Cowboy Casanova: Rough Riders, Book 12

  Dedication

  For the readers who always wondered about the mysterious Ben…now you know.

  Chapter One

  The sound of leather hitting flesh was music to his ears.

  He pulled his arm back and snapped his wrist, the movement fluid and familiar. The long leather tail of the bullwhip connected with her quivering flank and a sharp crack echoed back to him.

  She released a low-pitched grunt but remained still, staring at him with defiant brown eyes.

  Stubborn.

  Again he lifted his arm. He put more force behind the blow, hitting the same spot, but harder.

  Her whole body quivered.

  “For Christsake, quit fuckin’ around with her. Throw a goddamn rope around her neck and make her come.”

  Ben McKay squinted at the lone cow, her hooves mired in the mud. He sighed, spurred his horse through the creek and stopped ten feet in front of the immovable cow. After switching out his whip for his rope, he twirled and let fly. The loop circled her neck and he tugged to tighten it. He’d done this so many times he didn’t have to spur his horse; Bongo just moved forward.

  The cow, given the choice between choking or moving, stumbled forward.

  Quinn’s horse danced impatiently at the top of the rise, as his rider watched Ben drag the cow up the incline. “Don’t know why in the hell she likes that damn creek,” Quinn remarked. “She’d stay there until it froze over.”

  “Probably.” Bongo picked up the pace and Ben led the cow through the gate. As soon as Quinn closed off her only avenue of escape, Ben released the rope. He dismounted and approached the cow slowly. “Now don’t go getting any ideas about running off.” She stood still while he slipped the loop from her neck. Then he slapped her hard on the rump and she lumbered toward the rest of the herd.

  Quinn waited while Ben mounted up. They poked along, soaking in the last rays of the sun’s warmth. Indian summer had stretched through the first week of October. They’d take temperate days while they could because winter in Wyoming seemed to last more than half the damn year.

  “So what’re your plans for the weekend?” Quinn asked.

  “Goin’ to Gillette. I’ll be back Sunday sometime.” He pushed up his hat and looked at Quinn. “Unless you and Libby need me back early for chores on Sunday morning?”

  “Nah. We can handle it. Aren’t you gonna be around to watch the PBR Sunday afternoon? It’ll be the last time Chase rides in the regular season.”

  He’d forgotten about that. His bull riding younger brother had pulled his head out of his ass and had made a good showing on the PBR tour the past few months. “Yeah. I’ll be back.”

  “Good, because at the last poker game you volunteered your house as a place for us all to get together to watch.”

  Ben stopped his horse. “Define all.”

  “All…meaning all our McKay cousins.”

  “Jesus. Was I drunk when I volunteered?”

  Quinn laughed. “Nope. You were sober enough to exclude kids and wives in the invite. Besides, you own the biggest TV of any of us. And if you sweet talk Keely, she’ll bring food.”

  His cousin Keely loved McKay events with the boys, since she was the only female McKay in their generation. “I’ll call her on my way out of town.”

  When they reached Quinn’s place, Ben asked, “We usin’ the horses for anything early next week?”

  “A couple things we need to check in the northwest corner that’s easier to get to on horseback than with the ATVs. Why?”

  “I’d like to leave Bongo here until then.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Ben dismounted and unhooked the cinch strap.

  “Is there a woman in Gillette you’ve been keeping secret?”

  Ben tossed the saddle over the split rail fence. “Wouldn’t be a secret if I told you now, would it?”

  Quinn dropped his saddle next to Ben’s. “Why do you drive to Gillette to get laid and get drunk when there are plenty of places around here? And plenty of women who’d be happy to be in your bed for more than a weekend.”

  He snorted and removed the wet saddle blanket, draping it over the rail. “Who’d you hear that from? Tell? Or Dalton?”

  Quinn pitched Ben a currycomb. “Neither. I heard that from my wife.”

  Ben brushed Bongo with long strokes. “Trouble in paradise? Has Libby been hanging out at Ziggy’s bar again?”

