Clay: Armed and Dangerous Page 3

  Brad moved to the lone bed across the room from the peephole, and lay flat on his back. With a sexy grin, he motioned for the twins to join him. Sasha giggled and climbed onto the bed. She knelt between his thighs and resumed sucking while Sabrina straddled Brad, right over his mouth.

  Rylie tried to stay still, tried to ignore the heat rushing across her skin, the ache between her legs, and the tingling along the back of her neck. As she watched Sabrina grinding her hips against Brad’s face, Rylie wished she had a man she could turn loose with, a man who would push her, and tease her, and satisfy her all night long.

  God, she was so aroused.

  This is sick. You need to stop, and you need to stop right now.

  But it didn’t feel sick. It just felt fun and exciting.

  She bit down on her lip, holding back a moan. The night smelled of pinon and sage, and she smelled her own desire. She even imagined she caught the scent of sex coming from within the cabin.

  Sabrina pinched and pulled her nipples as she yelled, “Harder!”

  Rylie could feel her orgasm building. Winding up inside of her, tighter and tighter.

  Sabrina screamed as she hit her peak. “Yes! God, yes!”

  Rylie’s whole body shuddered as she watched, engrossed, almost able to feel what the women could feel as Brad worked them, stroked them, drew out their pleasure—

  A hand clamped over her mouth and another around her waist.

  Rylie froze, her heart pounding and her blood rushing as her dazed mind fought to figure out what the hell was happening. Her body was still trembling and a rush of fear added to the convulsions.

  “You like to watch people?” a man’s deep voice murmured next to her ear, a husky whisper that sent an odd thrill straight to her core.

  She couldn’t move. Could barely think.

  “Do you?” His tone was so low, rich, and sensual that Rylie’s knees went weak as she nodded. Was there something familiar about his voice?

  The man’s hat brushed against her hair as he moved his body closer. She caught his masculine scent along with the faint odor of mint. And when he pressed his body to hers, she felt him through his jeans, hard against her jeans, the rough of his clothes scrubbing against some of the holes.

  Ohmigod. The man’s erection was huge.

  Despite the fact the man was probably a stranger, and currently had her trapped in his grip, Rylie felt a fresh round of tingles charging through her.

  “Look at them.” The man’s voice was hoarse, like he was almost too aroused to talk. “Does that turn you on?”

  Rylie’s gaze went back to the threesome in the cabin and her eyes widened. Sabrina was on her hands and knees, Brad behind her.

  “Now!” Sabrina cried. Brad yanked her ass toward him and slid into her.

  “Would you like to be taken right now?” the stranger asked, as Brad pounded into Sabrina.

  Rylie caught her breath as the man, keeping his hand over her mouth, moved his other hand down between her thighs. Even though she didn’t know who had her in his grip, and even though she had never had sex with anyone she didn’t know, Rylie was so turned on that she wanted to shout, Yes! Take me, now!

  But the stranger didn’t wait for an answer. He slid his fingers over her jeans, and she knew he had to feel the heat.

  “I bet you’re smooth. I like them shaved.” The stranger’s voice was a silken whisper as he caressed Rylie, his callused fingers exerting the perfect motion, perfect pressure, straight through the ancient fabric.

  He pushed against her sex, making her swallow a moan. “I know we’d be a good fit.”

  A gasp rose up within Rylie at the incredible feel of his fingers working her through her jeans and his erection pressed tight against her backside.

  “What do you think, little wildcat?” The man stroked harder and Rylie couldn’t hold back the moan. “I bet you taste real good, too.”

  Rylie trembled with a hurricane of desire as the man nuzzled her neck, his mustache brushing her soft skin as he pressed his firm lips to her. She could just imagine how that mustache would tickle her thighs. Mustache... Who did she know who wore a mustache?

  “You smell like vanilla... and musk.” The stranger moved his lips to the hair behind her ear and she shuddered. “Good enough to eat.”

  From inside the cabin, Sabrina screamed with pleasure.

