Page 20 of Braving the Storm
Ever since that encounter, I’ve been craving the glimpse of a sensation he gave me… and infuriatingly, I can’t grasp what that might be, what my body needs, on my own.
I’m also far too conscious of how small this damn cabin is, so I haven’t been able to do anything about the ever-intensifying ache swirling and building and presenting itself.
I’m beginning to think I really need to get over these nerves and find myself a Crimson Ridge cowboy to fool around with, even if it’s only for one night. Someone who hopefully doesn’t need a map and step-by-step instructions on how to find their way to a woman’s clit.
What does it say about me that I’m a twenty-six-year-old whohas already had to endure being with someone entirely uninterested in having sex… with me, at any rate. I’m not exactly inexperienced, but I’m not exactly experienced either. Falling somewhere in the middle of knowing what I want to have with a sexual partner, while also not having the first clue of how to actually ask for what I want. I’m too timid. Too caught in my own head.
But maybe in a new town, with a total stranger, those stars might align for me to finally enjoy sex that can be a little dirty and a whole lot of hot. While a one-night stand doesn’t hold a lot of appeal, right now, I’m prepared to set aside any thoughts of being fussy. So what if I never see the guy again? At least I will have started giving myself a glimmer of pleasure and a way to actually start enjoying having sex.
Antoine sure knew how to get what he needed, without a second thought for anyone but himself.
Nothing like a man rolling out of bed straight away. I didn’t exactly want him to stick around, but it doesn’t excuse how disinterested he was after filling his condom and patting himself on the back. The asshole had an unenviable talent for making me feel like it was my fault I never orgasmed.
God. It’s no big surprise I’m messed up in the head where sex and my body’s neglected desires are concerned.
What I do know is that I need someone to fuck me and erase the constant insanity of inappropriate thoughts I keep struggling to navigate with regard to my uncle.
I might be finding my feet here now that it’s been a few days, going with him to the ranch, helping a little with his farrier work, and having more riding lessons with Kayce. But Jesus, nothing could have prepared me for how challenging it is to be around Stôrmand Lane constantly.
Every time I turn around, he’s there, and my ovaries start squealing like they’re the presidents of his own personal fan club. Each holds up scorecards showing perfect tens, judging him sheer perfection, the best in his field.
Meanwhile, the cabin that still requires aname is so tiny that we’re on top of each other at every turn. To make matters more complicated for my unruly hormones, if we’re not tripping over each other while making coffee in the morning or cooking a quick meal at the end of the day up at the ranch, we’re cocooned together in the cab of his truck.
The bench seat stretches between us, feeling far too tempting. Calling my name with a smooth, supple invitation to slide closer.
I’m sure whoever designed that particular feature had onlyonekind of activity in mind.
And it certainly wasn’t driving.
Another thing about all this time in close quarters with each other is that I’ve come to realize my uncle is the definition of stubborn. Tell him not to do something; he’ll do it twice, and send you the pictures with him pulling the middle finger. Tell him to do something, and he’ll be the classic donkey at a gate.
It’s no wonder he allowed himself to be flung around like a ragdoll atop deadly-looking muscled bulls for years. The man is determined, to a fault.
Yes, I’ve developed more than a little obsession with sneaking any opportunity I can to watch old clips of him from his pro days. Kayce showed me a few videos up at the ranch the other day after I admitted I knew nothing about rodeo, or my uncle’s professional career.
The look on Kayce’s face was the cowboy equivalent of clutching his pearls; the way he gasped and staggered, I expected him to reach for his smelling salts.
So, riding lessons morphed into rodeo lessons. Blame Kayce all I like, there’s no avoiding the truth, that a seemingly innocent little exposure to watching rapid-fire eight-second clips and slow-motion montages ofStôrmand ‘Storm’ Lane, evolved into me stalking his infrequently updated social media later that night, and now here we are.
I officially have a dirty little secret.
One where I lie in bed in the dark with my headphones in and the volume turned down as low as possible because even thoughI’m plugged in, there’s still a hint of paranoia he might have developed supersonic hearing, and I would simply combust into an inferno of embarrassment if that man could hear what I’m watching.
Or more to the point,whoI’m watching.
It’s a sensation I can’t quite describe, sharing this tiny space with an almost-stranger, yet his likeness graces my phone screen.
Thanks to the old bones of the cabin, I’ve discovered since my first night waking up nearly frozen in my bed that to survive this mountain, you need to sleep with the bedroom door wide open to allow the warmth from the fire in. So, while I tuck myself away at night, only a few feet away, the man occupying my phone screen—the veritable god of bull riding himself from when he was in his prime competition years—lies sprawled on the couch.
A couch that he really shouldn’t be continuing to sleep on, considering the unending pressure his body is under all day.
From what I can see, being a farrier is grueling on the body. There’s a lot of yanking at metal to remove the shoe the horse has outgrown because who would have known horses need regular mani-pedis? Then, he does things with tools that look like torture implements, and I was sure must hurt the animals, but each one I’ve seen has stood there seemingly docile and content while he firmly handles them.
I’ve never wished to be a horse more than in the past couple of days.
There are lots of other complicated tasks involving fire and heating metal until it glows bright orange, then more hammering as he forms it into the required shape.
The whole process is fascinating. I got to stand and hold one of the horses, stroking their long nose and mane as he went through the entire rigmarole. Apparently, some of them get a little nervous when it comes time to have their hooves attended to and need a friend to hold their hand… so to speak. Some have got their own little quirks, a special spot to scratch behind the ear in this particular case, which helps them stay distracted. They had themselves a little bag of feed to munch on, and my job was to hang out, dragging my fingers through their mane, petting, and stroking and reassuring them that despite how it might look to the contrary—with all the bashing and filing and hammering going on—they were in the best of hands.
