Hard Drivin Man
Authors: Cerise DeLand
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Hard Drivin’ Man
ISBN # 978-0-85715-282-4
©Copyright Cerise DeLand 2010
Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright September 2010
Edited by Stacey Birkel
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated
Total-e-burning.
HARD DRIVIN’ MAN
Cerise DeLand
Dedication
For M J Frederick, Layla Chase and Desiree Holt, my critique partners and my inspirations!
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:
Jell-O: Kraft Foods
Chapter One
Jessica shoved the gear shift of her ten-year-old pick-up into ‘park’ and sat staring at the bright red door of Trey Hardwick’s sprawling Texas ranch house. Though her young brother-in-law had arrived home on leave from the Army two weeks ago, she hadn’t come over to visit. Couldn’t. Even though Trey had asked her to come to dinner last Friday, she had refused, not risking the chance she’d reveal to him how foolishly she craved his kiss-me-quick six-foot-six wall of masculinity in her bed. Inside her body.
Stop it, Jess. Your appetite for him is a widow’s hunger. Born in minutes of shared laughter withhim over the decades. Born in moments when you thought he understood you better than Clint everdid. Killed by common sense, your age difference—and your decision to never seek another man tolove.
She inhaled, summoning the courage she’d corralled back home this morning. This appeal would have been easier if she could have approached the ranch foreman hired by Trey and his dad years ago to run the place. But it wasn’t friendly Frank Harmon she had to face this morning. Damn it.
She flicked off the ignition and threw her keys on the dash. She hadn’t been to the Rocking H in nearly a year. Not since her father-in-law, Taylor Hardwick’s, wake. Still, she marvelled that the rambling Hardwick homestead looked as fresh as it had when she’d first seen it as a teenager. Then she’d been young, so very young, and so much more naïve about how life would treat her. How she’d treat life. She’d had hope then. In love with the high school quarterback, she’d been honoured and amazed that Clint Hardwick loved her back.
That the second son of the legendary Hardwick dynasty wanted her as his bride. Claimed her for himself before any other boy could. And Jess had welcomed Clint’s proposal. Needed him. Wanted him.
She snorted.
And look how well that turned out.
She reached across the seat for her summer straw Stetson and jammed it on over her pony tail. But vanity and pride had her straining up to check out her face in the rear-view mirror. What she saw made her frown and question her simple approach. No make-up, no cleavage showing for the hunky specimen most females in town would drop their panties for.
Is this the way to win Trey over? Or a sure way to fail?
She squinted at her reflection. The lines around her eyes came from years of sun-drying her skin as she rustled cattle on the range. Her lips, still full and pink, didn’t widen in laughter often. True, her cheeks were high and elegant, but her green eyes showed the weary strength of running her ranch alone since Clint’s death three years ago. She’d come far since then, freed from worry when she no longer had to worry each day about Clint’s preference for bourbon over her.
Forget that!
She snapped away from her image.
Ask for Trey’s helpnow—or never!
On a small cry, she thrust open the cab door, slid down out of the truck and slammed the door.
Palms running down her denim-clad thighs, she strode up the circular drive towards Trey’s house. And what she needed.
What she had to have to survive.
And Trey, Clint’s younger brother, had to give it to her. Didn’t he?
She knocked. Folded her arms. Tapped her toe. Dug the heel of her boot into the floorboard.
No answer.
She tried again, banging the big brass knocker against the sturdy red wood with loud purpose.
“Hey, hey!” She heard Trey yelling from inside. “I’m here, Jess!” He swung the door wide.
She stood there, glued to the porch like a stunned kitten, looking up at the black-haired giant whose umber come-to-daddy eyes could melt a girl at twenty yards and make her mush at this distance. Jess had to swallow back all the desire that pooled in her mouth at the sight of the way his shoulders filled the doorway and the way his full lips curved to smile down at her.
“Come on in, honey.” He reached for her with one big hand and pulled her through the doorway right into his massive arms. “God, it is good to see you.”
She caught her hat as he lifted her and squeezed the stuffing out of her. Then he planted his warm lips on her forehead, and she loved the heat of his body and the brotherly affection of his words.
