Page 96 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Dalton whistled, running along the fence, but I barely heard him. My phone was raised, but I wasn’t even watching through the screen anymore—just laser focused on him. The way his hips rocked in the saddle, the deep curve of his back as he rolled with the bull’s movements, his belt buckle flashing in the sun.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The way his thighs flexed every time he squeezed tighter had heat curling low in my stomach.

The bull twisted hard, hooves slamming into the dirt, and Beau adjusted instantly, rolling his hips forward, pressing down like he owned the bull. It wasn’t strength—it was something dominant.

“Eight seconds,” Dalton shouted.

He was panting when he finally threw himself off, landing with a low grunt in the dirt, his body wrecked from the ride.

Dalton grabbed the bull, ushering him right back into one of the larger pens.

“Holy shit, Banks,” Dalton shouted as he latched the gate shut, but I barely registered his voice.

I wasn’t paying attention to Dalton. Beau wasn’t paying attention to him either.

Our eyes locked in a way that made my breath hitch. He dragged his helmet off slowly, his hair clinging to his forehead.

Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

That smirk—the one that had haunted me long after that night in the hotel—curved his lips, dark eyes burning into mine, silently daring me to say something.

I should’ve.

I should’ve rolled my eyes, cracked a joke, anything to break the heat thickening the air between us. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around my phone as my pulse pounded in my ears.

I didn’t run away this time.

I ran toward him.

My boots barely touched the ground as I sprinted to the arena gate. Beau stood there in the middle of the dirt, mustache twitching as his lips parted slightly.

Gold chaps over dark jeans. A thick belt buckle glinting under the morning sun. His broad chest rising and falling with every deep breath.

He didn’t move. He watched me, eyes burning into mine.

Fuck—I wanted him.

Just like when I watched him through my phone, like when his hips moved against mine in that hotel bed, when he whispered praises in my ear and made me fall apart beneath him.

There was too much on the line—our friendship, him being my neighbor, the way I needed him. But the second I looked down at the dirt covering the arena floor, the same dirt I had once been terrified to step in, I realized it didn’t matter because I needed him more than I was scared of what the dirt would do to me.

I grabbed the fence and threw myself over it.

Beau’s nostrils flared, he dropped his gloves and threw off his helmet as I sprinted toward him.

When I stopped in front of him, he brought his hand up, rough and calloused, sliding his fingers against my chin, tilting it up. His thumb traced my bottom lip, his breath fanning against my skin, and his eyes locked onto mine.

“Fuck this,” he muttered.

I didn’t know who moved first, but as Beau’s mouth devoured mine, I didn’t care. I was consumed—by him, by the musk of sweat and leather, the tang of dirt in the air, the distant sound of bulls shifting in their pens. The rough scrape of his mustache against my lips had me whimpering into his mouth, and fuck, I wanted more.

His hands were everywhere—gripping, grabbing, claiming. When he slid them down to my ass, I gasped, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue against mine.

“Oh, shit.”

Dalton’s voice snapped through the moment, and Beau growled, breaking the kiss only long enough to glare over his shoulder.