The Cowboy and the Princess by Lori Wilde Page A

he started kissing the sweet underside of her jaw and heard her soft purr of pleasure.
    You’ve just been too long without sex.
    That was true enough. He’d been busy. On the road. And while he did have a reputation as something of a ladies’ man, he was not—tonight exempted—much one for one-night stands. He did like light, casual relationships with women who were in the same frame as mind as he was, and that certainly seemed to be Annie, but her secretiveness gave him pause. She was in some kind of trouble and she was using him as the fall-back guy. It wasn’t the first time a woman had used him in such a manner and he figured it wouldn’t be the last, but Annie was different somehow.
    For one thing, she seemed so damn fragile while at the same time she exuded a toughness that belied her cultured air. He had to admit he was intrigued. He wanted to know more.
    And he wanted more of her kisses.
    His body heated up quickly. His erection tightened and surged. His dick was clear on the subject. Sex would be a nice way to take the edge off the aching wound on the right side of his face.
    Normally, he wasn’t a man much troubled by excess contemplation. He was a sensual guy. He liked things tactile—the feel of a horse beneath him, leather reins in his hands, boots on his feet. Most men were more visual than anything else, and while Brady enjoyed seeing a naked woman as much as the next guy, he also had a powerful need to run his hands over things, to touch and feel, textures, shapes, temperature. His palms and fingertips absorbed sensory input far more acutely than either his eyes or his ears.
    As a kid, he never missed an opportunity to pocket a fascinating found object—a bumpy tortoise shell, fuzzy caterpillars, prickly pieces of twine. When they got their summer haircuts, he loved to run the flat of his palm over his brothers’ buzz cuts even though it usually ended up getting him punched. When he lost a baby tooth, he couldn’t resist poking his tongue through the gap, exploring the strange terrain. And he had loved nothing more than walking barefoot in the sand, curling his toes in the fine grit.
    His fingers traced Annie’s rose petal skin, detecting the heat of her veins. He pressed his lips to the pulse point at her throat, felt her heart flutter. She was excited.
    So was he.
    He tasted her. All part of the tactile experience. Beneath the sweet caramel lay a deeper, more womanly flavor, salty and satisfying. He licked lightly, familiarizing himself with her flavor, letting it roll over his taste buds.
    He couldn’t seem to get enough of tasting her. He took his time and she seemed to like his leisurely approach, even though she was a bit hesitant. Touching him lightly, then moving her hand away as if she was shy. He’d been with a few shy girls. On the whole, they turned out to be quite wild in bed. It was true. You had to watch out for the quiet ones. They were usually making up for lost time.
    Who was she really? Where had she come from? What kind of trouble was she dragging with her?
    She kissed him back, her lips yielding, but her body was still tense. She was nervous. He reached up to knead her shoulder muscles. “Relax, Annie.”
    “I am trying . . . I . . .”
    “Uh-huh,” he murmured. “What is it?”
    “I . . . have not . . . I am . . .”
    “A bit rusty at this?” he guessed.
    “Yes—”
    “Don’t worry, Buttercup. You’re in good hands. I’ve got the wheel.”
    “I want . . .”
    His fingers went to the silk tie holding her skimpy lingerie closed at the neck and he deftly untied it. “I’m listening,” he said, exposing her creamy white flesh. He pressed his lips in the center of her chest.
    She wriggled beneath his touch. “That . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “Tickles.” She giggled.
    “Let’s try more pressure.” He kissed his way over to her left breast. Her breasts were the perfect size. Not too big, not too small. He loved the weight of them in his palm as he