Worn Wranglers, a broken-in hat and a denim shirt washed to softness…Whooeee, we’re talking cowboy heroes!
What’s so compelling about cowboys? They’re hardworking men. They don’t mind getting their hands dirty and they stay until the job is done. We definitely like those traits in bed, don’t we?
I love writing cowboy heroes. My heroes are usually straight-talkers. They know what they want and go after it. Even if they don’t always say the right thing and make mistakes along the way, they are man enough to own their shortcomings and try to win the girl.
Writing cowboys means knowing horses and trucks, animals and soil. I truly love researching the things I don’t know and discovering new information. Every month when a new copy of Cowboy Way Magazine arrives on my Kindle, I squee a little. Okay, a lot!
My heroes are all hardworking—in bed and out. I write loggers, firemen, bikers and more, but I definitely have a soft spot for guys in boots and chaps! What about you? I’d love to hear from you.
Sexual dysfunction. The words make Sibyll cringe, but after one too many failed relationships, she has to face reality. Her O-button is broken, big time. Sick of sitting on the sexual sidelines, she books a week at Boot Knockers Ranch. If a passel of rugged cowboys vying to bring her bliss can’t get her off, nothing will.Hugh had planned to sit out this week’s rotation of sexual therapy, but when he spots sultry Sibyll, he pulls rank. His bone-deep urge to possess her isn’t enough to coax elusive orgasms out of her body, though. And his resolve to give the lady whatever she needs wavers when she shyly makes a mind-blowing request.
Riggs stepped aside when Hugh muscled in to claim Sibyll, but he jumps at the chance to fulfill her ultimate fantasy—a threesome. But once they come together, all barriers are stripped away, exposing his love for the one man—and woman—he’d break every last rule to make his own.
Goodreads Link – https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20862757-pushin-buttons?from_search=true
Sibyll followed her gaze to the door between stage entrance and hallway several feet away. His back was to her and the other dozen women, his shoulders taking up most of the door frame and his white T-shirt molded to a chiseled back. Sibyll outlined his back muscles with her gaze, cutting a path down to a backside hugged by worn denim.
The cowboy pivoted. His face was illuminated by the overhead lights as he talked to the perky Isabel, the ringleader of this insane audition process.
“He has a black eye!” someone whispered.
“From a bar fight? Please let it be from a bar fight!” a woman with a gorgeous head of red hair and thick glasses added.
The cowboy raised his head and stared at the women. Suddenly Sibyll’s muscles tensed to run. She didn’t want to be here, had made the wrong decision. So what if I can’t experience “physical and emotional sensation at the peak of sexual excitation” according to Dictionary.com?
Isabel swooped through the door and pointed at the curvaceous brunette to Sibyll’s right. “You’re next.” Then she returned to the doorway, where she leaned and talked to the cowboy with the black eye.
Dust motes swirled hectically in the lights streaming from the stage. Sibyll tried to follow one with her eyes. Anything to keep from looking directly at that cowboy’s handsome, rugged face.
He was huge—tall and broad and muscled in all the ways that made the knot in Sibyll’s core want to unravel. But it never did.
Maybe if he fights to win me, I could.
He glanced up again, and the group of women tittered. The leggy blonde was led offstage on the arm of a cowboy wearing all black except his shiny silver and turquoise belt buckle.
“Wow, he’s fine. Jenny’s lucky to get him,” the virgin whispered after they passed. They stopped at the door, and the production manager moved to the side so they could pass.
The black-eyed cowboy with the two-day-old dark stubble on his jaw shook hands with both cowboy and contestant.
“You—sexy secretary—you’re next.” The production manager jabbed a finger in Sibyll’s direction.
She looked around herself. A slight girl to her right wore a peasant dress and thong sandals, and the tall, toned girl to her left wore sporty shorts and a T-shirt with an energy drink logo.
“Wh—? Me?” Sibyll pointed to her chest.
“Yep, you.” The production manager whirled back to speak with the cowboy, but he’d strolled through the door and was making his molasses-sweet way across the stage.
He passed the first group of contestants, who froze like a herd of deer in the middle of Highway 495. He dipped his head and positioned a battered brown cowboy hat on it. “Howdy,” he drawled, lips curled in the perfect dose of Southern gentleman and cocky bad-boy.
Feminine sighs sounded in response. Sibyll’s heart thumped as he neared her small group standing nearest to the stage. The closer he got, the more his bulk seemed to take up all the space in the room. Or maybe that was testosterone.
He dropped a wink at the virgin and leaned in to speak to her. “The black eye was nothin’ as glamorous as a kick-ass bar fight. Took a hoof yesterday working with the horses.” He straightened and settled his gaze right on Sibyll.
She stopped breathing as electricity passed between them.
That’s my imagination. I’m so keyed up.
The cowboy cleared his throat but didn’t say anything. Around them, women gawked. Hell, even Isabel the production manager stood with her mouth open, glancing between the huge cowboy and her clipboard.
“Hugh, you’re not filling in today, are you?” Isabel asked.
The man blinked, severing his hold on Sibyll. He shook his head. “Nah, I’m not competin’ today. I’m Master of Games as usual.” He pinned Sibyll again with his gaze. Something dark and exciting coiled low in her belly. What if this man did stand up for her?
I’d choose him in a heartbeat.
Em Petrova lives in backwoods Pennsylvania, where she raises four kids and a Labradoodle puppy named Daisy Hasselhoff and pays too damn much for utilities. She loves to write gritty characters with lots of heart and is well-known for scorching, panty-soaking erotic romance.
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