  “My turn.” Sasha lay on her back, her black hair splayed across the old bed quilt. Brad slid between her thighs and pummeled her without so much as slowing his thrust.

  Wanton feelings rose and spiraled throughout Rylie, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. On and on the stranger stroked her, murmuring erotic words, until the most intense orgasm she’d ever felt exploded through her. A scream of pleasure threatened to tear from her, but the man kept his hand tight against her mouth, holding back the sound. Her body shuddered and rocked against the stranger’s as he kept her pleasure going, drawing out her climax until she couldn’t take anymore.

  In her haze, Rylie was dimly aware that the man had released his hold on her. She braced one hand on the cabin wall, took a deep breath, and turned to look at the man who’d given her the most incredible orgasm of her life—

  Only to discover he’d vanished into the night.

  Gritting his teeth, Clay eased back through the darkness to where he’d left his mare. Thoughts of Rylie consumed him... of tasting her, driving into her, and making her scream with orgasm after orgasm.

  So much for having a stern talk with her.

  When Clay reached his mare, he paused to look back toward the cabin. It was too dark and too far to see if Rylie was still there. Yet somehow he knew she hadn’t left. That she was looking into the night, trying to see him.

  Damn, but he’d never get the beautiful woman out of his mind now. His brain flashed images of taking her like Brad had taken those twins. Until she screamed. Until she couldn’t move. He wanted to brand her and make her his.

  Hell, she probably didn’t even know who he was, but in his office and at the cabin—she’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her—there was some kind of connection between them that was electric. If he’d turned her around, if he’d looked her in the face and kissed her, she might have been willing. But no, he’d walked away because of an outmoded sense of chivalry and duty.

  Clay’s erection throbbed against his zipper, and no amount of shifting eased the pressure. Crickets chirruped and he could still hear the faint sound of voices and laughter from the trio going at it in the cabin. A cool breeze brought scents of the desert to him, and he almost imagined he smelled the woman’s vanilla musk scent.

  Well, hell. He wasn’t going to get anywhere at this rate. Clay could barely walk straight, much less saddle up and ride.

  Spirit swatted her tail against her flank, the swish of wiry hair brushing Clay’s arm. He unbuckled his belt, eased his zipper down, and pulled himself out of his briefs. Imagining he was sliding into Rylie’s sweet core, he stroked himself from base to tip. Yeah, he could just picture that hot little body, thighs spread wide and showing him her shaved sex.

  He knew she’d be shaved. He just knew it.

  While he stared into the night, toward where he’d left the woman, his motions increased as he remembered her smell, the feel of her ass pressed against him. His body tensed, and heat flooded him from his Stetson to his steel-toed boots. Clay gritted back a groan as he finally got a little relief.

  Unreal.

  Unbelievable.

  He hadn’t acted like this since he was a teenager.

  Shaking his head, he slipped himself back into his briefs and fastened his jeans and belt. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been that horny even when he was a teenager. He’d certainly never had almost-sex while on the job.

  It was a definite. This woman’s effect on him—it wasn’t normal, but Clay wasn’t the type of man who worried about things like that. He was the type of man who knew what had to be done, and took care of business.

  Clay mounte
d Spirit and guided the mare away from the ranch and back toward where he’d left his truck and horse trailer. He may have walked away from Rylie tonight, but come tomorrow, he’d find her and stake his claim.

  And next time he intended to do a lot more than feel a little heat through her jeans.

  Chapter 4

  The front door slammed, the reverberations rattling through the house and waking Rylie. She blinked away early-morning sunlight as wisps of her dream came back to her—of a dark stranger with a very impressive package and some talented fingers.

  Her body ached at the thought of what had happened last night to inspire such an erotic dream. A tiny part of her thought she should feel properly guilty for her Peeping Tom routine and maybe even freaked out by making out with a stranger—but the rest of her said, Screw it.

  It was hot.

  It was fun.

  Rylie might be uptight about a lot of things, but sex sooo wasn’t one of them. Healthy, heated, and consensual—that’s all that counted.

