Page 7 of Dirty-Talking Cowboy
Why did he have to be the one who did this to me? Sure, he was as handsome as sin—or maybe the devil himself—but I wasn’t the kind of woman who melted for a man.
Or so I liked to believe.
Because right now? One more look like that, and I’d be the one begging to see just how much he really knew.
“So are you doing to do this or what?” I asked, injecting as much sass into my voice as I could manage.
His mouth curved into that almost-smile that made my stomach flip. “We’re doing this. Have you got a horse saddled?”
“Yes. I left her in the barn.”
“Good.” He turned around and started back the way he’d come.
I followed behind him, thinking I had lost my ever loving mind.
Had a made a mistake thinking I could run a ranch? I know it was probably my one and only chance at putting down roots. Making a home for myself.
At the barn he got off his horse and went inside. A few minutes later he was leading one of the mares I’d managed to saddle outside.
I stopped beside him, watching as he checked everything over.
“Where did you learn to saddle a horse?” he asked, rubbing the mare’s nose.
“I have my ways.” I smiled up at him. I thought I had done an okay job.
He snorted. “How many videos did you watch last night and this morning?”
I ignored him, taking the reins and leading the mare over to a mounting block. I was a little too short—and way to curvy—to try and get on the horse by myself.
“You know how to ride?” he asked.
“Does sitting on a pony at a petting zoo when I was seven count?”
“No.” He moved to the horse’s side, checking the saddle. “Alright. Come here.”
I approached cautiously, and he positioned me next to the mare. “Left foot in the stirrup. Grab the saddle horn. Pull yourself up and swing your right leg over.”
I tried. I really did. But the horse was taller than I’d expected, and I couldn’t get enough leverage to pull myself up. I tried again, grunting with effort, and failed again. This was humiliating.
“Here.” Rhett moved behind me, and suddenly one hand was on my waist the other—
Before I knew what was happening, he was pushing up and onto the saddle. That other hand? Firmly on my ass.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, boosting me up and into the saddle with an ease that should not have been as attractive as it was. But his hands—God, his hands were big and warmand strong. One hand splayed across my sides where I was soft, where I’d always been self-conscious about the extra padding. The other was gripping my butt cheek like a bowling ball.
I froze, every muscle in my body going tense. He’d felt it. He’d felt how soft I was, how much there was to grab, and now he was going to—
“Relax,” he said, voice low and rough near my ear. He was still standing close, one hand resting on my thigh, steadying me. “You’re fine.”
But I wasn’t fine. I was mortified. I’d felt his fingers dig into the flesh at my waist, felt them encounter the softness there that I usually tried to hide under loose shirts and strategic layering. I’d never been small, never been delicate, and having him touch me like that, feeling exactly what I looked like under my clothes—it made me want to climb off this horse and run back inside.
“Maggie.” His hand squeezed my thigh gently. “Look at me.”
I didn’t want to, but I forced myself to glance down at him. He was watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch, and there was something in his expression I couldn’t quite read.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said. “I can see it all over your face. Whatever you’re worried about, stop.”
“I’m not—”
