Page 81 of Ridin' Free
“You’re mine, Ali-Mae.” He pushed his fingers deeper and inched his face closer. “You feel that baby? You’re fuckin’mine.”
I felt my way up his neck as I sought to bury my fingers in his hair. My eyes began to burn as I fought back tears, holding onto him as tight as I could. It wouldn’t last, and I knew it. Nothing this good could survive my darkness—but it was true. For as long as he wanted me, I was his—wholly and completely.
It was reckless.
It was stupid.
It was impossible.
But I belonged to Benson Wright.
“Yes, daddy,” I whispered as my first tear fell.
Then he kissed me—long and hard.
ONE WEEK LATER
It was still quite earlyin my shift on Wednesday evening when the light pouring through the open door beckoned my attention across the room. My eyes found his and latched on as he entered the bar.
Benson.
My Stallion.
My slice of heaven.
The smile that made the corner of my mouth twitch was as involuntary as the flutter of excitement I felt in my belly. With each passing day, I was falling a little harder, digging my grave a little deeper, and there was no stopping it. The greedy monster in me had long since taken control, overruling every reasonable argument as to why he—this—us—was a bad idea.
I wasn’t fighting it. Not anymore.
I wanted as many nights with a real man as I could get—consequences be damned.
When he flashed his crooked smile my way, I shook my head and reached for a pint glass, shifting my gaze onto my task. I may have been in the midst of a great fall, pretending the resurrection of the woman Ben saw in me was real—but behind the bar, I was still Phoenix. I poured him a draft of his favorite as I worked to gather myself. Just as I slid a wedge of lime on the edge of the glass, he was pulling out a barstool opposite me.
“Thanks, sparky,” he said as I delivered his beverage.
Feeling bold and uncharacteristically playful, I propped my forearms against the bar and replied, “One day you’re gonna stop callin’ me that.”
He grinned, and the sight of his bright smile framed by his full beard did unspeakable things to me.
“Not likely, baby,” he chuckled with a wink.
I fought my girlish laughter with everything I had.
I won.
Barely.
“You’re an asshole,” I teased.
He propped his sculpted, tatted arms atop the counter and leaned forward, shortening the distance between us. He was almost close enough to taste.
Cedar. Amber. Leather.
Fuck, but I loved the smell of him.
“If this is your idea of foreplay, game on,” he muttered softly. “I’ve got no place to be. I’ll wind you up so tight, you’ll be beggin’ me to take you in the bathroom stall before the stroke of midnight.”
I was starting to lose the fight against my amusement as I leaned closer—pressing up onto my tiptoes so as to get near enough to murmur, “That’s disgusting. Why would you drag me into a stall when I’ve got full access to the storage closet? I drinkmy whiskey neat, I prefer my beer from the bottle, and I wear a knife on my hip, but I am a lady, after all.”