  She smiled and stretched her limbs, the sheet sliding across her bare flesh and down to her waist, exposing her body to the cool morning air. She always slept in the nude and loved how freshly laundered linens smelled, and how they felt against her naked skin.

  With a grin, Rylie bounded out of bed and snatched her robe off the hook on the back of her bedroom door. She was a morning person and rarely slept in late, but that dream had certainly been worth sleeping in for. She had needed something to help her forget about the truck thefts, and had last night ever been the ticket.

  She slipped on her robe and then opened her door to head to the bathroom across the hall, her mind wandering to the memory of last night. How incredible it felt to have the stranger’s muscled body pressed tight to her backside, his big hand between her thighs, his fingers moving like they knew exactly where to touch. That deep, sexy voice of his was enough to make her explode just thinking about it.

  Too bad the man had pulled a vanishing act. She had a feeling he would’ve been one hell of a ride. His voice, though... Something about it had been familiar. Was he someone she knew? He had a mustache, wore jeans and a Western hat—that much she’d been able to tell. She knew a few men with mustaches—Wade Larson and a couple of Skylar MacKenna’s ranch hands... but the voice just didn’t match any of them.

  Rylie shut and locked the bathroom door as she thought about how she’d instinctively trusted her mystery man. She had a natural intuition about most folks that was almost always dead-on. The one time she didn’t listen to that internal voice, she came close to being raped in high school by an asshole named Reggie Parker. Thank God Levi had come to her rescue and kicked Reggie’s skinny white ass.

  Unfortunately, Levi had ended up in jail overnight for hitting a minor. That bastard Reggie had deserved having his face turned into hamburger. Rylie still owed her big brother for that one.

  The faucet creaked and pipes groaned as Rylie ran the water in the tub, waiting for it to turn from freezing to only chilly before she jumped in. She and Levi needed to get a new water heater in the worst way, but right now most of their cash was sunk into the herd and she was going to have to shell out a bunch more to cover the cost of new trucks, whatever insurance didn’t pay. If only the price of beef would go back up, they might be able to afford a thing or two. The smell of rust met her nose, the water coming out orangish-red, compliments of plumbing twice her age. New pipes would be nice, too. Hell, a new house was what they really needed.

  Once the water ran clear, Rylie ditched her robe and stepped under the spray. She shivered from the burst of cold. Accustomed to rushing through her morning ice-water shower, she shampooed her hair, soaped her body, and shaved her armpits, legs, and other places in record time.

  How did he know I was the shaving type? Mystery Man must have himself some good instincts.

  Rylie thought about how the stranger enjoyed touching her. What would he look like? Judging by the height of his package pressed against her backside, she figured he was a good eight inches taller than her, which would put him at close to six feet.

  Her body got a lot warmer despite the chill of the water on her flesh. He was big in other ways. She had definitely been able to tell that without even touching him with her hands. Ten inches, or she’d eat a pair of her own underwear. A man like that, tall and strong and well proportioned...

  Yum.

  The sound of water roared in Rylie’s ears, blending with the pounding of her heart. Goose bumps sprouted on her skin, and she knew she had to get a grip and drag herself back to reality.

  Reluctantly, she shut off the water and reached for a towel off the rack.

  Too bad reality couldn’t always be like last night.

  ***

  Clay wondered why he was even trying to concentrate. Every three seconds, his mind wandered to Rylie Thorn, and once he got her in his thoughts, he couldn’t get her out.

  She fit in his hands like he had been born to touch her. And the way she smelled, the silk of her skin—Damn. Just, damn.

  He shook his head, but that didn’t help, so he took a deep breath and forced himself to stare at the file folders on the desk in front of him: “Hazard Quinn,” “Sam Blalock,” and “Joe Garrison.” His three day-shift deputies, or more to the point, the heap of a mess he had inherited from the previous sheriff. These men had little training, even less discipline, and they had been allowed to run wild with a boss who barely showed up to work, and a superior officer, Gary Woods, who had gone about as bad as a law officer could go.

