Читать книгу Cody - Kimberly Raye - Страница 9

HE WAS THE SEXIEST COWBOY she’d ever seen.

Which said a lot because Miranda Rivers had become quite the expert over the years.

Thanks entirely to her mother—part-time B is for Beautiful independent makeup consultant and full-time buckle bunny—Miranda had witnessed hundreds of Stetsons bobbing through the front door of the single wide trailer where she’d grown up. A parade that had continued as her two older sisters had matured and carried on their mother’s weakness for men with tight Wranglers, starched shirts and a wild and reckless charm.

It was a weakness that had eventually killed Chastity Rivers.

She’d fallen too hard, too fast, for a man who’d rejected her. She’d been so devastated that she’d killed herself and left her daughters to finish raising themselves.

Miranda had been fourteen at the time.

Lucy and Robin had been older, sixteen and nineteen, but it had been Miranda who’d stepped up to take the lead in the family. She’d cleaned the house and cooked dinner while her sisters had strutted their stuff, stayed out all night and stirred up as much gossip as possible.

Time had changed little. Lucy worked at a nearby bar and partied away her earnings while Robin played groupie to a local country band.

They were still the baddest girls in town.

They always had been, and Miranda had been guilty by association.

The entire school had started calling her Restroom Randy back during her sophomore year. A nickname she’d been given when Ray McGuire—junior calf roper and the first cowboy to ever catch her eye—had started a running list on the boy’s bathroom wall of all the places Miranda Rivers had gotten down and dirty.

Restroom Randy’s Hottest Sex Spots.

All lies, of course. He’d been pissed because she’d turned him down in the backseat of his Daddy’s Chevy and he’d wanted to get back at her. He’d started the list, claiming they’d gone all the way not only in the Chevy, but in the front loader of his John Deere, the back alley behind the Piggly Wiggly, the gazebo in the middle of town square, the men’s restroom at the local drive-in, beneath the bleachers at the football stadium, smack dab in the middle of the local rodeo arena and the front porch of his family’s home.

Miranda had seen the list only once. She’d been sixteen and desperate to know why the entire school was snickering behind her back. A quick duck into the boy’s john and she’d found out. The various locations written in red marker had branded themselves into her brain. She’d been mortified and determined to lose the Restroom Randy image.

She’d hated being one of those girls. Trashy. No good. An outsider. She’d wanted to fit in. To feel accepted. To feel safe.

She’d never had any security growing up. Nothing that she could count on. Sometimes she’d had lunch at school. Sometimes she hadn’t. Sometimes her mother had been home at night. Sometimes she hadn’t. Sometimes she’d had her sisters to keep her company. Sometimes they’d been too busy to care. It had been a roller-coaster ride, and Miranda had wanted off.

She’d wanted a smooth, calm carousel tour and so she’d spent her time studying rather than socializing, determined to trade her unstable existence for something solid. She’d graduated at the top of her class and worked her way through college to earn a sociology degree.

She’d been the activities coordinator at the Skull Creek Senior Center for eight years now. A volunteer at the local library for six. She baked cookies for the ladies auxiliary once a month and chaired an annual fundraising committee for the local food bank. She did her best to steer clear of her sisters and surround herself with people she could count on—the old folks at the senior center and the few people around town who didn’t hold her past against her. Since Robin spent most of her time on the road and Lucy only showed up when she wanted money, keeping her distance was relatively easy. Even more, Miranda only dated the kind of men that a woman could count on—nice, conservative, professional types who didn’t know the first thing about roping a cow or riding a horse or getting down and dirty in a hayloft.

She’d finally found stability, but she was still missing one thing.

Acceptance.

It was close. Her boyfriend of three months had finally proposed to her via e-mail before he’d left yesterday for a seminar in Houston.

It hadn’t been the most exciting proposal, but then Greg wasn’t the most exciting guy. He wore khakis and white button-down shirts and, as owner of a local dry cleaning chain, spent his days neck-deep in spot cleaner and starch. He was practical. Nice. Safe.

He was also well-respected. His father had been the mayor once-upon-a-time and Greg himself served as president of the local chamber of commerce.

When Greg walked into the Piggly Wiggly, the female clerks didn’t stare daggers at him and the stock boys didn’t leer. When he waved at old Mr. Witherspoon, the man actually nodded instead of spitting a stream of tobacco juice at his shoe.

Miranda wanted the same acceptance. Or, at the very least, civility. Marrying Greg would give her that.

So why haven’t you given him an answer yet?

Because. It was a big step. One she didn’t feel comfortable taking via the Internet. She wanted to tell him in person. She would tell him. He was a good man from a good family and she was definitely marrying him. Even if he wasn’t that great in bed.

Sex wasn’t everything.

She knew that.

At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have an orgasm with an actual man rather than a battery-operated body part.

Buck was the heavy-duty vibrator she’d purchased for her twenty-first birthday. Instead of hitting the local honky tonk to celebrate—Lucy’s idea—she’d opted to stay home with a frozen pizza and a Bonanza marathon. A few episodes featuring Little Joe and she’d had her first case of horny.

Not that she’d inherited her mother’s crippling weakness for cowboys.

There was a big difference between an addiction and mild infatuation. Infatuation brought on by an extreme case of denial. She’d developed a No Cowboy policy early on and so it only made sense that she’d started fantasizing about the one thing she could never have. A tall, dark man in a Stetson. Touching her. Kissing her. Giving her a delicious, toe-curling orgasm. She’d wondered every now and then what it would feel like, a curiosity that had killed any and all chances of having a bonafide O with any of the men she’d dated. Three to be exact, including Greg.

They hadn’t been wild enough, or exciting enough, or cowboy enough.

