Page 46 of Savage Reins
"By a significant margin," he agrees, and there's something almost boyish in the way he grins.
I laugh too, surprised by my own boldness and by his reaction. It occurs to me that I've never heard him laugh before—not really laugh, with genuine amusement instead of bitter irony. The sound does something dangerous to my chest, makes my heart speed up in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
Rusalka, perhaps sensing the shift in mood, pushes her nose between us, investigating Renat's sleeve with obvious curiosity. She finds the cuff of his shirt interesting enough to start chewing on it, her teeth working at the fabric with determination.
"I think she likes you," I say, grinning as he tries to extract his sleeve from her mouth without being too forceful about it.
"Or she's trying to eat me alive, one piece at a time."
"No, she'd start with something more tender if she wanted to eat you. Your sleeve is just convenient." I walk around the back end of Rusalka and drop the brush in the bucket and lean over the fence next to Renat, forearms bracing on the wood rail.
He stops tugging and looks at me, eyebrow raised. "Are you saying I'm tender?"
There's something in his expression—vulnerable beneath the teasing—that makes me want to be honest. "I'm saying you're softer than you want people to think."
"Maybe." His voice drops lower. "Not with everyone."
The admission hits me square in the chest, and suddenly, I can't pretend this is still about horses or ranch work or anything else that exists in the safe territory of practical conversation. This is about us, about whatever has been building between us through weeks of shared labor and stolen moments.
"With me…" I say. It's not a question.
"Yes." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tip my head back to keep eye contact. "Definitely with you."
When he kisses my neck, I'm not prepared for the softness of it, the way his lips brush against my skin like a question being asked. I close my eyes and let myself feel it—the warmth of hismouth, the scratch of his stubble, the way my pulse jumps under his touch.
I should step away when I remember thatBatyais watching from the porch. Renat came here with orders to destroy everything I love, and getting involved with him is the kind of mistake that will ruin my life. But I tilt my head to give him better access, and when he presses another kiss to the hollow beneath my ear, I don't pull away.
Because somewhere between his arrival and now, I've fallen for him. Completely, dangerously, impossibly fallen for the man who was supposed to be my enemy. And I'm not sure I care about the consequences anymore.
My eyes flick open to see thatBatyais no longer on the porch with stern eyes staring at me, and Renat lets his teeth sink into the soft flesh below my ear. When his hand slides up my back, fingers lacing in my hair, and he fists it tightly to tip my head backward, I let him, but a gasp escapes my throat as warmth floods my core.
"I want you," he growls against my skin, and it makes me shudder.
"Men like you take what they want, don't they?"
His grip in my hair tightens, his mouth at my ear. “Yes, 'men like me' take what we want,” he says, and then he’s pulling me with him, backing us out through the stall gate.
I stumble once, but his arm is firm around my waist, guiding me across the dim aisle. He doesn’t stop until we reach the stacked bales at the far end—half-hidden from the house and anyone who might come in, but still exposed enough to give me a rush of adrenaline at the idea that at any timeBatyacould come looking for me.
“Here.” He turns me so my back hits the warm hay, the scent of it rising around us. His mouth finds mine in a rough kiss, hishand already sliding under my shirt, up over my ribs to cup my breast.
My jeans are yanked open before I can catch my breath, the zipper rasping down. “Been thinking about this since the second I walked in,” he growls, shoving them open.
“Renat—” My protest dies when his fingers slide between my thighs, stroking once before finding my clit and rubbing it in a tight steady circle. I whimper and my knees almost buckle at how forceful he is sometimes, but when he takes control, I want to yield. I want to be whatever it is he wants me to be whenever he wants me to be it, and I want to feel the pleasure only he can give me.
“Wet,” he says, almost to himself.
I grab his shirt, fisting the fabric, and pull it open. Buttons scatter onto the hay as I push it off his shoulders, tracing the ink and hard muscle I’ve thought about too many nights.
He unbuckles his belt with quick, practiced motions, freeing himself. The thick heat of him presses against my stomach as his hands close on my hips. “Turn around,” he orders.
He pushes me toward the bales, one hand on my hip to keep me where he wants me while the other yanks my jeans and panties just far enough down to bare me to him. The rough brush of denim against my thighs makes the whole thing feel dirtier—hurried, reckless, like we both know we shouldn’t be doing it here.
The sound of his zipper lowering is sharp in the quiet barn, followed by the heat of him pressing between my legs. He shoves my knees wider with his thigh and drives into me in one hard stroke that forces a gasp from my throat.
“Fuck,” he grits out, his grip biting into my hips. “So tight, even like this.”
The hay scratches my palms, still tender from the burns, as I brace against the bales, meeting him as he slams into me again.His pace is brutal from the start, each thrust jolting through me, the rasp of our clothes turning every movement raw.