  Clay glanced out his office window. Hazard Quinn was bent over a stack of papers, his too-tall dark hair sprayed in place as if he hoped he’d run into Elvis or Lyle Lovett, and be able to express his undying admiration. The boy worked hard, but he was young and he had a tendency to go off half-cocked. Then there was Sam Blalock—blond, too handsome for his own good—and that goatee, which would have to stay trimmed. Clay didn’t want anybody working for him who reminded him of old church paintings of Satan. Blalock had proven himself handy at turning up information other people missed, and that was good, because Joe Garrison was hitting middle age, working on a whole lot of nothing besides his paunch. The man had a tic that made him blink until Clay could barely concentrate when he was trying to work with the guy.

  “Construction projects,” Clay muttered to himself. “All three of them.” He closed the folders, stacked them up, and pushed them off to the side. Then he picked up a list he’d been keeping, folded it, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He wasn’t going to start thinking about Rylie Thorn again, not unless he kept sitting on his ass. The only cure for wanting a woman like he was wanting her was work, hard work, and lots more work on top of that.

  He walked out into the main area and pointed to Quinn and Blalock. “You and you. Come with me. We’ve got a few stops to make.” To Garrison, Clay said, “Hold the fort and give us a shout if you need us.”

  Garrison looked relieved that he wouldn’t have to do much of anything, and Clay bit back a rumble of irritation. He’d lead, the young ones would follow, and before long, Garrison would either pick up his step or get on out of their way.

  Clay took a squad car and had both deputies follow in another. He hadn’t made an appointment, but after yesterday’s little display, Guerrero had opened the door for him to waltz back into Arizona Motors South with a semblance of a good excuse. When he pulled into the lot, he parked in a far-off spot and had Quinn and Blalock do the same.

  He got out into the day’s heat and motioned to both men, who stopped in front of him, alert and nervous.

  Good.

  They should be nervous this close to a swimming shark or a prowling wolf. Nervous might keep them both alive when things got dicey down the road.

  He faced the older of the two, the one with the chin hair. “When we go in, I’m going to talk to Guerrero alone. Blalock, you keep an eye on the employees. I want to know what they do, how they seem to you.”

  “Yessir.” Blal
ock bobbed his head and his goatee bounced up and down.

  Clay tried not to notice. He turned to Quinn and continued with Police Work for Kindergarteners. “Guerrero’s office is glassed in instead of walled off, so the view’s clear. Stand off a few paces and keep an eye on Guerrero as he talks to me. Watch for anything I might not see.”

  “Gotcha, boss.” Quinn smoothed his hair even though not a strand was out of place, couldn’t possibly be out of place, and probably would snap clean off if Clay breathed on it too hard. He wasn’t sure he could trust a man who used hair spray, but for now, he didn’t have much choice.

  He glanced at the sky, half hoping God would make an appearance and tell him what to do with these two, but he didn’t see so much as a single cloud. The three of them entered the auto dealership, hot and nearly sun-blind, and the cool air hit Clay like a quick slap on both cheeks.

  Guerrero’s salesmen saw them, but didn’t approach, which was fine with Clay. Blalock drifted off into the showroom just like he’d been told, and Quinn glanced at Guerrero’s glass office and got busy picking his spot.

  Clay headed straight for Guerrero’s door, knocked, and went in when Guerrero looked up and gestured to him.

  Guerrero stood, and Clay noted he was dressed all in black, just like the day before, except for his red tie. Maybe he was trying to make black silk a trademark.

  Maybe he’d get on good with Hair-spray Boy out in the showroom.

  He slipped the list out of his jeans with his left hand and made himself shake Guerrero’s proffered hand with his right.

  “I brought a list of victims who would like to take you up on your rental offer.”

  “Excellent.” Guerrero showed Clay to a leather seat in front of his desk, then sat in his rolling wing chair. “I’ll have my men call and make appointments for these people.”

  He placed the list on his desk, smoothing out the wrinkles, and he gave Clay his best canned smile.

  Clay waited for the other shoe to drop, the casual mention of how much it might cost the people for insurance, or fees, or some crap like that. Guys like Guerrero didn’t give something for nothing.