Her Bull Rider's Baby Read online

  Could what? For all their talk of getting along for the baby’s sake, neither one of them had ever mentioned marriage. Don’t jump ahead here. Take the days as they come.

  This was worse than obsessing over who was getting the baby.

  Adriano continued to wildly tag clothes for the registry. If he kept this up, the entire girls’ clothing section was going to be on there.

  She set a hand on his arm. “I think that’s enough.”

  He blinked as if coming out of a spell. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You’re right. What’s next?”

  She checked her phone. Good Lord, they’d been there three hours already. Exhaustion hit her in a sudden wave. But they weren’t quite done. “Car seats. They won’t let us leave the hospital without a car seat.”

  Picking a crib had been easy. The bedding issue got sorted once they decided they were having a girl. The clothes had been just plain fun. The car seat… picking a car seat was downright nerve-racking.

  “Do you think the ‘Safe-T Baby’ side-impact protection is best?” she asked. “What’s the difference between that and the ‘Secure Ride’ supplemental restraint system?” She read the information again, but that was no help. “And does a car seat really need drink holders?”

  Adriano shook his head as if defeated. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  They’d made it this far through the baby store, only to be vanquished by the car seats. Her head slumped. The baby superstore had won.

  But they had to get a car seat. Out of all this, that was the only thing they had to get.

  She stared at the Safe-T Baby seat, sized it up. “You know,” she said, “you ride bulls, which is about the most dangerous thing a person can do. And all you wear is a protective vest. Maybe a helmet too.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She gestured to the seats. “We don’t even need any of this. Put a tiny little Kevlar vest on her, pop on a helmet, and strap her in. She’ll be just fine.”

  His lips twitched.

  “Don’t laugh,” she said. “Don’t you dare encourage me. This is serious business, and I’m not being serious.”

  That did it. He busted out a belly laugh, then snatched her up and spun her around, kissing her right in the middle of the store. “You’re right,” he said. “Forget the car seat. Where can we find a protective vest in a newborn’s size?”

  She laughed now herself. “Can you even imagine a tiny baby in boots and jeans and a little vest? God, it would be the most adorable thing ever.”

  He set her down but kept his arms around her. “Adorable enough for us to take her out of the hospital without a car seat?”

  “Probably not.” She cocked her head, studied him. He was gorgeous when he laughed, his mouth stretched wide in a smile, his limbs lean and loose with pleasure. “Do you trust me?”

  His expression sobered. “Yes.” Simple. Direct.

  She lifted the scanner, hit one of the car seats. “There. Done.”

  “Good choice.” Still serious.

  God, that felt good, to have him be easy in this. To not struggle over something involving the baby. They should do this more often, this not-fighting thing. “Let’s turn in this scanner and get lunch. I’m starving.”

  He looped an arm over her shoulder, pulled her close, as if they were any other set of parents in the store.

  Don’t get too comfortable, Liliana. He’ll break your heart when he leaves. Especially if he takes your daughter with him.

  She pushed the thought away. They were happy, they were united. She wasn’t going to let her better sense ruin that right now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Domesticity had its virtues, Liliana had decided.

  They’d done the baby registry, gotten lunch, and then gone home so she could nap. Not something she usually did, but she’d wanted to try it out today. Picking baby stuff was more exhausting than she’d expected. Or maybe this pregnancy was finally catching up with her. At any rate, she’d gone to lie down, thankful that Adriano hadn’t thrown her kindergartener crack back in her face, and slept for three hours.

  When she woke up, feeling as fresh as new-folded laundry, they’d taken a walk around the ranch, this time to where the stock horses were kept. Rufio kept them company, and they were as sedate as any other boring married couple. But it had still been nice. After, she’d made dinner and they’d eaten on TV trays while watching a cutting-horse futurity.

  Boring. Stable. Practically married. But somehow it was fun when she did it with him. Which boded well for their future, whatever that might be.

  There’d been no sign of Luke—she guessed her brother was giving the house a wide berth while Adriano was there—so it was almost like they were married and enjoying their alone time. It was nice. Better than nice—it was comfortable. Cozy.

  They were doing the dishes together, her washing and him drying. Like any other married couple on a Saturday night.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” she asked. They could go out, but after last night at the Stampede, she didn’t feel much like repeating the experience. Not for a while. But watching TV didn’t sound appealing. Maybe they could go to the movies. What kind of movies did he even like? Maybe something with a lot of action and explosions and fast cars. Or maybe not. Maybe he got enough of an adrenaline rush when he climbed onto a bull’s back and didn’t need a vicarious one.

  “I know exactly what we’re doing tonight.” His confidence might have read as arrogance if she didn’t find him so damned attractive.

  “Really?” She guessed it wasn’t getting naked and sweaty. They’d get to that later she was certain, but it sounded like he had something else in mind.

  “I’m going to teach you how to dance.”

  “I already know how to dance.” She handed him the last plate. “Remember what we did last night?”

  “Yes. But you need to learn how to dance properly.”

  Okay, now he was slipping toward arrogance.

  “I dance just fine!” He hadn’t been complaining last night. In fact, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her.