  “Fuck off. No, a couple of the new, single teachers have asked her about you.”

  “Teachers? Definitely not my type.”

  “Why not?”

  He patted Bongo’s withers. “I have a hard time believing a teacher would make a good student.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Thinking out loud always got him in trouble. “Nothin’. I’m just touchy about all of our damn family members, including your wife, thinking I need to be paired up and married off now that Chase and Ava have tied the knot. Not everyone wants to be chained down with a wife and kids.” From the corner of his eye, he noticed Quinn bristle. “Sorry. Between our married relatives lookin’ at me like a loser terminal bachelor, and the single chicks at the local bars angling to tame one of the last wild McKays, I’m better off finding my hookups in Gillette.”

  “I gotta be honest, it’s good to hear you’re hooking up with women.”

  “Why’s that? You worried I’m secretly craving cock?”

  Quinn shook his head. “I wouldn’t give a shit if you were. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen you with a date you can’t blame me for wondering what kind of woman is worth the drive.”

  An obedient woman.

  Not that Ben could explain that, either. He grinned. “A woman who doesn’t want more than a night or two.”

  His brother laughed. “Daylight’s a’wastin’. Get a move on. I’ll finish up.”

  “Thanks, bro. See you Sunday.”

  Ben sped home. A shower and a change of clothes put him in a good mood and he whistled while he packed for the weekend. House secured, he headed to the barn to refill the dogs’ food and water bowls. Ace and Deuce leveled baleful looks at him. “You mutts are spoiled livin’ in the house.” He petted their heads. “Be good guard dogs, ’kay?”

  An hour later, Ben cruised down Main Street in Gillette and parked in the back lot behind the Rawhide Bar. When he crossed the alley, the streetlight sizzled and popped before it flickered out, putting the doorway in shadow.

  The left door was the back service entrance to the Rawhide Bar. But the slightly recessed door on the right was the entrance into the Rawhide Club—not that it was marked as such. A keycode was required to enter, a code that changed every weekend. Ben scrolled to the text from Cody and punched in the number, watching as the green light flashed.

  A short set of stairs ended at a wide landing. The door was manned by security on Friday and Saturday nights. Because security and anonymity were paramount to club members, Ben was surprised the door was propped open with a barstool and he could wander in, unimpeded.

  The large main room, decorated in gold and red, harkened back to brothels in the Wild West. An ornate horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the back corner. The floor to tin ceiling barback consisted of gilded mirrors and glass shelves. A sizeable brick and slate fireplace took center stage on the opposite wall. Several old-fashioned velvet, leather and brocade couches were placed in a semi-circle in front of it. Other chairs and loveseats separated the outer space into individual seating areas. Room dividers also created intimate, hidden spots. At the far back of the room was a hallway that split into two sides.

  The high-pitched whine of the vacuum cleaner stopped and Sully strode into vie
w. “Bennett!” He pulled him in for a one-armed man hug. “Good to see you.”

  “You too. I was beginning to wonder if I was the only one here.”

  “Nah. Cody’s cleaning up a mess in the hallway. Murphy is next door, counting the till. Want a beer?”

  “Wouldn’t say no.”

  Sully slipped behind the bar. “It’s been a while.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been around.”

  “No worries. Been slow in the club.” Sully popped the top on a bottle of Moose Drool.

  Ben settled on the stool. “What about the bar?”

  “The bar side always stays busy.”

  “That’s gotta make Cody and Trace happy.” He took a pull off his beer. “What’s new with you?”

  Sully shrugged and loosened his tie. “Not much. Keeping my head above water at the day job. I sling drinks one night a week at the bar to give Cody a break. I’ve been on overseer status at the club most Saturday nights.”

  “You still makin’ time with that redhead from Sheridan?”

  “The last two times I’ve seen her haven’t been on club nights. She comes into the bar side, tosses back a couple of appletinis, we shoot the breeze, and she’s gone before closing time.”

