Page 26 of Wrangling Nash

Wylie returned to the scene now wearing a pair of jeans and a button up flannel.

“Thanks again, doll.” He said as he grabbed my waist and hugged me a little tighter than necessary before he filled his plate and filed into the dining room area. I finally dared to look in Nash's eyes, which only created a silent standoff between us.

It was the first time I'd seen him in a week, the last time being when I was grinding on top of his hard cock as he caressed my breasts. Any hopes of him looking less attractive to me since he stormed out were dashed. Nash could have been a model with those cheekbones and strong jawline. I felt myself start to get flustered and a blush creep across my chest as I tried to hold my stance while clenching my thighs together.

“Do all of my brothers want to fuck you?” he whispered as he walked closer to me then leaned against the counter and grabbed a Bud Light. The movement of his arm brushed lightly against my chest as I felt heat spread throughout my body.

I swallowed, “They are just being friendly.”

His eyebrows raised, “And am I just being friendly with you? Would you call what happened last weekend friendly? When you road my hand and orgasmed while screaming my name?”

Unsure of Nash’s intentions in bringing last weekend up, considering he was the one who had halted things, I replied, “You stopped things, so I guess we’re just friends now.”

As if jolted back to reality, he blinked, clenched his jaw, loaded up his plate, and followed his brothers without another word.

The rest of the dinner was less tense, at least from my perspective. I did my best to avoid Nash’s piercing gaze as Wylie, Clay, and I laughed about their latest antics. Wylie teased me for falling on my ass earlier when I climbed a fence to save a baby bunny that got separated from its mom.

“There’s gonna be a mark on that pretty thing tomorrow,” Wylie said, grinning.

Any peace in the room vanished with that comment, and Nash stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back loudly. We all turned to look at him as he grunted pointing to his glass, “Need another drink.”

Wylie’s eyes narrowed as he watched me while Nash left. Then, raising his voice several octaves, he addressed me, “Hey Jovie, what are you up to tonight? We haven’t given you a proper welcome to Lonestar Junction.”

“I don’t have any plans. I still haven’t met anyone here to make friends. What did you have in mind?”

“We usually go over to Abilene and hit up Desert Dust Saloon. It’s one of those old-timey saloons from back in the day, but they souped it up and expanded it to the size of a warehouse. They’ve got a mechanical bull you can ride, and bets go down on Friday nights because they sell 50 cent beer. People get wasted, and there’s country line dancing. You in?”

“Jovie wouldn’t want to go to a place like that,” Nash interjected, reentering the room before I could respond.

“And why would that be?” I shot back with a glare.

He shrugged, “City girls don’t go there. It’s dusty inside. People are sweaty and dancing wall to wall. The bulls are old, and the beer is cheap.”

“I love cheap beer, sweaty dancing and I’m good at riding things.”

Clay snorted, laughing, and Wylie groaned, “bet you’re really good at riding things,” he said, while Nash shot a murderous look his way.

I wondered if he was thinking about how good I was at riding his hand last weekend.

“I’m in,” I said, smiling sweetly at Wylie while intentionally avoiding Nash’s gaze. “Pick me up at 8?”

“You can count on it,” Wylie replied with a wink.

Chapter 22: Jovie

Two hours later, I found myself in the back seat of Wylie’s pickup truck, making the 30-mile drive to the Desert Dust Saloon.

As we pulled up, I noted that the building matched Wylie’s vivid description perfectly. The front exuded the charm of an old-timey saloon from the movies, seamlessly connected to a vast warehouse at the back. They had constructed the warehouse as an extension, preserving the old building as a front to welcome guests.

Inside of the warehouse, the scene mirrored the lively exterior. The venue was crammed with bodies donning cowboy boots and hats. Multiple bars were strategically set up around the warehouse, with attendants eagerly serving 50-cent pints of beer to the patrons.

The center of the warehouse was divided into two sections: one housing two brown, mechanical bulls, and the other designated for line dancing couples showcasing intricate foot movements to the blaring tunes of Kenny Chesney and Tim McGraw.

Feeling a bit out of place, I swallowed nervously. Despite donning my shortest pair of daisy duke shorts, a cropped V-neck white tank top, a borrowed white cowboy hat from Clay, and a pair of matching white cowgirl boots recently ordered from online, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a fish out of water.

Nevertheless, my determination to capture Nash’s attention fueled my efforts. When he and Wylie had picked me up this evening, I’d walked towards Wylie’s awaiting truck with a little extra sway in my hips. I noticed Nash’s eyes never leaving my body, as they performed a slow sweep up and down my figure. I aimed to prove tonight that I wasn’t like his ex. Though I was from the city, I knew how to kick it in the country, too. After a month of abstinence and daily exposure to his sculpted physique while working on the ranch, I needed to know if I could drive him as crazy sexually as he did me.

“Let me grab you a drink,” Clay shouted over the blaring music, and I nodded in agreement, aware that any verbal response wouldn’t be heard at this point.

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