  He shook his head. “You dance like an American. Pretty good for an American, but still like an American.”

  She should probably be offended by that on behalf of her countrymen. She tried out some indignation. “How does a person dance like an American?”

  He made jerky, marionette motions, a gruesome smile stretching his lips.

  That was plain ridiculous. “I do not look like that.” Surely not. Someone would have taken pity and told her.

  His face relaxed and he bit his lip as he continued his puppet dance. He looked so completely silly she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I—” She was laughing too hard to finish. “Did I really look like that?” she asked when she caught some air.

  “Not that bad. But you do need to learn how to dance like a Brazilian. And I’m going to teach you.”

  Ooh, that sounded sexy. She could get behind that. It definitely sounded better than watching TV.

  “Okay.” She set her hands on her hips. “Show me how you dance. Properly.”

  He gave her a slow, panty-melting smile. Uh-oh. “We should move into the living room. More space there.”

  And a couch, in case they felt the need to get horizontal at any point.

  Once they were in the living room, he cued up some music on his phone.

  She frowned. “What is this?”

  “It’s sertanejo. Brazilian country.”

  Portuguese still sounded so odd to her ears. She kept waiting for it to coalesce into Spanish, but it insisted on slipping into something more like French. Or maybe Italian. And the music didn’t really sound like country, at least not American country. It was more like pop music. Although, a lot of American country sounded like pop music to some people.

  “Come here,” he ordered, pointing to a spot in front of him, his tiger eyes glowing.

  She went to where he’d indicated, waiting for him to make
a move. He took her in his arms, but sadly not too close.

  “Okay, like this.” He pulled her close and began to move to the rhythm, his hips swinging with it. An American dude wouldn’t be caught dead moving his hips like that, but it looked so flipping hot when Adriano did it. She was mesmerized by his hips, by the way—

  “Keep up,” he snapped.

  “Sorry.” She tried to move in an approximation of his steps, but she was a beat behind him and couldn’t catch up. “I was distracted.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Eyes up here.”

  She giggled. “Stop flaunting yourself at me and I’ll stop looking.”

  “It’s not flaunting.” His lips pursed prissily, his attempt to play the prude. It was cute. “It’s dancing.”

  They kept at it for two more songs, trying to find the rhythm of the steps. Or rather, she was trying to find the rhythm. Adriano knew what he was doing, but he led so aggressively—he pushed her where he wanted her to go, his arms stiff and strong, his legs thrusting into her space, his hands tight on hers. Tight with frustration.

  Instinctively, she pushed back, leaning into him, her back rigid, her jaw set. She wasn’t going to blindly go wherever, no matter what the steps were.

  When the song finished, he dropped her hands.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Move with me.” He stepped forward to grab her again.

  She stepped back. “You’re pushing me. Ease up.”

  “You won’t go where you should. What else can I do?”

  That was unfair. She didn’t know what she was doing here, and he expected her to do everything he was—and do it backward besides.

  “You know, you might know how to dance,” she said, “but I’m not certain you’ve figured out this leading stuff.”

  “You certainly don’t know how to follow.” As if she should be blindly and happily doing everything he decreed.

  “No, I’ve never been a follower.” If he wanted that, he should have slept with some other girl in Vegas and gotten her pregnant. “You need to ask me to follow you, not demand.”

  “You need to trust where I’m taking you,” he said. Was this a dance lesson or a reflection of their relationship? “Listen to my hips and hands—don’t fight them.”

  She’d done that once before and look where they’d ended up. Maybe she should just call off this dance lesson. There was no point if they were going to fight.

  That’s exactly the point.

  She took in a sharp breath. The little devil on her shoulder was right: they had to get through this without fighting. This was a dress rehearsal for the big decisions to come. They’d managed the baby store; they could manage this.

  She swallowed her pique. She’d make an overture here, in the interest of goodwill. “Can you slow down? I don’t know the steps.” She gentled her voice, let the frustration and stiffness leave her stance.

  His expression softened. “Sorry. Sometimes I’m not a very good teacher. Don’t worry about the steps. Listen to my body and yours and the music.”

  He pulled her close to him with just a hint of dominance. He wanted her between his legs, and he put her there. But his grip was gentle, his hands callused. Of course they would be—he spent a fair amount of time clinging to a bull’s back with a rope.

  They moved together, slower than they should, hesitant, and she could sense in him the urge to go faster, to be fluid. But she wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

  So they went slow and stumbling, their focus deadly serious on each other. Because this had become more than a dance—it was a chance to figure things out.

  Their baby was depending on them.

  Their steps clashed less, came together more. They still weren’t truly dancing, but she wasn’t behind him on the steps so much. She was getting it. Slowly, but she was.

  He started to direct her more forcefully, his muscles tensing, pushing harder. She tensed, ready to push back.

  They held like that for half a moment, winding up.

  It wasn’t going to work. They couldn’t do it. She held her breath, waiting for them to explode again, to break apart.

  Then, as if by some hidden cue, they both relaxed. Listen.

