes. He slammed the plate onto the rack, snatched the tea towel from her hand then lifted Sophie into his arms.

  “Enough.” He turned and strode out of the kitchen. “Hamish?”

  Hamish threw the last of the dishes into the cupboard, ignoring the crash of breaking crockery. “I love it when you go all masterful.” He threw open the door to the main bedroom. “In here.”

  Sophie’s heart pounded, her blood surging to her groin, heating her, readying her for what was to come. There was no doubt about their intentions, no doubt how much she wanted it. The only thing left to wonder about was how it was going to happen. Her mind filled with one image after another, combinations of the three of them in ways she could imagine and positions she wasn’t sure would work but which she really wanted to try.

  Jackson lowered her to the bed and the two men acted in concert to strip her of her clothes. She would have helped, would have done anything to make them hurry, but every time she tried, one or the other of them grabbed her hands and pulled them away.

  Jackson was in control. Hamish seemed able to mind read, anticipate Jackson’s requirements without the need for open communication.

  When she was naked, Jackson nodded to Hamish. He opened a drawer and pulled out of couple of silk ties. “On your knees,” Jackson ordered.

  For a moment, Sophie thought about refusing. She felt vulnerable and her earlier fears returned. Then she looked at Hamish, his eyes hot with excitement. She remembered his care with the horses, his gentleness. She was safe with him.

  Jackson’s face remained stern, but she’d seen his need. He would never be soft, would always be demanding, but he would never hurt her. If Hamish was the carer and healer, Jackson was a protector and she knew if he had to he would fight to keep safe anything he loved.

  She either trusted them or she didn’t.

  She rolled onto her stomach then raised herself onto all fours.

  Jackson wrapped one of his hard hands around her ankle, drawing it out towards the edge of the bed. Again without needing words, Hamish lashed her foot to the iron bedpost, then they repeated the process on the other side. The position opened her up, left her exposed to their gaze and she tried to twist, to bring her hands around to shield herself.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Hamish said and whipped another tie around her wrists, then bound them to the bed.

  “What are you going to do?” Sophie whispered.

  “Whatever we want,” Jackson replied. “And whatever we want, you’ll want.”

  The rough gravel of his voice sent a flurry of shivers under her skin. When Hamish slipped a scarf over her eyes and tied it tight the shivers turned to trembling that shook her whole body.

  A hand slapped down on her arse, hot and stinging. “Be calm.” It was Hamish’s voice, but the command, delivered so abruptly, confused her. Had it been his hand? Jackson’s?

  All thought fled. A warm, velvet tongue licked its way up the open lips of her sex, from the tight nub of her clit to the pucker of flesh that had never been touched in that way before. A second stroke. The same tongue? Or another. The uncertainty made her nerve endings sizzle. Her own wetness added to the moisture.

  Hands caressed her, twirling her nipples, pinching them. Delicious pain shot sparks of fire to where the tongue continued to work magic.

  Cool air washed over her, breath blown on the wet surface.

  One of the men slid under her, lips circling her clit, nibbling and licking. At the same time the other one took her from behind, driving hard into her.

  Not being able to see, not knowing who was doing what or what was going to happen next added a tantalising edge of mystery. Then the cock inside her rotated and the new angle hit a spot she hadn’t known existed. Thought fled, leaving nothing but exquisite pleasure.

  She sank into the velvet darkness. Nothing mattered. She knew she moaned but she didn’t care. Who would hear but the two men who incited them? They could drink in the sounds of her pleasure, knowing how much they pleased her, how desperately she begged them to give her release.

  The pace of the thrusts changed, driving deeper and harder, and the lips on her clit clamped down, teeth scraping lightly. She couldn’t take anymore. A scream tore from her and she imploded, quaking and pulsing, coming over and over.

  Strong hands held her up, while another pair untied her arms and legs and lastly removed the blindfold.

  Hamish looked at her, the ties in his fist, his mouth and chin glittering with her juices. Jackson pulled her back against him, his arms around her waist, still erect, still firmly lodged inside her.

  Gently he pulled back, until he came free. Both Hamish and Jackson were completely naked, their clothes removed while she’d been blindfolded.

  Jackson kissed the back of her neck. “G
ood?”

