Page 138 of Bucked Hard

I slam my fist against the dash so hard it sends a shot of cheap whiskey morning-after pain up all the way to my shoulder.

But it’s not enough to stop me from getting out of my truck, boots hitting the gravel with military precision.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Three steps and I stall, knots tangling the muscles in my back and down into my gut.

Sweat trickles down my spine. The summer night air chills the dampness covering my skin.

The need to march in there, throw her over my shoulder and carry her out is grabbing me by the balls and pullinghard.But I restrain myself. Barely. I don't go in. Just stand in the shadows, watching the door like some obsessed guardian. Or predator. Both.

Time drags. My jaw aches from clenching. The neon buzzes into the calm night air.

Then an impossible gravitational pull drags me from the shadows, and I’m heading toward the door as the flashing beer sign turns my vision red.

A stream of light and sound emerges as the door cracks open, then she’s there, walking out on a slight stumble. She’s wearing the Tony Llamas with the pink hearts I got her for her eighteenth birthday.

Fuck me. Just knowing she’s sliding her cute little foot into something I gave her has me ready to double over as my cock thickens to the point of pain.

She’s alone at least. Relief lifts some of the weight from my shoulders thinking she’s come to her senses and is heading home, but the feeling doesn’t last.

A man with a death wish is following her. Young. Drunk. City slicker in a cheap felt hat and vinyl boots.

I nearly snap a molar when he reaches for her arm.

Fire and brimstone boil my blood. He’s about to meet God, but he’s going to meet the devil first.

Conscious thoughts are left in the dust. I’m moving.

Crunching on the gravel faster this time, arms swinging with balled fists for ballast. For a split second I rethink my commitment to wearing flannel shirts all year long, because I’m sweatin’ like a pig on a transport truck.

Then like I’ve skidded through a time warp, I’m suddenly rightthere. Between them. My back to her, facing down this man-boy who doesn't know he’s about to meet his maker

"Walk away," I growl, low and deadly as he spins, seeing me there bathed in the crazy blinking red light. He swallows, his eyes narrowing.

Ifeelher fucking heat from behind me and that sweet scent of vanilla and sunshine makes my knees start to buckle. Soft pressure meets the tense muscles between my shoulder blades.

Small. Delicate.Mine.

The drunk weighs his options. The very real possibility of his final breaths being taken right here as he expires by my hands seems to sink in, and he staggers off mumbling something about rednecks and country girls.

"Buck, what are you doin’ here," she says in that sassy spring-fed voice, and the sound lifts me up like a prayer.

I turn, taking her in. Flushed cheeks. Bright meadow-green eyes.

That virgin-white gauzy dress clinging to curves I've memorized for far longer than I should admit. Every time I look at her, I’m fucking dizzy and salivating like a fucking horse ridden too long and hard on a hot day.

"You’ve leaving, Callie." My voice doesn't sound like my own. Too rough. Too raw.

"Or what?" She tilts her chin up. Challenge written across that beautiful face.

Her defiance only makes me harder as I find her wrist, fingers pressing into soft flesh. "Don't test me tonight, sweetheart."

"I'm not your sweetheart." But her pulse jumps wildly beneath my thumb.

She knows exactly what she is.

I lean down, close enough to feel her breath against my lips. "You’re getting. In. My. Truck."

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