Page 48

He savors me. He makes every second of it last longer and go deeper than should be humanly possible, like he’s been pushing me this long on purpose just so he could take his time now that I've finally broken. I make a sound against his lips I've never made in my life, and he swallows it, giving me one back. It comes out low, rough, and wrecked. I stop thinking entirely. My hands slide up under the hem of his shirt, over warm skin and hard muscle, and he groans into my mouth like I've undone him. For one perfect, spinning second, I have everything I've been pretending I don't want.

Then he freezes. Every muscle in him locks at once, something slamming shut behind the heat between us. He tears his mouth off mine and pulls back, and the cold night air rushes into every place he just was. We stand there, inches apart, both of us breathing like we've run miles.

His hand's still tangled in my hair. His forehead drops to mine. "Addie." It comes out destroyed. "We can't."

It takes a moment for my brain to process what he’s just said. After all of this, he tells me we can’t? After everything he’s made me feel?

You know what? He’s right. And fuck him. Fuck this whole thing. I’m over it.

I shove past him and move back toward the fire. I hear him behind me as I walk away. He settles into my camp chair and tosses another log onto the fire. “Addie, I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what the hell he isn’t telling me, but it’s clear as day he’s keeping something from me. One minute he’s kissing me like the world is ending, the next he’s MIA and completely closed off. I can’t with this man. I will not become another notch on Chace Walker's belt. I just won't. Nope.

I need to focus on the rodeo. On my standings. I have zero time to get caught up in a circuit romance. It happens all the time out here; I know that. People hook up for summer runs and go their separate ways when the season ends. No strings, no mess. I remember my friend Trista telling me about the bull rider she spent a whole summer with a couple of years back. Clean, simple, done. Maybe if we just—

No. Not going there. It’s too complicated. I can't just walk away from Chace at the end of this. He's Eli's best friend. He works the ranch part-time. I see him regularly. There is no reality where this would not blow up in my face.

Fuck this. I need a shower. I push past the fire without looking at him. Because if I do, I'll say something stupid— like beg him to come to my camper with me.

Even knowing I shouldn’t, I do glance back, just for a second. One traitorous second. The fire catches the line of his jaw and the shadow along his throat. His forearms rest on his knees, hands loose between them. He’s staring into the flames with a look I can never quite figure out. There’s something underneath his easygoing facade that I’m beginning to catch glimpses of now. In the firelight, on the heels of our argument, he suddenly looks less like the man who intentionally drives me insane and more like someone carrying something heavy. I just can’t seem to put my finger on what it is.

This is so much worse than his usual grin. The grin I can defend against. This, I can’t. I grab my shower bag from the camper. "I'm going to take a shower. Don't wait up."

He doesn't look up from the fire. Just nods slowly.

My flashlight bobs along the dirt road ahead of me. This fairground has a full campground attached, which is nice. Most sites have settled in for the night. Chairs empty, kids long since put to bed, the whole place wrapped in that late-night stillness that only exists in a campground—the smell of dying fires, dirt, and cool air. Despite everything currently spinning through my head, something in me exhales.

The bathhouse is deserted when I get there. Porch light on, bugs orbiting it, frantically darting around. I round to the front. The men's rooms are on the right, women's on the left. In the far corner, a hand-carved wooden sign reads Showers, with an arrow pointing to the side of the building. I follow it and find a row of empty shower room doors. I take the second one, step into the dressing space, and lock the entry door behind me. It smells like damp wood and musty air, with the faint ghost of someone else's shampoo. I brought shower sandals because I grew up on a ranch and I know better. Campground showers are not glamorous. They get the job done, and that's about it.

I hang my bag on the hook, put a quarter into the meter, and wait for the temperature to adjust. As I’m digging around in my bag for my shower items, my hand hits something hard and rubber.

Oh God.

I forgot this was in here. I had shoved it in my shower sack while hastily packing an overnight bag on the highway, because I sure as fuck didn’t want Chace accidentally finding it. He would never have let me live that down. It’s apparently been riding around in there ever since. I pull out the vibrator, turning it over in my hand, and let a smile spread across my face.

I'm definitely not going to fuck Chace. That decision stands, firm and fucking final. But that doesn't mean I can't take care of myself. After the week I've had, I could use the stress release only an orgasm can achieve.

I feed more quarters into the shower meter until I've got thirty minutes, undress and hang everything on the hook, finally stepping under the water in my sandals. The heat hits, and I groan out loud. God. That's good. This is exactly what I needed after a full day of worrying over Chace. Muscles I didn't know were tense slowly begin unknotting, the nervous energy I’d been holding all night bleeding out through my shoulders and down the drain. I squeeze coconut body wash into my loofah and let my mind go where it's been wanting to go for days.

The truck on the highway, Chace’s hand fisted in my hair, my back firmly pushed against the truck. His mouth on my neck, like a man starving. The sound he made when I ran my leg against his crotch. I remember what he said to me at the bar last week.

When I kiss you, Addie Dawson, it won't be because of some stupid bet. It'll be because you beg me.

What if I hadn't pushed him away? What if I'd called his bluff — grabbed his shirt, closed the distance, and made him follow through?

I slide the soapy loofah slowly across my skin and let the thought run. His hands. Those damn hands, rough and calloused from years of rope and ranch work. I think about them traveling up my sides, up my waist. I think about his grip, hard and tight. Hard enough to leave a bruise. Desperate for me in an uncontrolled frenzy.

I drop the loofah.

My palm cups my own breast and I tip my head back into the spray. My thumb grazes my nipple and a soft sound escapes before I can stop it. I press my lips together and let my other hand travel down, while pinching my own nipple. I imagine his mouth at my throat. His breath. That goddamn voice.

That's it, baby.

My fingers find my center, and I exhale shakily. Warm and slick, already wound embarrassingly tight just from thinking about him. I work slow circles around my clit, and think about his hands instead of mine. His patience, and the way he'd drag it out on purpose just to watch me lose my mind.

The pressure builds fast, and I reach blindly out of the shower, fumbling across the bench until my fingers close around the vibrator. I click it on. The hum fills the stall, low and buzzing, steam rising thick around me from the hot water. I press it to my clit and gasp, gripping my breast harder. I drag it slowly up and down, teasing myself like I imagine he might me. I picture him watching me with that cocky grin of his as he circles my entrance, watching me writhe underneath him. I think about what it would feel like just to say fuck it and finally—

"Addie?"