  “Oh, yes. Not being able to see was good…” She searched for a word to describe what she’d felt but failed to come up with anything adequate. “I loved it, but being able to see you two is much, much better.”

  “We’re not finished yet,” Hamish said, sending shivers of anticipation up her spine.

  Both men were rock hard.

  Jackson rolled her over and pushed her down onto her back. “So you’d like to watch?”

  “Yes.” The word was no more than a shaky puff of air, but it made him grin.

  “Hamish and I are going to make sure you have plenty to see. And do.”

  Hamish slid up beside her, a tube of lubricant in his hand.

  “Jackson’s strong,” Hamish said. “He won’t let you get hurt.”

  She knew that without being told, but she loved the way both of them looked at her, so full of care and affection.

  Jackson propped her head up on the pillow and kissed her. His need was banked, softer and gentler. He moved aside. Hamish took his place.

  When Hamish lifted his head, Jackson was waiting. He took Hamish in his arms and kissed him, licking into his mouth, arms wrapped tight around him, their bodies rubbing together. Then he looked into Hamish’s eyes. “Thank you for allowing me this precious gift of your trust. Thank you having the strength to include Sophie.” He bent and kissed Sophie’s forehead. “And, Sophie, thank you for being here. For joining with us. “

  That was when Sophie knew. She wasn’t going home tomorrow, or in a week, or two weeks. Home was here. With these men.

  She opened her arms. Jackson crawled up over her, straddling her, his weight taken on his powerful arms. He slid home, and she sighed with the feeling of fullness. Hamish knelt behind Jackson, the tube of lubricant unsealed and ready to be spread to ease his entry.

  This was a special union. All three of them together.

  She knew the moment Hamish pushed into Jackson, from the way his eyes widened then went hot and dark.

  Jackson lowered himself down to kiss her, but just as Hamish had promised, he used his strength to ensure she wasn’t crushed.

  Then Hamish began a series of long, slow surges, controlling the pace, letting each of his inward rolls push Jackson into her.

  They kept that pace going, trying to prolong the pleasure, but soon Sophie began to push back, Jackson’s breathing became heavier and Hamish’s pace picked up. As his hips rammed home, the three of them pushed and rocked together until they came in a combined rush. Sophie couldn’t tell who started, or who finished—it was as if every last thrust, contraction and sigh sensation was shared.

  When they finally untangled themselves and cleaned up, there was no question of her leaving the bed. They slept, spooned together, arms around each other, as she hoped they would every night for all their time to come.

  If she went back to the city at all, it would only be to tie up any loose ends of her life. Her home was here, with her two wonderful men.

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  The Gardener’s Sins

  Alysha Ellis

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  “Mary, I shouldn’t give this to you. It’s not right.”

  Lady Mary Linden, third daughter of the Earl of Whitten, snatched the book of Ancient Greek poetry from her cousin Harry’s hand. “Rubbish. You’ve read it. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re a female!” Harry’s voice rose in offended outrage. “Some of these poems are…um…quite shocking.”

  “You mean they’re sexually explicit,” Mary snapped.

  “The poems are from the classical Greek period. They’re not meant for women. The female constitution is delicate,” Harry said. “Excessive stimulation is harmful.”

  “You don’t really believe that nonsense you’re spouting.” Mary grinned at him. Her cousin knew her better than that. He knew she was hopelessly curious—about everything.

  “A lot of people do believe it.” He ran a hand though his hair, dislodging a straight golden lock that flopped onto his forehead. “They also say women don’t like sex.”

  “That’s probably not true either,” Mary argued. “If women were given the chance I know they would enjoy sex just as much as men do. We just never get to find out. Just like we never get to learn about History and Politics—and Ancient Greek poetry. How can I tell I won’t like something if I never get told anything about it?”

  Her cousin shook his head. “I should never have started lending you any of my books. I knew no good would come of it.”

  Mary ignored the last part of his statement. “I’m grateful for all the things I’ve learnt. I couldn’t have done it without your passing on your books to me.” She paced the floor, her steps long and fast, hardly befitting the elegant glide expected of a lady. She didn’t care, she was heartily sick of restrictions, infuriated by the list of things boys were actively encouraged to experience that were forbidden to girls.

