Page 4 of Ridin' Free
Pretend a man like him could want a woman like me.
And I was too drunk to say no.
“Fine,” I said—the word coming out as if I we’d agreed to a challenge. “Saddle up, brown-eyes. I’m ready to ride.”
He was grinning again as he stood without preamble. I grabbed my little purse, looped the strap over my shoulder, and followed him out of the reception hall.
The cool, night breeze felt good against my skin as we stepped outdoors. I breathed in a lungful of fresh air, hoping it might help clear my head a little. It didn’t do much, but I didn’t have any trouble maneuvering my way across the gravel landscape. I might have felt uncomfortable in a dress, but my Doc Marten’s were almost a part of me.
Twister’s rental cabin was just as neat and pretty as the barn. Aside from the black furniture, the sleek décor didn’t remind me of Twister at all.
This was good. This heightened the fantastical nature of what was about to happen. Here, in the A-frame, we were outside of reality.
“Might have some beer in the fridge from earlier,” he offered, tossing the door key onto the empty kitchen counter.
I discarded my purse there, but I didn’t stop for a beverage. “You promised me a ride, not a drink,” I reminded him, headed for the hallway. “Bedroom?”
I didn’t look to confirm, but I thought I heard his smile as he drawled, “Second door on the left.”
When I crossed the threshold, I switched on the light, revealing a bed with a black frame and white linens. As I reached the foot of it, I turned just as Twister strutted into the room.
“I assume you have a condom.”
“Sure do.”
I held out my hand, palm up, silently insisting he hand it over.
If I wasn’t intoxicated, I might have been annoyed by the laughter I saw gleaming in his eyes as he reached for his wallet and extracted the rubber. The tequila tricked me into thinking his amusement made those brown eyes warmer and softer, somehow—and I liked it.
He placed the condom in my hand, and I closed my fingers around it before I began hiking up my dress.
“I’m on top,” I informed him as I began to shimmy my way out of my panties. “Keep your clothes on, don’t keep your clothes on, I don’t really care—just as long as your dick is out.”
“Damn, baby,” he muttered, his tone still laced with amusement. “Patch on my kutte and the ink on my arm identifies me as a Stallion; but you’re startin’ to make me feel like chattel.”
I coaxed my boots through the leg-holes of my underwear, dropping the garment carelessly on the floor before I straightened and met his eyes once more.
“Look, I don’t need a bunch of foreplay. Are you lookin’ to get your dick wet or not?”
He grinned, chuckled, then shrugged his way out of his kutte.
I waited while he tossed his vest toward the head of the bed and watched as he slipped out of the button-up he wore. He let it fall to the floor, exposing the ink that covered his biceps. When he crossed his arms and reached for the hem of his tank before peeling it away from his torso, my sex clenched in anticipation.
I told him I didn’t care whether or not he kept his clothes on—but I was pretty glad he decided to bear his chest.
There was no argument against it.
From the waist up, he was magnificent.
On his outer right bicep was his Stallion ink. It was the same logo the rest of his brothers wore in black and gray, the horse skull depicted as if made of metal; its mane a blaze of fire. On the inside of his right forearm was a colorful sugar skull surrounded by a bunch of blooming red roses—roses that wrapped around and covered the back of his forearm, as well. Circling his wrist was an inked barbed wire bracelet that dangled onto his hand.
On his left bicep was a menacing spartan soldier in black and gray with splatters of red blood across his armor. Inside Twister’s arm was a cowboy, his head bowed, each of his hands holding a smoking gun. On his forearm was his signature. All the way around, depicted in black and gray, was a storm scene with lightening bursting from the clouds. Amongst the trees that seemed to grow from his wrists was a tornado, destroying everything in its wake. On the back of his hand was the engine of a motorcycle.
All of these I’d seen glimpses of before.
It was the eagle which I’d never seen. It spanned the width of his sculpted chest, its open wings grazing each of Twister’s shoulders. The bird was as formidable as it was beautiful—much like the wall of muscle that was Twister’s torso.
One night with a real man.
