Page 21 of Brim Over Boot
Actually, no. I’m not calling it that. Kisses are tender and sweet. That was an attack. Amauling. It was all brute force and angry grappling and goddamnbitingand—
My gut tightens, and I let out an involuntary sound I wish I could take back.
No. Nope. Nuh-uh.
We donotlike Noah fucking King.
Maybeithadnothingto do with the man,I rationalize not twelve hours later. Maybe it was simply…circumstance.
Exhibit one.
I’ve never been into guys. And I’vetried. Kinda. Jackson is gay. Remi is pan. The idea of liking someone other than a woman has never been a problem for me in theory. But I simplyhaven’t. Haven’t wanted to bone any guys, haven’t wanted to kiss them.
So it’s not that. I don’t think.
Exhibit two.
If I were going to test-drive dick for the first time, it would not be with Noah fucking King. Of all the men in Darling or any-goddamn-where, he would be my absolute last choice. Literal bottom of the barrel. Last two men on Earth? Hard pass.
So it’sdefinitelynot that.
Exhibit three.
I’ve never been with a woman who…threw me around like that before. None have even tried. A couple have been a little more wild in bed, but even then, it was them wanting me to tossthemaround. Not the reverse.
And I think I liked it. It was kind of…a thrill.
So, there. It has to be that, right? The circumstances.
“Do you think it’s possible to have latent masochistic tendencies?”
Jackson looks at me slowly, the laptop in front of him all but forgotten. We’re sitting in the dining room, the late morning sun brightening the space. “I don’t wanna ask. I really, really don’t.”
“The thing is,” I go on, keeping my voice low, even though no one else is in the ranch house right now, as far as I’m aware, “I kinda got roughed up a bit the other night? And I…liked it?”
Jackson lets out a sigh that sounds endlessly weary. “First, are you all right?”
“What? Yeah, of course.”
He nods. “The partner that roughed you up… Do I know her?”
I nearly balk. That’s Jackson’s polite way of asking if it was someone from town—maybe even an ex of mine—or one of the tourists passing through. But how in the hell do I answer him when it wasn’t even aherto begin with? Saying that will make it sound like a big deal. Like Noah and I had athing. We most definitely do not have athing.
“You’ve met,” I say, skirting the topic best as I can.
He looks contemplative. “If you liked it and she liked it, then, well, I don’t think it’s something you should worry about. As for it being…masochism. Was it the pain you enjoyed?”
I think that over. “Actually, don’t think so. It was just…”
What? The roughness? Being almost helpless?
No way am I saying that out loud.
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell my brother, standing quickly. “Thanks, Jackson.”
He lets out a dubious, “Mhm,” and goes back to the spreadsheets on his laptop.
I’m working at Marie Doherty’s place today. I have a couple days set aside every four weeks for the thirty-some horses on her farm-slash-equestrian clinic. Marie is the only person in a good hundred-mile radius who teaches dressage and show jumping. There are usually a handful of teens or young adults there on any given day, running horses through their complicated routines.
