Page 157 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
His jaw clenches now, one muscle ticking like it’s taking everything in him not to react. His gaze follows every move I make. Down my chest, my hips, and the way I ride this damn thing.
I move more deliberately now, arching my back just a little, letting my hair fall as I move into the buck of the machine.
I’m not supposed to be doing this. I’m supposed to be over him.
My breath quickens, not from the ride, but from him. From the weight of his stare and the tension it ties into every part of me.
Every pump of the bull has me bracing harder, clenching tighter. I shift my grip, moving with it, riding it in a way I hadn’t intended.
And the whole time, I feel him.
Watching.
Wanting.
Not caring, he’s showing it.
The crowd’s cheering, but I only hear one thing, my own pulse, loud and fast, beating with something I won’t name.
But I feel it.
Right there.
The friction.
The pulse.
The pressure is building between my legs.
My breath comes shallow, but I play it cool.
Chin up.
“Jade, you got it!” Natalie shouts.
“You’ve been holding out, cowgirl.” Daisy whistles with her fingers.
The bull jerks harder, and I moan without meaning to.
Just a whisper. But I know he hears it.
His eyes widen. His nostrils flare. And his knuckles go white where he grips his beer bottle.
I know that look.
I shift again, grip tighter. The bull bucks harder. My body jerks forward, then back, and my dress rides up just enough that I know damn well he’s getting a view of my outer thigh.
My legs clamp around the beast, and my back arches with every twist.
And still—still—he’s watching me like I’m the only woman in this godforsaken bar.
Another glance at him through my lashes, and our eyes lock.
That’s my mistake.
Because it hits me like a punch to the gut: the look in his eyes isn’t hate, it’s hunger, and I’ve never seen this hunger in him—hunger for me.
It’s like I’m not another mistake from his past. He’s feeling it, too.