  Ben frowned. “Think she wants to see you outside of the club?” Most female club members didn’t hang out in the Rawhide Bar. The reason they’d joined the club was to avoid random, disappointing hookups with half-drunk men after last call. Being a member of the Rawhide Club guaranteed they’d get laid since that was the club’s objective—providing a place for no-strings-attached, safe and consensual sex.

  “I don’t know.” Sully rested his elbows on the bar. “I like her. The sex is great. She’s not heavy into the Dom/sub stuff, which is fine with me.”

  Sully’s attitude surprised Ben. “Really?”

  “In the last couple months I’ve realized that while I enjoy certain aspects of this club, it’s not a permanent lifestyle choice for me. I know Murphy and Layla are happy living the life twenty-four/seven. I suspect Cody and Trace will eventually find a permanent submissive. No judgment from me. But Christ, Ben, I don’t wanna put a damn slave collar on a woman. I don’t want her to kneel at my feet. All I want is a lover who’s sexually open-minded and lets me call the shots when we’re getting busy.”

  Ben pointed his beer bottle at Sully. “Which is why we both joined this club in the first place. Neither of us was finding that open-mindedness in the regular dating world.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “You need a reminder, because I remember those days, pretending a quick fuck-and-suck hookup satisfied me. I got goddamn tired of feelin’ like a deviant for what I did want from the women who shared my bed. So while I understand where you’re coming from, I also ain’t gonna kid myself that I’ll ever find the type of woman I want outside of a club like this.”

  Sully whistled. “That’s a harsh answer.”

  “But it’s a no bullshit answer. It was…liberating when I stopped lying to myself that my membership in this club was temporary.”

  Sully’s astute gaze pinned him in place. “You looking for a permanent sub too?”

  “Even if I was, I doubt I’d find one.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Says the lawyer,” Ben drawled. “So, why haven’t you asked the redhead out?”

  “Scared to. What if I find out she’s a kindergarten teacher who reads to the elderly in her spare time?” Sully dropped his voice. “Would I be able to fuck her as hard and raw as I did before? Or what if the attraction only makes sense in the club?”

  “I hear ya. Which is why I haven’t played with a woman from this club, outside the club, for a while.”

  “A while?” Sully repeated with confusion.

  “Can you blame me after what happened with Zoe?”

  “No. Hell, I’d forgotten about her.”

  “Wish I could,” Ben muttered. Zoe had been sweet at first, and he’d even taken her to his house—which was a rarity. Didn’t take long to discover she needed far more pain in her sex play than he was comfortable dishing out. Zoe preferred to be caned. Not occasionally, but as a prelude to every sexual encounter. And she hadn’t wanted the marks only on her ass; she’d demanded them on her legs, arms and back.

  When Ben refused to beat her that severely, Zoe turned nasty, threatening to blab far and wide about Ben’s sexual appetites. That’s when he’d discovered she lived in his hometown. Ben feared how much damage that type of rumor could do to him—a man who fiercely guarded his privacy, especially within his enormous family and within the conservative ranching community. The only reason she hadn’t blabbed was under threat of expulsion from the club. And luckily, she’d been scarce in recent months. Still, Ben had asked himself if the misstep he’d made with her had been his fault. If he’d just talked to her honestly, would it have had a positive outcome for both of them?

  The incident reinforced Ben’s decision to keep the two halves of himself separate: Bennett, the sexual dominant, and Ben, the laid-back rancher. The women who appealed to Bennett would never find a permanent place in Ben’s life. Inside the club he never spoke of his life outside the club.

  One thing the incident hadn’t changed? The fact Ben liked sexual variety. He liked devoting a few nights to a woman, figuring out what she needed, giving it to her and heightening the sexual experience for both of them. He knew that’s why he excelled at domination games: he didn’t get complacent. Or attached.

  “Earth to Bennett. You still with me, man?”

  Ben glanced up from his beer. “Yeah. Just thinking. Wondering what’s in store for me tonight.”

  “I’m so glad you asked,” Cody said behind him.

