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And that was a major problem.
Sterling led me through the crowd toward the bull, his presence clearing a path ahead of us. Halfway there, I caught sight of Mack posted near the rail, nursing a beer. He spotted me and lifted a hand in an easy wave.
I waved back, a reminder tugging at the back of my mind.
The car.
I needed to ask about how much longer it was going to take to fix it, if there was any chance the repairs were faster than expected. I told myself I’d bring it up right after the ride.
The thought made my stomach tighten in a way I didn’t want to examine.
We were almost there when someone stumbled sideways out of nowhere and collided into my shoulder.
“You know,” the man slurred, squinting at me with unfocused intensity, “they say bulls can smell fear. Or maybe that’s horses. Or taxes.”
I stared at him, startled. It took me a second to realize it was Harvey standing in front of me, his cap crooked and his grin wide and utterly disconnected from reality.
“They get real interested in it,” he went on, nodding to himself. “Fear, I mean. Animals. People, too, if you think about it.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, the tone turning confidential. “Makes things easier when they don’t see it coming.”
I blinked at him.
Harvey straightened, his jaw clicking once, apparently satisfied with whatever point he’d made. “Anyway,” he added, patting my arm for emphasis, “you’ll be fine.” He nodded like he’d imparted ancient wisdom, then wandered off in the opposite direction, nearly taking out a barstool on the way.
Sterling watched him go, shaking his head. “Honestly,” he muttered, “I’m still not convinced Harvey’s drunk or if that’s just how he exists.”
I bit back a laugh as Sterling guided me the last few steps forward.
We reached the bull, and I stopped short, staring at it like it might blink first.
Up close, it was far more intimidating than I’d expected, and much bigger than I’d bargained for, all glossy black with molded muscles and a rope that seemed unconcerned with my survival. The padded mat around it felt less like a safety feature and more like an admission of guilt.
“I don’t trust it,” I said, eyeing the bull. “It looks like it’s related to Big Hank, and I’m pretty sure they’ve coordinated some kind of revenge scheme against me.”
Sterling snorted. “This one’s name is Rusty,” he said. “And I’m certain he and Big Hank haven’t talked.”
“That feels like something you would say right before I’m launched into the stratosphere.”
“You don’t have to trust him,” Sterling replied calmly. “You just have to listen to me.”
“Isn’t that what you say about everything?” I snapped dramatically. “It’s not a cure-all!”
He ignored me and stepped closer, his hands settling on my hips to position me like I was some kind of rag doll. “Okay. You’re gonna sit here,” he said, guiding me down onto the bull until my core was pressed flush against the worn saddle horn, a very similar scenario to how he’d ruined me earlier today.
Fuck. I couldn’t help but gasp as I settled now, the pressure of the saddle horn nestling right against my clit through my jeans. My thighs clenched around the bull’s body like they had a mind of their own, my hips shifting instinctively as heat flooded my panties all over again.
How did cowgirls get anything done if they were riding things all day, every day? Was I doing this wrong?
Sterling’s hands lingered on my thighs, and he spread them wider, adjusting me with that possessive grip that made me tremble. He knew exactly what I was thinking about right now. Of course he fucking knew…he could probably smell how drenched I was.
There are people around, Sienna. This is polite society—even if they are a little rowdy—not a one-woman burlesque.
“Hand on the rope, baby,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted over my neck, making me shiver. “Other one up. Just like that.”
“Why?” I murmured, ignoring his knowing look.
“Balance.”
“Why does balance require interpretive dance?”
