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  HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY

  by

  Maggie Carpenter

  HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY

  ADULT ADVISORY

  This book is for adults only, and contains scenes of spanking, graphic sex, bondage, sensory deprivation, and are fantasies only, intended for adults. This book is not for children, nor does it condone corporal punishment of children. This book contains scenes of nonconsensual activities, BDSM and other nonconsensual activities. This book does not support nonconsensual spanking or any other nonconsensual activities, sexual or otherwise.

  Copyright © 2015 Maggie Carpenter

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Dark Secrets Press

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Connor McBride let out a frustrated sigh as he stared at the door. Why did he think she’d return? It had been only five minutes that he’d been able to talk to her, just five minutes exactly one month ago, but in that short five minutes she had mesmerized him. He still wasn’t sure if it had been the way her blue eyes told him she was sweet but sassy, or the long dark hair that seemed to reflect every light in the room. Perhaps it had been the way she drank her beer, holding the nozzle to her lips and tilting back her head. It had been so damn sexy he’d wanted to lean over the bar, rip it out of her hands, and kiss her like it was his last night on planet earth.

  That night his bar had been busy. Crazy busy. He’d hired an extra hand for the evening knowing it would be. It was the last week in November, a Friday, and that last Friday it had become a tradition for groups of friends to gather at his bar and celebrate the holidays. It had started years before when he’d held a post Thanksgiving, Eggnog and Christmas Tree Decorating Night, offering a large punchbowl of whiskey-laced eggnog until it ran out, plenty of tasty munchies, and all sorts of baubles for the freshly chopped tree. It had been a roll of the dice, a risky endeavor to increase business, and it had been a home run. In the months that followed his patronage had grown so much he’d built a riser at the back of the room and began featuring a live band every weekend. McBride’s Bar and Grill became the place to be on the weekends, and his annual eggnog night was so popular, instead of a single punchbowl on the bar counter, he had to place punchbowls on tables throughout the bar.

  Consequently, on that very special night, when the blue-eyed, dark-haired girl had swung her leg over the bar stool and crooked his finger at him, making him swallow hard and feel like a sailor being lured against the rocks by a sultry siren, he’d only had five minutes to spend with her. He’d wanted to drop his elbows on to the bar, gaze into those sweet, sassy eyes, find out who she was, why she was there by herself, and maybe, hopefully, if the Gods were willing, get her phone number.

  But it hadn’t worked out that way.

  He’d been pulled in fifteen different directions, and when he’d turned to shoot her a smile she was gone, her empty beer bottle sitting on the counter looking abandoned and forlorn, as if it too, was wishing she’d come back and wrap her painted nails around its barrel. He’d checked with friends, but no-one had any idea who she was. They’d never seen her before. She was a mystery woman, and every night since, he’d waited, willing her to return.

  Glancing up at the antique wagon-wheel clock on the wall above the door, he saw it was past closing time. He’d fallen into the habit of leaving the door unlocked as he cleaned up, giving her until the very last minute to amble into his tavern. As the days had turned into weeks and she’d failed to appear, he had almost become resigned to the idea that she wouldn’t be back and he’d just have to accept it. Almost.

  Being Christmas Eve he’d told his cook and bartender to take off early, and though he’d planned on closing around eight o’clock rather than midnight as he usually did, he didn’t have anywhere he needed to be, and decided to stay open for lonely folk who needed somewhere to hang their hat and have a drink. He’d considered flying back to the city for a few days to visit his parents and sister, but he couldn’t shake the notion that his gorgeous mystery woman would come waltzing in during the Christmas holiday. Standing with the broom in his hand, he cursed himself for having been so obsessively ridiculous.

  “Lord, Connor, what possessed you?” he muttered. “You could be sittin’ around the fire with mom right now smellin’ her cinnamon cake, instead of standin’ here sweepin’ the floor, and all ‘cos you thought that girl would come back. There’s somethin’ seriously wrong with you, and you’d better figure out what it is before they haul you off to the looney bin.”

  Shaking his head he continued his work, lifting the chairs and placing them on top of the tables as he moved around the room, but as he had done many nights before, he stopped half-way through. Moving back behind the bar he put on the Brad Paisley CD, selecting the track that haunted him as much as she did. We Danced. As the song began a gust of wind whistled around the building, and walking across to the nearest window he peered outside. The soft, gentle snow that had been coating the rooftops and roads had begun to swirl. The forecast has been right. It was going to be a chilly, blustery Christmas Eve.

  When he’d first bought the tavern he’d made himself a cozy apartment in the abandoned storage area up a winding staircase at the back of the building, but with the success of the bar he’d been able to buy a house on several acres, the first step in his dream of owning a horse ranch. Even so, he often stayed in his old digs, and with the winter storm kicking up he decided to stick around rather than risk driving back to his house on the dark icy roads.

