Page 15 of Ride Me Reckless
She stood patiently while I unsaddled her and ran the curry comb over her slick coat, steam rising faintly from her skin. My fingers lingered longer than they needed to, circling behind her withers, smoothing down her flank. Every motion felt like a memory. I didn't know if I was grounding her or myself.
Colt moved in quiet rhythm beside me, tying off Windstorm in the cross-ties without a word. His shirt clung to every hard line of his chest, collar gaping slightly, hair wet and curling at the ends. He didn't seem to notice the cold or the wet. Just watched me from the side with a calm that always used to drive me crazy.
I broke the silence first.
"I leave tomorrow."
He didn't flinch, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Dayton, right?"
"Yeah. Race weekend." I focused on Biscuit's mane, untangling a knot that didn't really matter. "I've got sponsors to meet. Qualifiers."
"You sound thrilled."
I huffed a breath. "It's the job."
He nodded slowly, his voice low and steady. "You don't have to pretend it's easy to go."
My hand stilled against Biscuit's neck. "Nothing about this is easy," I said, quieter now. "Not you. Not this place. Not staying. Not leaving."
His eyes found mine. That old, quiet way of looking that made you feel seen and exposed all at once.
"Then maybe we don't overthink it," he said. "Just tonight. No promises. No expectations."
I wanted to say no. To keep my boots planted in the life I'd built far away from here.
Instead, I looked at him—really looked—and saw the boy who used to unload my horse at rodeos, who once fell asleep in the bed of my truck under a sky full of fireworks.
"Then let's not waste it," I said.
And I knew, right then, that nothing about tonight would feel small.
The rain hadn't let up. The sound filled the barn with a hush that made everything feel slower. Closer.
Colt opened the tack room door and stepped aside so I could enter first. The space was warm, dimly lit by a single bulb overhead, the walls lined with worn bridles and saddle pads that still smelled of cedar and horse sweat. The floor was scattered with hay, uneven and soft beneath our boots. Familiar. Intimate. Too intimate.
I turned to say something—maybe to break the tension or delay it just a moment longer—but the words never came. My eyes met his, and it was like all that time we'd been apart collapsed in on itself.
I reached for him.
The kiss was soft at first. A slow press of lips that tasted like rain and five years of silence. But it deepened fast. Colt's hands found my hips, then slid up my back like he couldn't quite believe I was real. My fingers fisted in the damp fabric of his shirt. I couldn't get close enough, not fast enough.
When he pulled back just slightly, his breath fanned across my lips. "Are you sure?"
I nodded. "Don't make me ask twice."
He smiled like he'd waited a long time to hear that.
Then he was pulling the saddle blankets from a low shelf, laying them out in layers on the hay-covered floor. The scent of leather and dust curled up around us, grounding me and undoing me all at once. I shivered—not from the cold, but from the feel of his hands finding the hem of my shirt and slowly tugging it upward.
He peeled the soaked fabric from me like he was unwrapping something fragile. His knuckles skimmed my ribs, reverent and warm. I couldn't look away from his face—how focused he was like every second mattered.
His voice was rough. "You still smell like clover and gasoline."
"And you still look at me like I'm the only damn thing that makes sense," I whispered.
We undressed each other in near silence, broken only by the soft scrape of denim and the shift of hay beneath our knees. Colt's jeans hit the floor, and mine followed, tangled with boots and urgency. His body hovered over mine, all heat and hardmuscle, but there was nothing rushed about the way he touched me.
It was memory.
