Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

Jaws drop, and eyes widen. One of them takes a sip of her drink, squirming in the awkwardness.

It’s no wonder I have no friends.

“Let me just say this.” I lower my voice. “Y’all know Jake and I grew up together and were fixing to get married. You also know I was attacked while he was forced to watch. Then I was carted across the country like a dirty secret.” I blow out a breath. “Maybe you don’t know I returned two years later. Jake had already moved on. Completely washed his hands of me. He didn’t want me then, and he doesn’t want me now. It’s over. So y’all can retract your claws. I’m not here to steal your cowboy. Truth is I don’t even want to see him.”

One of the girls clears her voice and points an acrylic nail at something behind me.

Oh no. I straighten from the table, blank my expression, and turn.

Jake towers over me, so close and threatening the sheer intensity of his presence eclipses everything around him. I step back, but there’s nowhere to go except up and over the table, and that would be embarrassing.

The short sleeves of his black t-shirt expose the tanned definition in his arms. Frayed jeans hug low on his hips and cling to the strength in his thighs. Stubble darkens his chiseled jaw, and the line of his perfect lips promises pain.

“What are you doing?” he asks in his deep, rumbling voice.

I’m doing the exact thing I despise. I’m openly and shamelessly checking him out.

Lifting my gaze up, up, up, I tilt my head back to meet his fathomless brown eyes. “I’m just shooting the shit with your buckle bunnies.”

His nostrils flare.

“Shannon here is ready for another ride on your tailgate.” I give a low whistle of disbelief as my stomach curls in on itself. “Seventeen orgasms? Impressive. You’ve come a long way from your days of premature ejaculation.”

Coughs and gasps sound from the women behind me.

Jake blinks and angles his head to the side, tilting his hat. Studying me. “You’re jealous.”

“Nope.”

“You’re grinding your teeth and locking your knees.”

Shit. I relax the offending joints and break away from his assertive eye contact.

That’s when I see it. The wide leather cuff with the horseshoe charm on his wrist. Why is he wearing that? Am I the butt of some kind of sick joke?

“I have a boyfriend.” I raise my chin. “Even if I didn’t, jealousy requires interest. I can assure you I have zero interest in this.” I gesture between him and his bed partners. “To be honest, it makes me puke a little in my mouth. And not in the way you’ve been puking in theirs.”

He doesn’t look at them. In fact, he hasn’t moved his eyes from me since I turned around.

“I’m here on business.” I hold my palm up in the sliver of space between us and wait for him to glance at the scar. “If you want to talk, I’m staying at the Dew Drop Inn.”

I inch a boot forward, indicating my desire to leave, but he doesn’t move.

Him and that goddamn leather bracelet.

Does he wear it when he fucks them? Does the horseshoe stroke quivering skin while his hand thrusts between their legs?

“Let me by.” My face tingles, and a white-hot current of awareness arcs through my body.

It’s his scent. It’s everywhere. The salt of his skin, the mint on his breath, the dark, predatory bite of his essence. I taste it on my tongue and feel it in my blood. I tremble through and through, drugged by his rugged beauty. He’s too close, too compelling, too damn Jake.

It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and those years have hardened his edges, deepened his scowl, and darkened his eyes. But he’s still the man I remember. Rough and burly from the Stetson on his head to the mud on his boots.

That beat-up hat has more stories to tell than the so-called cowboys at OSU. He didn’t buy those jeans with holes. He earned every rip, catching his legs on barbed wire fencing. And the crud on his boots? I know every trail that dirt came from and how it got there.

Jake Holsten is the real deal, and my body recognizes every strapping inch of him. My heart threatens to combust from the potency of his nearness, and if I stand here much longer, I won’t survive.

“Move.” I anchor my hands on my hips.

He flexes. Not his muscles. He flexes his damn aura and stares me down like he’s aiming to hogtie and brand me.

I don’t look away, but I should. My eyes are more than windows to my soul. They’re telling him exactly what’s happening south of the border. He knows he affects me, every achy part of me, and fuck if that doesn’t put a sly smile on his face.