  He finished sweeping, pulled the blinds down across the windows, and returning behind the bar he wiped down the counters, put away the last of the glassware, then wearily headed through the kitchen and up the stairs. Kicking off his boots he decided to treat himself to some Cognac XO, and pouring himself snifter of the rich liquor, he flopped down on the couch. As he sipped the warm, soothing drink, his mind took him back to Cat. She was the one woman in his life that had stolen his heart.

  Cat. Short for Catherine, had been totally unique.

  He’d still been living in the city, and she was the personification of an urban girl. Full of fun and fashion, she knew all the trendy places to eat and drink, and she was super-smart and just as ambitious, but Cat had something else. Something she’d shared with him. Something that had changed his life. They’d been dating a few weeks, and one night, returning to his apartment after dinner with another couple, she had crawled over his lap, looked at him over her shoulder, and to his astonishment she had asked him to spank her.

  “What do you mean?” he’d frowned, completely dumbfounded.

  “Exactly what I
said,” she’d purred. “I’ve been a bad girl.”

  As he’d stared down at her upturned posterior he’d felt his pulse tick up, and smoothing his palm across her seat he’d landed a solid swat. She’d dropped her head, let out a low moan, then wiggled for more. He’d delivered a second, and a third, then continued bouncing his hand from cheek to cheek, his cock surging in his trousers. When she began squealing and promising to behave, he’d raised her skirt and studied the pink stain along the sides of her french-cut panties. A fever clutched him, and slipping a finger under the crotch of the sexy underwear he’d found her gloriously, deliciously wet. Sex that night had been unlike any sex he’d ever had, and he suddenly found himself catapulted into a whole new lifestyle, a lifestyle he loved.

  But Connor wasn’t happy living in the city and was readying himself to leave. He had no idea why he was drawn to everything western, but he couldn’t wait to build a life in a quiet country town. The noise, and the hustle and bustle of urban life was like sandpaper against his soul, and he longed for the mountains, clean air, and room to breathe. By the time he left his days with Cat had passed, and leaving the traffic and hectic life behind him, he’d felt nothing but relief.

  Since that time he’d not found another woman who relished the kind of attention that he longed to offer them, and though a few had acquiesced to his dark desires, he knew they’d done so simply to please him. They didn’t love it. They didn’t crave it. They didn’t need it as he did. Wishing he could share the holidays with a kindred spirit always made him think of Cat, and placing his brandy snifter on the coffee table, he stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.

  The following day he’d spend with Lance Chapman, his closet friend and the man who had sold him the bar. It had belonged to Lance’s father, and when Connor had wandered in he knew immediately it was his new home. Lance owned a ranch a few miles out of town, and the two became fast friends. Lance was taken with Connor’s love of horses, and was shocked by Connor’s natural horsemanship ability, but Connor had never doubted that he belonged in a saddle, and whenever he was at Lance’s ranch, he felt happy and fulfilled.

  Horses, dogs, cattle, a few goats, three crazy kids, and a sweet, pretty wife who doted on her husband and their cozy home; that was Lance’s life and Connor’s dream. He loved spending time with them, but even as he thought about the gifts he’d be taking over to them the following day, and the joy he’d be fortunate to share, thinking of Cat had sparked his dominant energy and his mind began to wander. His favorite fantasy floated through his head.

  The dark-haired girl with the naughty blue eyes.

  Sliding his hand over the crotch of his jeans he unzipped his fly as he saw himself behind the bar. She had taken her beer bottle, and lifting it to her lips, gazing at him with a wicked grin, she wrapped her mouth around the nozzle and tilted it up.

  “You make good beer,” she said with a wink as she lowered it down, then leaning over the bar, her enticing breasts almost completely visible, she added, “and I’ll bet you make good other things too.”

  His cock stiffened in his hand, and suddenly the scene jumped and he was standing next to her.

  “I haven’t had any complaints,” he drawled.

  “And what would you did if a girl were to complain, just to be sassy?”

  Her voice was teasing, almost mocking him.

  “I’d say that girl might be in for a surprise.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  His fantasy jumped forward. She was kneeling on the barstool, her elbows resting on the counter with her back arched, and his hand was swatting her gorgeous naked backside. Her squeals were echoing through the empty room, and as he paused to study her crimson skin his eyes fell on her glistening pussy. Touching her soaked seam, her begging groan sent his fingers forward.

  His climax suddenly took hold, sweeping over him with a series of scintillating spasms as his essence burst across his hand, and as it slowly sputtered to an end, with a heavy sigh he looked around for something to wipe himself.

  “Dammit,” he muttered seeing nothing in reach.

