“I love our Daisy, but I am ready to have my wife to myself.” He grabs me, lifting me in his arms. He’s careful to make sure when he cradles me in his arms my dress doesn't show my panties. No way he’d ever allow that. If Bronco is anything, it’s damn possessive. I love it.

“Agreed, but I need to lock my office before we go.”

“Oh, we’re going to the office. I’m not taking you out in this dress until you look thoroughly ravished.”

“I’m pregnant, Bronco, I think people know I’ve been thoroughly ravished.” He kicks my office door closed behind us, sitting me down on my desk before turning to click the lock into place. I’m already pulling my panties down my legs and tossing them away. “Ravish away,” I say as I pull the dress off next, throwing it on a nearby chair.

“Ravish? No, worship,” he says, walking over to the desk. He drops to his knees, spreading my thighs wide, and worships every inch of me.

THE END!

Lassoing the Virgin Mail-Order Bride

When Clare Stevens walked onto the McCallister ranch, she expected her life to be a certain way. She was the mail-order bride of the owner, and she was to fulfill her duties. Clean the house, cook for his men, and warm his bed at night. What she didn't expect was the beefy cowboy who walked in and literally swept her off her feet.

Cash McCallister didn't have time to date and find a wife. So a mail-order bride seemed the easiest way to find a partner. He thought he'd made a mistake until he laid eyes on the little piece of sunshine that lit up his life. He never imagined a true love like this. He never knew an obsession could take hold so tightly.

When drama hits the farm and their fast love is threatened, can Clare and Cash hold it together?

Warning: This is literally as cliché as it sounds...and just as awesome. It's country living with high-calorie foods and easy sunsets. Come sit on the porch and stay a while. You'll like what you see.

Chapter 1

Clare

“Miss Clare Stevens?” I turn my head to look at the man who said my name. The sun blocks my view until he takes another step forward, his cowboy boots tapping on the concrete of the train station’s entryway. His movement gives me a clear view of him now, and I’m taken aback by the sight of him.

He looks like he could be my father’s age. Not that I knew my father, but if I had to guess how old he was, he’d be around this old. Instantly, the little bit of the fear I’d been feeling slides away. The man looks nice. The laugh lines around his mouth are evident, even with all the wrinkles. His grey hair is cut short, his skin is deeply browned by the sun, probably from years of working out on the land.