  So she did. Not to the tension in his limbs, which was seeping away. But rather at the little, quiet things beneath. The pressure of his palm against hers, the angle of his hips, the flicker of his gaze.

  They turned together, their bodies finding a common rhythm.

  The song playing was a slower one—a love song. The music seemed to direct the both of them, deciding how they would move together. He wasn’t leading, she wasn’t following—they were under the spell of the melody.

  His eyes held hers, his expression intent. She was caught in that golden gaze, the movement of his body holding hers even beyond the clasp of his hands.

  They were doing it. They were dancing together.

  He smiled at her, a wide, dazzling stretch. She smiled back, feeling the triumph in the edges of it. And the happiness filling the middle.

  The song slowed and faded into silence. They smiled at each other for two more heartbeats, and then they were kissing, slow and happy at first, sharing their delight in what they’d done.

  As it always did, the kiss turned hot, fierce, needy. She clasped his face, pulled him greedily to her. His hands at her hips were just as greedy, just as forceful.

  She ground her pelvis into his, needing the friction there. The couch was so close—only two steps and she could have him over her. Two more seconds and she could have him inside her—

  A truck door slammed outside.

  She gasped, pulled away. Either Luke or Benedict. They needed to get out of here. She could feel his erection pressing into her thigh—he wasn’t fit to be seen. And she didn’t want to be seen.

  “Come on.” She grabbed his hand. The dance lesson was over, but the rest of the night had just begun. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Adriano didn’t think he’d ever gotten ready for bed with a woman before. Brushing his teeth, stripping off his clothes, watching her get into her pajamas—he didn’t wear them—it was an eeriness just under his skin. Not really uncomfortable, simply unfamiliar.

  He lifted the sheets for her and she slid in next to him, her back to him and her gaze never meeting his.

  They breathed into the dark for a time, waiting together. Did she want him to touch her? Somehow, he didn’t want to ask. This entire situation felt very married, and a husband didn’t always have to ask with his voice. Sometimes he knew his wife so well he could ask with a touch. Could see in the subtle signs of how she brushed her hair, how she glanced at him as she pulled on her nightgown, exactly what she wanted.

  Adriano wasn’t quite there with Lil yet—might never be, depending on how things went—but he did want the chance to ask her with a touch. He reached out to her, settled his hand on the dip of her waist, right under her ribcage. Her nightshirt was thin from years of wear, soft from hundreds of washings. Nothing about it could be called sexy. Except she was clearly comfortable in it. And comfortable with him seeing her in it.

  That wasn’t sexy—that was intimate.

  When his hand touched her, she went still for half a heartbeat, then twisted a fraction toward him. Come find me.

  A husband would recognize that as an opening salvo. Not a yes, but a convince me.

  He slid his hand forward, wrapped an arm around her, and tugged her toward him. She bent her head, lengthening the line of her neck. Here’s a spot you can kiss. To start.

  He lowered his mouth to her neck, breathed kisses at the juncture of her shoulders, along the steps of her spine, at the silken skin behind her ear. Convinced?

  She wriggled her ass against his hips. Getting there.

  He splayed his fingers and inched them down her belly, over the swell there, and found the end of her nightshirt riding her upper thighs. His fingertips brushed over the bare skin, waited for her legs to open to him. A husband would know exactly how long it would
take before she surrendered in this game, having played it many times before.

  This being new to Adriano, he could only guess. Two more strokes? Three more? He kissed her neck, using his tongue to caress as well, while still asking with his fingertips. Convinced yet?

  She kept her thighs shut, her sex hidden from him. Keep going.

  He opened his mouth on the tendon running from her shoulder to her neck, dragged his teeth across it. There you go.

  She moaned deep in her throat, her legs opening. There you go.

  Oh yes. His fingers found her folds, already damp. She’d liked this game of convincing. He stroked there for long moments, simply enjoying the wet, sleek feel of her against his fingertips. A husband might do this as well, without the intention of pushing her to a fever pitch—merely to relearn the body he already knew so thoroughly.

  She wriggled her hips, catching his cock in the cleft of her ass. I’m convinced. Let’s go.

  He smiled to himself as he slid his knee between her thighs, opening her even farther. His other arm slid under her, anchoring her for his entry. It would be tricky, fucking her from this angle, but he wanted to stay curled around her like this, all of her enclosed by him. He angled her upper leg, shifted his own position—then drove home.

  She gave a surprised, pleased grunt, which felt almost as good as the wet heat of her gripping his cock so tightly. He grabbed her hip, drove forward again. Another grunt from her, followed by a long exhale.

  He thrust again and again, savoring the novelty of this angle, taking some pleasure for himself. When he sensed his climax building, he slowed, his fingers finding her clit. Enough of him taking. Time to give.

  A long moan, higher pitched than before, came from her. A husband would recognize that noise, would know that it meant she was close. Adriano rhythmically circled her clit in time with his thrusts, dancing with her just as they had earlier. Another moan, even higher.

  “Yes,” he growled into her ear, “tell me how much you fucking like this.” A husband might hesitate the first time to say such a thing to his wife, might wonder if she’d like it or be offended.