Page 11 of Eight Seconds to Ride

Sterling’s brows furrow, and he stands a little taller. “Course they are. Aren’t yours?”

Huffing out a laugh, I ignore the question, not wanting to talk about my parents right now. Leaning in, I rest an arm against the barn beside his head. I love the way his breath hitches at my proximity. Just like he was at the bar that night. Unsure, but so fucking responsive.

“You know,” I murmur, dropping my voice lower. “I never did get toproperlythank you that night for helping me celebrate my win.”

I pull back, meeting his gaze, his honey-colored eyes, wide and curious… but also cautious. “What do you mean?”

Smirking, I lean in a little closer, my lips hovering over his, the alcohol in my system making me brazen when it comes to Sterling and his little shy-boy act. It turns me the fuck on, and I can’t seem to help myself. “I think you know what I mean.” My tongue dips out, licking along the seam of his lips. “But it’s cute how you play coy. This innocent cowboy rouse works for me, you know.”

His breath is coming out in heavy pants, notes of mint surrounding my senses. This close, I can see the sweat beading along his brow line, the rise and fall of his chest. Closing the distance, Sterling inhales a sharp breath a moment before my lips crash down onto his. So soft. So full. Just as good as I remember them.

Sterling’s hands remain by his sides, even as he parts his lips, letting me lick my way inside. Even when I press my body to his, pinning him to the barn. Even when my hand cups his growing erection over his jeans.

My cock thickens, throbbing against my pants as he lets me own his mouth. His moans, swallowed by me, are a zap of pleasure exploding throughout my body. He tastes good. Feels good. Better than I remembered. I reach out, fumbling with his buckle, trying to get it open blindly, when his hands finally come up, stopping me, and shoving me away.

“Wait,” he mutters, bringing his fingers up to his lips. “We shouldn’t do this?”

It doesn’t escape me the way he phrased that as a question, like he wants to, but knows he probably shouldn’t. Like he’s at war with himself over what his body craves. I reach down and adjust myself, his eyes following the movement. “And why is that, baby?”

He looks uncomfortable, but that doesn’t stop him from meeting my gaze head-on. “Because I’d prefer if we kept things professional.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think? I vividly remember the way you looked with my co—”

“Okay, yes.” Sterling holds up a hand. “I get it. But we weren’t going up against each other back then.”

I roll my eyes. “True for me, but there’s no way you didn’t know four months ago that we’d see each other in the rodeo. Yet you still followed me to the bathroom.”

“You’re right.”

“I always am,” I mutter with a grin.

“But that was a lapse in judgment on my part, and going forward, I plan to keep everything professional.”

The way he enunciates that last word grates my nerves. Suddenly, I’m nowhere near intoxicated enough for this shit. “It’s okay,” I grit out. “I wouldn’t want to sleep with my competition either if I knew I was going to have my ass handed to me in the dirt soon.”

Sterling laughs. “God, you really are so full of yourself, aren’t you? So sure you’re going to win.”

“Oh, baby, I know I am. But it’s adorable that you think you stand a chance.” I step closer once more, invading his space. “Maybe we can get the judges to give you a trophy just for participating, though.”

He bites down on his bottom lip, grin wide as he huffs a laugh through his nose. “Man, it’s going to beso funtaking that title from you this year.”

“And I’ll enjoy kicking your tight, sweet ass.” Reaching around, I grab a handful of it before adding, “But don’t worry, I’ll kiss your wounds and tend to your bruised ego afterward. Show what it’s like to be with a real cowboy.”

He shoves me away with more force this time, and I nearly lose my footing, but I can’t help but bark out a laugh as he stomps past me. Winning this year really is going to feel so fucking good.

It’s nearly all the way dark by the time I make it back to the party. A few people are sitting around the fire, all together, watching something on someone’s phone. Grabbing another beer, I take a seat beside them.

“What’re we watching?”

Cope looks up, a smile splitting his face. “You’re never going to believe this.” He grabs the phone, handing it to me. “Conrad mentioned something about how good Sterling was back home and sent us this.”

I set the beer down, looking down at the phone in my hand. It’s a YouTube video that’s got hundreds of thousands of views. Pressing play, I realize it’s a compilation video of Sterling. Clip after clip of him bronc riding at various rodeos, I’m guessing around Texas. My mood quickly shifts the longer I watch, the tips of my ears burning.

Sterling is good. Like, really fucking good. Just like Dad said.

His form is damn near perfect. Every single move the bronc makes, he’s right there to follow, like he can predict the horse’s thoughts. Win after win after fucking win. He’s riding better in these videos than some of the guys on the circuit who’ve been doing this for two, three, four years.

Grinding my molars together, my nostrils flare as I try to tamp down the annoyance simmering in me. I hand the phone back to Cope, not meeting his gaze because I know what I’ll find—amusement that’ll only make me want to deck him straight in the nose. He takes the phone, sniggering as I bring the cup to my mouth and down the rest of the contents.

---