Cowboy Shuffle

“Take off that big-ass showy buckle of yours so I can finally see what’s behind it.”

The sound of her soft, husky voice in combination with the feel of her hands on the very buckle she spoke of sent a thrill straight through him. Particularly through the part of his anatomy located just below his belt.

Shooter Welles swallowed hard. He glanced down at the sky-blue eyes gazing up into his, and then lower at the swell of the tops of her breasts showing above the neckline of her low-cut T-shirt. He tried to yank his gaze up and away from that danger zone. This was Ellen Griffin—the sister of his best friend Wes—and there was no way he should be thinking about doing what his cock, already hard enough to drive nails, was already anticipating.

“Ellen—” Her name came out sounding like a plea, though he wasn’t sure if he was begging her to stop, or to keep going.

“Come on. You know you want to.” She practically purred it in a tone he’d never heard come out of her in all the years they’d known each other. Well, perhaps when she spoke to her horse before a barrel racing competition, but certainly never when she talked to him. Usually

Shooter got the annoyed Ellen voice, not the soft, sweet and totally sexy one. He wasn’t sure he could resist it, or her.

Fuck it. Why even try?

“Hell yeah, I want to.” He scooped her into his arms as she squealed in surprise.

He carried her from the living room of the apartment she shared with Wes, directly into her bedroom, angling both their bodies sideways through the narrow doorway just like a groom carries his bride.

And why the hell were thoughts even remotely related to marriage crossing his mind at a time like this? Now, when he was about to take her every way he could imagine, plus maybe a few ways he hadn’t even thought of yet.

Putting her down next to the bed, he squelched the bride-and-groom image right quick and concentrated on planning how best to strip her for the quickest access to the parts of her he’d never even dreamed he’d ever get to see. But before he could get to work on Ellen, she was making short work of him, conquering his buckle quick as a wink. With the two ends of the heavy leather and brass belt hanging open wide, she unfastened his jeans, and then her hands were upon him. With her help, his hard-on sprang free of his boxer briefs.

“Mm. I’ve waited a long time to do this.” She glanced down while stroking him.

Shooter shuddered at the sensation of her hand grasping his cock. They’d both been waiting a long time for this. In spite of the fact she was Wes’s sister, and that she had an attitude at times that could put a man in his place with a single glare, she was still all woman and Shooter had never failed to notice that.

He watched in fascination as she dropped to sit on the edge of the mattress, pulled him closer to her and slid his cock, ramrod straight and hard, between her lips. Glancing over at the mirror above the dresser, he saw their reflection. It was a tantalizing image, her golden head bouncing over his erection. His suntanned arms braced on her shoulders as she worked him hard. He felt the resulting tingling shoot from his balls, straight up his spine.

Trembling and trying to hang on just a little bit longer, he grabbed her head to hold her still before it was too late. She resisted, sucking harder, and then it was too late. He shot off into her mouth after what felt like barely a minute.
Ellen raised golden brows above those so-blue eyes as she pulled back and looked up. “Well, now I know why they call you Shooter.”

Shooter woke with a start, tangled in the sheets in his own bed. The boxer shorts he’d fallen asleep in were warm and wet, soaked through and clinging to his rapidly deflating hard-on.

What the fuck? He pressed his head back against the pillow and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Why was he dreaming about having sex with Ellen? More importantly, since it was his dream, why the hell had his own subconscious made him perform so badly?