  “But this is different. This book has poems in it that talk about things you know nothing about.”

  “Well once I read them, I will know, won’t I?” she reasoned.

  “But that’s just it. I don’t think it’ll be good for you.”

  “If I expire from hysterical over-stimulation I am sure no one would blame you.” She rested her hand on his arm. “You needn’t worry.”

  His forehead remained wrinkled and his grey-blue eyes looked distant and disturbed. “The kind of relationship the poet describes. It’s…well, most people think it’s disgusting. And it is against the law in this country.” The furrow between his eyes deepened. “I don’t know how you came to know the book existed, or why you asked me for it.”

  “I read about it in one of the other books you lent me.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “And once I read that it existed, who else would I ask about it but my wonderful cousin Harry? I knew if you had a copy you wouldn’t refuse to give it to me.”

  “When have I ever refused you anything,” he sighed.

  “Never,” she replied. “And I love you for it.”

  “I don’t want to do anything that could cause trouble. Not after all your family has done for me.”

  “Shh.” She put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare start telling me how grateful you are. And don’t talk about my family. It’s our family and always has been.”

  Mary couldn’t remember a time when Harry hadn’t lived with them. His mother, her father’s sister, had died in childbirth and his father had gambled away his fortune, ignoring the needs of his infant son. Mary’s parents had taken Harry and raised him as their own. She’d grown up loving her gentle cousin.

  “I am grateful,” he insisted. “Your father gave me a life I could never have had otherwise. But I am not his son. I may have a title but there is no money or property to go with it. I have to make my own way in the world.”

  “You know Papa would never leave you unprovided for.”

  Harry shifted from foot to foot and refused to meet her eyes. “He might change his mind if I failed to live up to his expectations.”

  “You think Papa would cut you out of his will because he found out you were lending me salacious reading material?” A spurt of laughter escaped her. “Papa is not as hidebound as that, I can promise you.” Again she laughed and waggled the book at him. “But to appease you, I’ll take the book some place no one will find me.”

  The worried look didn’t leave his eyes and he didn’t laugh with her as she’d expected. She reached up to kiss his cheek once more. “Silly. Nothing will go wrong, I promise you.”

  Tucking the book under her arm, she strolled outside, leaving Harry standing still and silent in the hallway.

  The sun shone warmly in a rare, summer-blue sky. She walked towards a shaded bench on the edge of the lawn and sat down. Three young men swept scythes from side to side, mowing the expanse of grass. They were shirtless, their backs glistening with sweat, muscles flexing as they bent and
stretched. Their hypnotic rhythm kept her motionless and enthralled until one of them looked up and saw her then nudged the others. All three stopped and straightened.

  Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she stood and moved away, following a path that led between the trees to a little wilderness. Overhead, interlocking branches provided cool shade and the soft cooing of doves mixed in lazy harmony with the drone of bees. This was just what she wanted. Somewhere remote, rustic, but still safe within the confines of her father’s estate.

  Another path branched off the main one, narrower, scattered with twigs and mushy, decomposing leaves left from last autumn. Clearly few people ever came this way. The deserted pathway lured her. After a few yards it narrowed even more and turned sharply. She glanced behind her. The main house, the lawns and the gardeners were completely hidden from sight. Mary shrugged and strolled on.

  Ten minutes later she broke out of the trees. A small lake twinkled in the sunlight. A pair of white swans floated peacefully on the surface. On the far edge of the lake stood a small building, its white painted walls almost smothered by thick clusters of pink climbing roses. Arched windows were set into the walls, their shape echoed in the double doors at the entrance. The enchanting scene drew her forward.

  As she placed her foot on the step that led to the front doors, she hesitated. She had an odd sense that she ought to knock. She dismissed the idea at once. The summerhouse was on her father’s estate. And she had every right to enter. She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it.

  The door opened silently and she stepped inside. A mosaic tiled floor depicting a hunting scene led to an oversized daybed pushed up against a wall. If the summerhouse was infested with mice or rats, there was no sign of them. The entire place was remarkably tidy and well maintained for a deserted building.

  The musky scent of roses and the warm, dappled sun falling through the latticework windows made it a perfect place for her to read Harry’s book.