Curvy Girls: Claimed By The Cowboy (The BBW and the Billionaire Rancher) by Georgette St. Clair Page B
Authors: Georgette St. Clair
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feeling the thickness of his erection pressing against her. When he touched her, she lost all control; he made her weak with need and desire.
Finally, reluctantly, she found the strength to pull away from him. She tipped her head back to look up at him.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” she said, not believing the words as they came out of her mouth. “But you don’t kiss me again. You don’t touch me. This is a marriage on paper only. We stay married until you’re sure the ranch is under your control, then we cite irreconcilable differences and file for divorce.”
He looked down at her, his lips pressed together in an angry line.
“If that’s the way that you want it.”
“That’s the way that I want it.” Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she turned without looking back at him and strode towards the old clapboard building that housed the justice of the peace.
Chapter Eight
Ty set his fork down and glanced across the table at the woman who didn’t want to be his wife.
“Lunch was delicious,” he told her, and meant it. She’d made pasta puttanesca, with homemade tomato sauce and fresh mushrooms and garlic from his own garden out behind his house. She was a great cook. It was one of the many things he appreciated about her. He’d dated his share of bone thin women who looked at food with hatred, who picked at their plates when he took them out to dinner and who wouldn’t know a saucepan from a cat litter pan. It wasn’t a lot of fun.
Abigail loved food, and he loved to watch her eat. She enjoyed her food with a sensuous passion that he wished she felt for him.
They’d been married a week now, and it hadn’t gotten any easier. She avoided him as if she were afraid he carried the bubonic plague. She left first thing in the morning to head in to work, worked late, came home, cooked dinner, made polite conversation over dinner without meeting his eyes, and then rushed back to her room, where she sat and talked on her cell phone with her little posse of girlfriends every night.
She’d even gone to work on Saturday. The only reason she hadn’t worked today was because the Telegraph was closed on Sundays. He suspected that she’d have rushed into town anyway and hung out there all day if she wasn’t afraid that people would talk. The marriage had to look real, after all.
What little time she wasn’t hiding from him in the bedroom, she’d spent redecorating the kitchen, throwing away the faded, forty-year-old curtains and replacing them with gingham checked café curtains, and adding hand carved sculptures of fruit that she picked up from a downtown gift shop on the Crooked Mile.
When he offered to help, she answered him with a clipped “No, thank you,” without even turning to look at him.
And yet…what baffled him was the way he saw her look at him when she didn’t know he was watching. He’d glanced at the mirror and seen her look at him with her lips parted, with her eyes shining, the way she had when they’d had sex first time. He’d looked away from her once, only to look back and see her staring with a strange mixture of hurt and hunger in her eyes.
He knew she wanted him…but he sensed she’d rather die than admit it.
Just to torment her, to make her burn for him the way he burned for her, he’d taken to walking around the house without his shirt on. He wasn’t hampered by false modesty; he knew what he looked like. He saw her eyes follow him. He heard the quick, sharp intake of breath when he passed by her in the hallway, brushing against her accidentally and murmuring “sorry,”and not meaning it at all.
Although it hurt him just as much as it hurt her, because being close to her meant that he smelled the sweet, light floral notes of her perfume and remembered the smell of her musk when she was aroused, and he dreamed of burying himself in her soft flesh again, of taking refuge in her in her warmth.
But there was no refuge to be found there anymore, he knew.
Finally, reluctantly, she found the strength to pull away from him. She tipped her head back to look up at him.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” she said, not believing the words as they came out of her mouth. “But you don’t kiss me again. You don’t touch me. This is a marriage on paper only. We stay married until you’re sure the ranch is under your control, then we cite irreconcilable differences and file for divorce.”
He looked down at her, his lips pressed together in an angry line.
“If that’s the way that you want it.”
“That’s the way that I want it.” Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she turned without looking back at him and strode towards the old clapboard building that housed the justice of the peace.
Chapter Eight
Ty set his fork down and glanced across the table at the woman who didn’t want to be his wife.
“Lunch was delicious,” he told her, and meant it. She’d made pasta puttanesca, with homemade tomato sauce and fresh mushrooms and garlic from his own garden out behind his house. She was a great cook. It was one of the many things he appreciated about her. He’d dated his share of bone thin women who looked at food with hatred, who picked at their plates when he took them out to dinner and who wouldn’t know a saucepan from a cat litter pan. It wasn’t a lot of fun.
Abigail loved food, and he loved to watch her eat. She enjoyed her food with a sensuous passion that he wished she felt for him.
They’d been married a week now, and it hadn’t gotten any easier. She avoided him as if she were afraid he carried the bubonic plague. She left first thing in the morning to head in to work, worked late, came home, cooked dinner, made polite conversation over dinner without meeting his eyes, and then rushed back to her room, where she sat and talked on her cell phone with her little posse of girlfriends every night.
She’d even gone to work on Saturday. The only reason she hadn’t worked today was because the Telegraph was closed on Sundays. He suspected that she’d have rushed into town anyway and hung out there all day if she wasn’t afraid that people would talk. The marriage had to look real, after all.
What little time she wasn’t hiding from him in the bedroom, she’d spent redecorating the kitchen, throwing away the faded, forty-year-old curtains and replacing them with gingham checked café curtains, and adding hand carved sculptures of fruit that she picked up from a downtown gift shop on the Crooked Mile.
When he offered to help, she answered him with a clipped “No, thank you,” without even turning to look at him.
And yet…what baffled him was the way he saw her look at him when she didn’t know he was watching. He’d glanced at the mirror and seen her look at him with her lips parted, with her eyes shining, the way she had when they’d had sex first time. He’d looked away from her once, only to look back and see her staring with a strange mixture of hurt and hunger in her eyes.
He knew she wanted him…but he sensed she’d rather die than admit it.
Just to torment her, to make her burn for him the way he burned for her, he’d taken to walking around the house without his shirt on. He wasn’t hampered by false modesty; he knew what he looked like. He saw her eyes follow him. He heard the quick, sharp intake of breath when he passed by her in the hallway, brushing against her accidentally and murmuring “sorry,”and not meaning it at all.
Although it hurt him just as much as it hurt her, because being close to her meant that he smelled the sweet, light floral notes of her perfume and remembered the smell of her musk when she was aroused, and he dreamed of burying himself in her soft flesh again, of taking refuge in her in her warmth.
But there was no refuge to be found there anymore, he knew.
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