No big deal. Miranda had wanted more than an orgasm. She’d wanted respect, and so she’d settled for Buck and her Bonanza DVDs.

Until last night.

The proposal had served as a wake-up call. A reminder that time was precious and it was slipping away fast. In two weeks, she would accept Greg’s offer and then they were getting married.

From this day forward.

‘Til death do us part.

It was now or never.

Which was why she’d abandoned her party planning for the annual Sock-Hop scheduled next week at the Senior Center, to pull out her hot pink boots—a high school graduation present from her oldest sister Robin—and make the long drive to Austin. For this one night, she was going to lose her inhibitions and be Restroom Randy.

Cowboy up!

Her gaze zeroed in on the jeans-clad legs striding toward her. Her attention took a slow walk up, over muscular thighs and an impressive crotch, a trim waist and solid torso, broad shoulders and a corded neck, to his face.

Several days’ growth of stubble shadowed his jaw and circled his sensuous mouth. A thin scar zig-zagged its way across one cheek, but it didn’t detract from his looks. If anything, it made him seem more rugged and sexy. Dark hair framed his face and brushed the collar of his shirt. Striking silver eyes fringed in thick black lashes peered at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson.

There was nothing respectable about the molten gleam in his gaze. Heat radiated off his body, pushing and pulling at her, luring her closer when every warning bell in her body clamored for her to turn and run. His lips crooked in the faintest grin that said he knew all of her secrets and he wanted her in spite of them.

Because of them.

Her nipples tightened and her legs quivered and she felt the wetness between her thighs.

He stopped a few inches away. His gaze stripped her bare and a ripple of awareness went up her spine. She’d felt naked back at home when she’d slipped on the skimpy clothes, but it was nothing compared to what she felt now.

Naked. Vulnerable. Hungry.

The last thought struck and a bolt of heat sizzled through her. The chemistry was more potent than anything she’d ever felt, but there was something more, as well. A strange connection that said the attraction went much deeper than the physical.

She stiffened against the ridiculous notion and ignored the endless questions swimming in her head.

What’s your name?

What do you do?

Where are you from?

Are you the real deal?

He was. He wore an air of danger and wildness as comfortably as he wore his form-fitting jeans.

“You can always tell by the boots,” her mother had said time and time again.

Her gaze dropped to the worn toes of a pair of black snakeskin Ropers. Scuffed. Dusty. Lived in. An electrical pulse vibrated along her nerve endings.

“I won them at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.”

Her gaze swiveled back up and collided with his. “Excuse me?”

“The boots. I took first place last year in Houston. They were part of the prize. The name’s Cody Braddock. I’m a bull rider.”

He was a bona fide cowboy, all right.

The last man she would ever take to the Senior Sock Hop. Or the weekly church picnic. Or the Veterans of Foreign Wars Bunko night. Or the Chamber of Commerce Christmas party. Or anything in the tiny town of Skull Creek where she’d spent the past ten years trying to outrun her Restroom Randy reputation.

Which made him the perfect man to take to bed right now.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” she blurted before she did something really stupid. Like ask him which bull he’d been riding and how long he’d been risking his neck and where he’d been all her life.

One orgasm, she reminded herself. Then the damned curiosity that kept her tossing and turning and fantasizing at night—every night—would be satisfied. She would say yes to Greg and abandon her legacy for good.

“That is, if you’re not married,” she added. “You aren’t married, are you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

His grin was slow and wicked and her heart stopped for the next few beats. “That’s not something that a man forgets, is it?”

“That depends on the man.”

His grin faded. “I’m not the marrying kind. Never have been, never will be.”

“How about the one-night-stand kind?”

“Is that what you’re after?”

“Actually, an hour or so should do it.”

His gaze seemed to liquefy, like silver melting and heating. “You don’t want me to buy you a drink first?”

“I’m not much of a drinker.” Her gaze caught and held his and she ignored the sizzle of apprehension that went through her. The small voice that whispered she was about to make a huge, huge mistake because one taste wouldn’t come close to satisfying her craving and killing her curiosity.

Instead, she focused on the heat simmering in her belly and the tightening between her legs. “So what about it? You interested in a little exercise?”

His mouth drew into a thin line and his brow furrowed, and she had the distinct impression that he was going to turn her down even though he’d been the one to approach her.

Disappointment rushed through her, followed by a burst of anxiety that fed her impatience. She hadn’t driven the two hours from Skull Creek to make sure she didn’t run into someone from home just to turn around and head back minus a real climax. She was on a mission. Now or never, a voice whispered.

Now.

Please.

The plea echoed through her head, but she managed to keep it to herself. She’d seen her mother beg and plead too many times the morning after, and every time, Mr. Cowboy had always walked away.

She wouldn’t subject herself to the same humiliation. If this particular cowboy didn’t want her, so be it. No way was she getting hung up on any one man. She would simply move on to the next one in line.

Maybe the guy sitting at the far end of the bar.

She’d scoped him out earlier when she’d first arrived, but she hadn’t had a chance to talk to him. With polished gray boots, he looked more drugstore than the real deal. But at least he wore a Stetson, his jeans and shirt starched within an inch of their life. While he wasn’t her first choice, he would do—

“Let’s go.” Cody’s deep, husky voice shattered her thoughts and drew her attention. Her gaze collided with his and she had the distinct impression he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

And that he didn’t like it one little bit.

Before she could dwell on the crazy notion, his large hand cupped her elbow and steered her around. He had the oddest touch. His fingers weren’t hot like most men. But they weren’t clammy either. They felt…strong. Purposeful. Determined.

A zing of excitement spiraled through her. Her nipples throbbed. Her thighs shivered.

And then they headed for the nearest exit and what was sure to be the hottest, wildest, most dangerous experience of Miranda’s life.