Page 28 of Sexting the Cowboy
That’s your problem.
He takes a moment.You should know something, Doc.
What’s that?
You’ve been the best part of my day.
My chest tightens as I gulp.You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.
I will. Just thinking about you first.
Goodnight, Brick.
Sweet dreams, Annie.
I set the phone down, turn off the lamp, and lie there in the half-dark. My pulse won’t settle. My thoughts keep looping back to his grin, his words, the way he makes me laugh when I’m trying not to.
It’s foolish. It’s reckless. And it’s the first thing that’s made me feel alive in a long time.
I slide into my sheets, thinking about Brick. His rough hands on my hips. His mouth on my throat. Before I can consider it, my hand slides beneath my underwear. I’m slick and hot, and all I can think about is him. Those steel-blue eyes. The silver hair, glistening in the sun. The weight of him on me.
In me.
Me, clinging to his broad shoulders as he pumps into me. My body arching in time with him, meeting his every movement.The feel of him holding me down and taking what he wants, because he knows I want it too. The swell of him inside of me as he erupts…
Fuck. This is such a bad idea, and I don’t think I can stop. I’m right there on that edge with him, ready to jump. Ready to come.
I groan his name as my orgasm rides through me, and I doze off with him on my lips.
8
BRICK
By the timeI pull my vest on and slide my hand down the rope, the sun is a gold coin sitting right on the rim of the grandstands. The noise rolls at me in warm waves—boots on planks, tinny speakers, somebody whistling loud enough to peel paint. I give the gate man a nod and hang my jaw loose the way I always do right before the world gets small. Swagger’s a joke and a shield both. I wear it like a second hat.
The bull underneath me breathes like a forge. Hell’s Thunder. He’s got a reputation, but I know him by feel—shorter hop, quick spin, likes to fake a direction change and see if you’ll overcommit. I’ve ridden worse.
My glove hand finds the pocket in the rope just right. Free arm floats. I tell my back to be a spring and my hips to be a hinge. Somebody yells my name. The gate bangs.
We blow out into open air and light. He hits a left spin, head down, shoulders popping. I stay with him, left with him, left again, drawing figure eights with my free hand to keep the judges awake. The crowd goes up a notch and my lungs do that thing where they forget to count seconds and just count fun. Hefakes right, but I don’t buy it. We’re both old enough for each other’s tricks.
Four seconds. Five. I can hear him sucking wind and the announcer sucking vowels. I’m there. My core’s tight, my knees are iron, chin low. Then he throws a dirty little hop-skip that’s less buck and more insult, and I feel my weight get a breath too far ahead. It’s nothing, a bad blink. Then it’s everything.
Seven.
I pull, I claw, I’m on, I’m off. The air surrounds me, in place of half air, half bull.
Dirt comes fast and sideways. My shoulder kisses ground harder than I planned and I roll the way I’ve taught a hundred kids to roll. The bullfighter flashes across my eyes like a miracle in bright pants, and the pickup horse steals the big man’s attention with a swagger prettier than mine. I’m on my knees, then my feet, then I’m tipping my hat at the grandstands like this was all choreography I meant to do. They buy it because they want to.
Scoreboard says I didn’t waste anyone’s time. Not a winning ride, not a loser either, and I’ll get another go if the draw’s kind. My shoulder is wet and gritty. I wipe and my palm comes back red. Huh. Didn’t feel that happen.
I walk out under the back gate and Blaze is there already, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she can’t decide whether she’s a human or fire itself. Her ribbon is crooked, lipstick perfect, eyes bright with the kind of worry she pretends is admiration. “You good?” she asks, already reaching for my arm.
“Always,” I say, and only then do I look down and see the slice. It’s not deep-deep, but it’s long and messy, from mid-bicep tojust shy of the inside of my elbow. Blood has made a little river through the dust on my skin. My vest is scuffed, my pride less so.
“Dad,” she says, in that tone that means I should not argue if I want peace. “Get that patched.”
“Looks worse than it is.”