  He faced his buddy who owned the Rawhide Bar. “Already planned something for me? I’m hoping it involves a hot blonde and a pair of handcuffs.”

  Cody snorted. “There’s a door upstairs that’s sticking, floor trim that’s come loose, and a couple other things that are beyond my handyman abilities.”

  “You been saving shit jobs for me so I’ll feel useful when I show up?”

  “Fuck no. We all know you’re useless.” He and Sully laughed when Ben flipped them off. “Seriously, I could use your carpentry skills.”

  Ben drained his beer. “Let’s get it done before the club opens, so floor trim ain’t the only thing I’m nailing tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  “What does one wear to a sex club?”

  “Speaking as a submissive, I wear whatever I’m told to wear. Or more to the point, what I’m told not to wear.”

  Depressed by her dull clothing choices, Ainsley focused on her friend Layla. “But I’m not a submissive, so am I supposed to adorn myself like a badass dominatrix?”

  “Well, Miz Hamilton, did you bring a selection of latex and leather?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’d be shocked if a bank executive openly admitted owning fetish wear.” Layla smiled impishly. “Besides, the Rawhide Club is a private club, like the Elks Club or the Moose Lodge.”

  Before Ainsley could retort, Layla bounced off the bed and inspected the clothes hanging in the tiny hotel room closet. “Don’t you have a corset?”

  She doubted a girdle counted. “No.”

  Layla rummaged inside her mini-suitcase and tossed out pieces of lingerie. “I have exactly what you need to get appropriately dolled up.” She draped a red and black polka-dotted push up bra over her shoulder, then a matching g-string, followed by a lacy black peignoir and a red satin kimono.

  “Isn’t it a little obvious I’m on the prowl for sex if I waltz in wearing my underwear?”

  “Girlfriend, what part of looking sexy to get you hot sex is confusing? That’s why this club is in existence.”

  “So it is a sex club.”

  “Yep.”

  Ainsley groaned and flopped on the bed. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should’ve stayed home and organized her spice cupboard.

/>   No. You need to add spice to your life—specifically your sex life—not keep it bottled up in your kitchen.

  Layla bounced on the bed beside her. “What’s really going on?”

  “What if I can’t? I mean, what if Dean was right?” Beg any decent man to tie you up and spank you during sex and he’ll be out the door.

  “First of all, your ex-husband was a tool. He blamed you for his…ah…shortcomings.”

  Ainsley snickered.

  “Look, sweetie, we’ve been friends for a long time. You settled for Dean. You were over thirty, panicked about being unmarried and alone, and picked the first guy who wasn’t a total troll. Your sex life with him was as predictable as every other part of your life with him. It wasn’t a good match, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise.”

  “True. Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “The club may not be your thing. But you won’t know unless you try it.”

  “Murphy is okay with me just observing?” The other club she’d visited had strict policies about guest expectations. She hoped she didn’t stand out like some wide-eyed wannabe tonight, although technically, she was.

  Layla smirked. “I handled Murphy. You are my old friend, Angel, from my banking days.” Her phone buzzed and she said, “Give me a minute.”

  Ainsley’s thoughts drifted to her failed marriage as she stared at the hotel room ceiling. During the first year of wedded bliss, both she and Dean were so smug about how theirs was a true partnership. Neither had more control financially, emotionally or physically over the other. They were equals. They both held upper level management jobs in the banking industry. They shared the household chores. They took turns cooking and doing laundry.

  The only change during their second year of marriage was their sex life became more perfunctory. But they’d talked about it, Dean assuring her that desire fades. Reminding her that friendship, companionship, open communication, common interests and mutual career goals were far more important than sex.

  During their third year of marriage, what Ainsley thought she’d loved about Dean began to drive her crazy. His insistence on everything being a joint decision. From where they ate dinner, to the type of wine they drank, to which place changed the oil in their cars. When he asked for her help in choosing a spring vacation destination, she’d suggested that he surprise her. He argued surprises weren’t fun. She argued meticulous planning wasn’t fun. That’s when they started to argue about a lot of other things.