  Too tired to move he pulled off his T-shirt, cleaned himself up, and dropping it on the floor he laid back down and let out a yawn.

  “What the hell,” he mumbled. “I swear that girl was a ghost and now she’s hauntin’ me,” then gazing out the small window he muttered, “I don’t know why she’s special, but she is. I don’t care how you do it, just bring her back through my door.”

  Closing his eyes he let himself doze, her image dancing in the forefront of his mind the last thing he saw as he fell asleep.

  When a loud bang woke him from sleep he thought it was a tree branch hitting the side of the building. It wouldn’t be the first time, and sitting up he shook his head and groggily looked at the small glowing numbers on his DVD. They told him it was 2:04 a.m. The wind sounded furious and he shivered, though not from the cold, but from the threat of the angry night. Wind-broken branches and blowing debris could cause serious damage.

  Still half-asleep, he realized he hadn’t zipped himself up before drifting off to the land of nod, and rising to his feet he was about to pull off his jeans and head into his bedroom when he heard another noise. A startling noise. The sound of a person walking around in the bar.

  Glad he’d taken off his boots he moved silently across the room and opened a cabinet, carefully pulling a metal box from the top shelf. Lifting the lid he pulled out his gun, hurriedly loaded the chamber, and with his heart thumping he crept down the stairs. Walking softly forward he approached the swinging door that led into the bar and peered through the small glass window. To his shock he saw someone laying in a heap in the middle of the floor. The person was wearing a full length, black puffer coat, the hood still drawn around their head. He scanned the rest of the room to make sure no-one else was skulking around, then pushed through the door and hurried forward, stuffing the gun into back of his jeans. Crouching down, not sure what to say or do, he realized the figure was that of a woman.

  “Miss,” he said softly, tentatively touching her arm.

  Groaning, she rolled over and stared at up him with half-lidded, glazed eyes, and for a moment he was a deer in headlights. It was his mystery woman.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It took him a minute to realize that he’d left his door unlocked, and the bang he’d heard was the door slamming shut behind her. Letting out a long breath her eyes closed back down, and he assumed it was from exhaustion and relief. She needed warmth and some TLC, and he was about to ask if she was injured when the sound of a car’s horn pierced through the noise of the raging storm, and the flash of headlights against his window shades told him a car had pulled up. Jumping to his feet he darted forward and locked the deadbolt, then running back he scooped her up. When she put her arms around his neck and held on for dear life he felt a protective energy surge through his soul. Carrying her as quickly as he was able up the winding staircase and into his bedroom, he laid her down and gently lowered the hood of her parka.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he muttered.

  His words were more a comment to himself than a question to her, and seconds later a loud pounding at his door pre-empted her answer even if she’d had one.

  “P-please, w-will y-you help m-me?” she whispered through chattering teeth, barely opening her eyes.

  “Of course I’ll help you,” he softly replied.

  “P-please, d-don’t t-ell them I’m h-here.”

  Her voice was full of fear and that was enough for him. He’d wait until morning and listen to what she had to say before passing any judgements.

  “Don’t worry,” he said smoothing the tendrils of damp hair from her face, “I’ll send them on their way. They won’t know, I promise.”

  “Th-thank you,” she stammered, the sides of her lips almost managing to curl into a smile.

  The pounding resumed, and jumping to his feet he grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed, pulled it quickly up t
o her neck, then trotted down the stairs. He still had the gun in the back of his jeans, and though the feel of it pressing against the small of his back was reassuring, he fervently prayed he wouldn’t have to use it.

  “Who is it?” he called through the bolted door.

  “Sorry to bother you,” a man’s voice called back, “could you please let us in. It’s freezing out here.”

  “You got me outta bed. Whatta ya need? I can call someone for you, but I’m not openin’ the door.”

  There was a pause, and holding his breath Connor waited for the response.

  “Have you seen a dark-haired girl in the last hour or so?” the man shouted, “looking for a phone or some help?”

  “I’ve been closed for hours, and if it’s all the same to you I’d like to go back to bed.”

  “Okay. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  He heard the tromp of feet as the man trudged away, and moving swiftly to the closest window he peered through a crack in the closed blind and spied two men climbing into a late model Range Rover. Though he tried to read the license plate he could only make out the last four letters. They spelled out the word, HILL. Something about it rang a bell, and committing it to memory he waited until the Rover had pulled out from the parking lot and was driving away before hurrying back up the stairs. When he reached the landing he marched quickly into the living room, returned the gun to its box and the cabinet, but as he turned to leave he spied the brandy snifter. Splashing in some more of the calming, warm Cognac, he picked it up, walked into his bedroom, and sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “They’re gone,” he assured her. “You look a bit more alert.”