Page 45 of Riding the Storm
Just Charli.
Every reason I shouldn’t be doing this—the ranch, the training, the fact that she clearly can’t stand me most days—goes flying straight out of my head.
Because right now, none of that matters.
All that matters is the feel of her, the way her body fits against me.
Her hands slide up, her fingers brushing my neck, and I can feel her heart pounding against mine. My breath comes rough, and my thoughts scramble.
“Bryce,” she murmurs against my mouth, “this is—”
“Ry. Call me Ry,” I demand.
We’re both breathing hard now, caught somewhere between sense and instinct.
“This is a bad idea,” she continues.
“Sure is,” I agree, then slam my mouth back against hers.
All the resistance slides away. Both mine and hers as we battle for control of the kiss—all wrestling tongues and biting lips. My hands go to her waist, and her legs wrap around me as I hoist her off the ground until our hips are perfectly aligned. I can feel her heat as I press into her. My cock grows very impatient as she begins to move against me.
I slide a hand under the hem of her dress and caress the smooth skin of her thigh. Moving it higher as she moans her encouragement against my mouth.
My hand brushes the edge of silky fabric, and her head falls against the wood at her back.
“Look at me,” I demand, and her eyes come to mine. The desire I find there matches mine as I feed a finger under the fabric. “You’re fucking soaked.”
“I don’t need your commentary, cowboy.”
“What do you need, darlin’?”
The moan she releases as I stroke her gently is all the answer I get. And all the answer I need. I pepper kisses down her throat as I find her entrance and dip the tip of my finger inside.
She gasps and tugs at my hair as she struggles to get closer.
And then …
A throat clears.
Loud. Deliberate.
My head jolts up, and we both turn toward the sound.
A guy stands a few feet away, grin stretched wide across his face. He’s holding a beer, looking way too entertained for my liking.
“Don’t mean to interrupt,” he says, jerking a thumb toward the door we’re up against. “But, uh …”
I glance over her head to read the sign on the door I have her pinned against.
Sure enough …
MEN. Big, bold letters right there, behind Charli’s head.
“Fuck me,” I mutter as her legs fall from my waist. I take a step back, and she struggles to tug her dress down, her face flushed a deep shade of red.
“I, uh … we’re … sorry,” she stammers, brushing past me quickly before I can say a word.
“Don’t worry about it,” the guy calls after her, chuckling. “Happens all the time.”