Just as I did after his oldest brother Sam died. Then Clint passed away—andTaylor, too.
All of those deaths had been awful, unexpected sorrows, soothed by Trey’s friendship. Truth be told, while the memory of Trey’s mighty embrace had pierced her lonely
nights far too often since Clint’s death three years ago, none of them matched this one for delicious decadence.
Dream on, Jess. The man has no designs on his widowed sister-in-law.
He peered down at her, but his hands held her fast, splayed over her back. Their lower bodies were pressed together by his tight hold on her and the desire that had filled her throat, now travelled south to her moist folds and north to her cool brain. “Jess, babe, you look hot.”
“You can’t imagine!” she jested and put a hand to his chest to strain backward. “The weatherman said it’s going to be one-hundred-and-two out there today!”
He hugged her close again, chuckling so deeply she felt the reverberations in her breasts and her belly—and her pussy.
She pushed away and thought she caught a flicker of regret in his gaze. “Thanks for seeing me alone.”
Though God knows, looking at you close up, I should get my business done andget out of here. Fast.
“Your welcome home party had half the county!”
“Aunt Marie!” He shook his head. “You know how she is, wanting everyone to have an excuse to eat and dance. Although I have to tell you, I was disappointed you left before you and I could dance.”
“I had to go.”
Before I scratched out Betsy Lou Morgan’s eyes for drooling all over you.
“I needed to be up early for the well-drillers,” she lied with a bit of bravado. “Besides, you didn’t lack for dance partners.”
The ghost of mischief flickered in his dark eyes. “None as good as you, babe.”
“More your age, though, buddy!” Grinning up at him, Jess could now do what she’d yearned to do since Trey had come home two weeks ago on leave. She could admire how his features had matured these past few years. If the Army made men out of boys, then this man’s Army had taken a reedy youth of twenty-one and made him into a thirty–one–year–
old mountain of male perfection. His jaw was more square, his cheekbones more harshly hollow. His eyes, so fathomlessly black, seemed sharper and yet more lambent contrasted with the rich bronze tan he had acquired from repeated deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. If he also had lines around his eyes, at least his added gravitas to his thirty-one years. And as if he needed more appeal, more machismo, his huge body had bulked up to a pervasive power that she could still feel beneath her fingertips.
Before she lost her cool and felt him up right there in the hall, she declared, “I want to talk.”
“So you said on the phone. Come on in.” He closed the door and indicated they should go into the family room.
She walked in and realised he hadn’t changed a thing. The ten-point white tail deer still stared at anyone entering with bulging crossed eyes. The bison head still pointed towards the fully stuffed carcass of a smiling bobcat. And the two wild turkeys on the sideboard still stuck their necks out, appearing to be arguing with each other.
“You aren’t going to get rid of these, are you?” she asked, shaking her head at the menagerie that never had ceased to make her smile.
“Nope. My dad loved their expressions. Thought they said all there was to say about how ridiculous it is to mount your prey—and I agree. If I kill something, I’m doing it to destroy it—or eat it. Period. If I’m mounting something, I’m doing it for quite a different reason.”
She raised her brows, playfully chastising him for the sexual innuendo that could lead this conversation nowhere she should follow. She strolled over to the ochre leather couch and took a seat. “Years in the war have made you very frank.”
“Life is precious—and short. You need to say what you want, grab what you want, fast.” He came to stand in front of her, and the angle gave her a full frontal view of the impressive bulge in his jeans.
She raised her face to admire his earnestness and avoid looking at his striking bodily assets. “We both know that’s true, don’t we?”
Mulling that for a second, he must’ve decided not to go down that path. Instead, he sighed and rubbed his palms together. “Want a drink? Coffee? I know you love the stuff.
Made a pot for you.”
“Really?” She considered his features, the way his lips pursed as he examined her own.
Shifting in her seat, she felt how her panties were getting soaked at the thought he might find her attractive. Without make-up or perfume, that was a poor bet. She faked a smile. “Sure.
Coffee.”
He walked towards the kitchen, his steps quick and hard on the Saltillo tile.