Page 54 of Tame Our Wild

“Sounded like one to me,” I quip.

She solidifies her artificial scowl as she repeats, “You’re old, remember. You may be able to handle your alcohol better with age, but your ears aren’t as good as they once were.”

I jab my finger into her side, forgetting she has her riding vest on. She yelps, jumping out of the way anyway. “You’re such a brat sometimes.”

“It’s your fault.” She chuckles, the sound as bright as the sun seeping through the cracks in the roof panels above us. “You’re the only one who brings that side out of me.”

“Might want to take that back,” I warn. “I kind of like it when you tell me I’m the only one who makes you feel a certain way. Things like that go straight to my head.”

Both heads, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She shakes her head, softly laughing. The sound is so sweet, reminding me of the warm honey I drenched my biscuits in that she made this morning.

“Time to ride, dust bunny. Show me that you kept up with the training I gave you while you were gone.” There’s an itch in my fingertips to slap her perfect ass in those brown leather chaps over her boot-cut jeans to get her moving. I settle for clenching my fists at my side to battle the urge.

“I did,” she reassures.

“I don’t doubt you.”

She grins at that and steps onto the platform. She adjusts her glove, resituates the bull rope to her standard, tosses a leg over the body, and rolls her hips to center herself.

I’ve seen riders do that same motion a million times. Hell, I do it myself. The way Harlow does it is so controlled and erotic that I move behind the control table to hide my growing erection pressing against my zipper. With the way chaps look against my groin, she would surely notice the bulge in my pants. Doesn’t help that I keep replaying what it felt like to touch her last night.

“With this first one, remember to breathe,” I remind her. “And don’t overpredict the movements you think it’s going to make. Listen to your body and be aware of the one moving under you.”

Her eyes widen, and she clears her throat.

Fuck. Why does everything carry a sexual connotation now?

We’re fucking professionals for God’s sake.

Last night changed something between us, and by the way she nods hesitantly, she feels it too. The tension that was between us is now vibrating, waiting to snap and mark us both.

I’m just trying to do my job and coach her, goddammit. Now, I have such a painful hard-on that I’m going to have blue balls later if I don’t choke my cock with my fingers after this.

She takes her time getting her grip just right and raises her free hand in the air.

“Ready?” I ask.

Harlow gives a nod, and I turn it on, studying her movements as it ramps up to the most advanced level. It spins and bucks, starting in one direction. She gets used to going counterclockwise, but Harlow gets caught off guard when it suddenly switches. To the untrained eye, you would think she is breathing, but I notice the moment she stops.

It’s the same second Harlow loses her control.

Her balance wavers, and she struggles to catch up with the machine’s movements.

“You’re not breathing,” I raise my voice. “You’re leaning forward too much!”

It’s too late; she’s thrown off and tumbles to the padded platform, lying there face up for a moment before slamming her fist into it in frustration. “This is bullshit! I was fine at home. I was focused on breathing and matched the movements move for move.” She huffs out a breath. “When I’m here, I keep trying to imagine those rides and how they felt. This time, instead of overpredicting what movement it was going to make next, like I usually do, I fell behind.”

I grin.

She jumps up and crosses her arms over her riding vest. Her tone has a sharp edge. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because you realized your own issue.” I gesture to her. “You can’t think about those other rides; none of them is this one. I’ve won two World Finals, and never once have I thought about those rides when I get on the back of a different bull. You’re going to keep setting yourself up for failure if you don’t train yourself to realize that every other ride you’ve ever had in your career doesn’t matter—even the best ones. And the worst ones.” I put focus on that part.

Harlow blinks slowly, processing my words. She stands unmoving for a few moments, blowing out a long breath that seems to have her muscles relaxing, before she gives me a firm nod. “Okay. I want to go again.”

“Atta girl,” I praise.