“Yes, you can. Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
Tristan looked around the table. Everyone was engaged in conversation, not paying attention to her or Bullet, and Lyric had Grey and Caden in a fit of giggles.
Bullet leaned in close again, as he had throughout dinner. “Come on, darlin’,” he whispered. She was powerless to deny him.
As the front door closed behind them, Bullet pushed her back against it and covered her mouth with his. And, oh, it felt good. Better than she’d imagined, and she’d spent more time than she’d ever admit, imagining it.
His hard body pressed against hers, keeping her pinned between him and the door. He slid one hand into her hair, keeping her lips where he wanted them. He leaned back and ran his eyes down her body. His hand tugged her hair, forcing her chin up, giving him open access to her neck, her throat, and down to where her v-neck shirt rested against her breasts. He ran his tongue back up and along her collarbone, stopping to kiss each of the freckles he found along the way.
“Wait,” she groaned, putting each hand on his strong biceps. “Bullet, stop.”
He couldn’t stop, not with the way she just ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He leaned up against her, feeling her body with every length of his. Heart to heart, he could feel hers thundering. He trailed kisses along her jawline, back up to her lips. Her lips parted, allowing her to draw in a deep breath. He covered her mouth again, following the breath, deepening the kiss. He smoothed his hand down her side, feeling the swell of her hip, the curve of her spine. When he slid his hand into the waistband of her jeans, Tristan froze.
“Wait,” she breathed. “I can’t do this. Not here.”
Not here. That’s what she said. Not that she couldn’t do this, but that she couldn’t do this here. He peeled himself away from her, his body feeling the chill of the night air after having her warmth seeping into his bones. He sunk back again.
“I have a place in town. We can be alone for a bit.” The hand that was still in her hair kept her from turning away. Thank goodness he hadn’t turned that key in yet.
No, no, no. What was she doing? One hand still in her hair, his free one moved to her waist, sliding back up under her shirt. He grazed the underside of her breast with the back of his hand before trailing back down, over her hip, where his fingers dug into the curve of her backside.
“God, you feel good. So good.”
His voice. His breath. His hands. She wasn’t imagining any of it. This time it was real. Tristan rested her head back against the door, taking another deep breath. Whenever she did, he took the opportunity to slide his tongue deep into her mouth. He kissed her hard, taking her breath into him. And then he groaned.
The sound made her head swim—dizzy with wanting him. She began to shake, and rested her hands on his biceps again to steady herself. He stopped.
“Tristan? Are you okay?”
She wasn’t okay. She was the farthest thing from okay. On the other side of the door she was up against were people who had welcomed her into the family, offered her their friendship, and here she was, no better than a buckle bunny, letting a cowboy get into her pants on their front porch.
“No,” she moaned, catching him off guard enough that she could push away from him. “I can’t
do this, Bullet.”
He watched as the front door closed behind her. She was inside. He was out, an outsider, never to be welcomed into her bed, or her life. He’d done the very thing he knew would push her the farthest away. Bullet lost control. He’d ran his hands over her body, the body he craved like a man dying of thirst craved water.
Instead of taking his time, seducing her, he’d attacked her. When Tristan’s passions met his, he lost all sense of thought. He was consumed by his desire to feel her next to him, under him.
This wouldn’t be as easy as he’d thought. Tristan wasn’t just another girl he’d get between the sheets and then forget all about; she was a woman he wanted in his life as much as he wanted her in his bed. She’d crawled too far under his skin for him to be able to get her out of his head.
1968
Every time Bill looked into the stands and saw Dottie sitting there, watching him, he felt his chest pump up. He didn’t miss the way the other cowboys looked at her, or at him, when she’d wave and blow a kiss straight in his direction. They hadn’t had much time to talk but agreed to meet later, after today’s events were over. When he asked her if there was a place they could walk to, for dinner, she told him Main Street was only three blocks away and all the restaurants were staying open late during Cattlemen’s Days.
Bill covered his bronc, and his bull, which meant he’d be moving on to the semi-finals tomorrow. He had one more event tonight, tie-down roping.
Clancy had offered to let Bill borrow his roping saddle. It had a wide horn, leaving plenty of space for Bill’s rope. Clancy also offered to let him ride his Quarter Horse, Cisco. He’d helped Bill tape the horn for better grip, and then had presented him with another surprise—a new rope. It felt stiff in Bill’s hand, but flexible enough to bend around the head of the charging calf.
He sneaked a look into the stands, to make sure Dottie was still there. When his eye caught hers, she blew him another kiss.
Three cowboys before him had failed to keep their calf secure, which resulted in no points. There was one more before him, and then it would be Bill’s turn.
He watched as the calf was loaded into the chute and a small piece of breakaway rope was fastened around its neck. The cowboy entered the box and backed his horse into the corner as the chute workers stretched a rope barrier across the chute entrance.
The cowboy grabbed his rope, readied his horse, and signaled the chute worker to open the chute. The calf ran forward, the barrier popped, and the cowboy followed.
The cowboy lassoed the calf and leaped off his horse to wrangle and tie the calf. Bill heard an audible snap, and the audience reacted with a gasp. Then silence.