Ride: A Bad Boy Romance (23 page)

I push her hips onto my cock as hard as I can. I bite her collarbone and she moans explosively, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

“You make me come so hard,” she whispers, and then she
explodes
. Her muscles tighten around me so hard I almost can’t breathe. There’s a moment when I have no idea whether I’m coming or not, as her nails rake across my back and I can feel every muscle in her body clench all at once.

“
Fuck
, Jackson,” she says, nearly shouting.

I love how she says my name when she comes.

When she slows, I pull her face down to mine and kiss her. I’m still hard inside her, somehow. I move her hips against me and she gasps.

“I kept my promise,” I murmur. “Even though you’re an insatiable monster.”

“I’m not a
monster
,” she says.

“You’re
my
monster,” I say. “I bet you already can’t wait for round two.”

“What’s round two?” she asks.

I don’t answer her. Instead I lift her off of me, stand, and toss her over my shoulder again as she squeals.

“I can
walk
,” she says.

I toss her on the bed and get on top of her. I’m so hard it feels like my dick might fall off, but I kiss her hard and she slides her hand down the shaft, already slick with her.

“What do you
think
round two is, Lula-Mae?” I growl in her ear. “Round two is we fuck again.”

I
was pretty
sure round two was
we fuck again
. I’m still shaky and high from round one, but now there’s that light in Jackson’s eyes. The primal, animal, caveman light.

He grabs me by one hip and rolls me over until I’m on my hands and knees facing the headboard, and he runs his fingers over my slit. I arch my back and look at him over my shoulder, because I feel like I’m in heat, and
all
that matters is fucking him again
right now
.

Then he slides in and I
groan
, my hands clenching the bedsheets. I push back against him until every inch is inside and I hear him growl. I already came once, so I’m even more sensitive than usual. His cock feels like it’s completing a circuit in my body, every nerve suddenly electrified.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, pushing back against him.

He grabs me by the shoulders and lifts me up to kneeling and then I’m bracing myself against the headboard on my elbows, bent over halfway as Jackson slides inside me again, a low rumble coming from deep in his chest.

“I can’t do this for long, Lula-Mae,” he says. “You make me feel like a teenager, like I might come just looking at you.”

“Don’t stop,” I say. “I need this, Jackson.”

“I know what you need,” he growls. He pulls my hips against him, pushing himself
deep
, and I just shout.

“Fuck, yes,
please
,” I gasp.

He does it again and again, slow and hard and deep. I think my brain has stopped responding to all other signals besides the complete, overwhelming force of the pleasure building inside me.

“I needed this too,” he says, into my ear. “God, I needed this.”

“I know,” I murmur. “You think I don’t know what you need?”

Slow, hard, deep.

“You
are
what I need,” he says. “Here, outside, in a truck, against a sink. Drunk, sober. It doesn’t fucking matter, Lula-Mae.”

Again.

I can feel myself start coming apart, like I’m about to go to pieces.

“Lula-Mae, I’m gonna come,” he whispers.

“Come inside me,” I say.

I’m right at that edge, teetering on the brink, and Jackson thrusts slow and deep one more time.

“Yes,” I whisper, and I just come unraveled. It feels so fucking
good
that nothing else exists for seconds on end, just the bursts of pleasure exploding through me.

Then Jackson growls and suddenly I feel him come inside me, his cock jerking deep inside me as he says, “Oh, fuck,” into the back of my shoulder over and over again. Tremors are still rattling through my body, and I’m still propped up against the headboard by my forearms, panting for breath.

I turn my head and Jackson leans over me. He’s still inside me as we kiss, hard and slow. I’m still moaning and panting, and he’s urgent, like he
has
to do this right here, right now.

After a while, he stops. We slide into the bed, under the covers and fix the pillows that we fucked up. I’m half on his chest, one arm slung over him, our usual position.

We have a usual position,
I think.

I don’t realize that I’m tracing the scar on his chest until he puts his hand over mine and holds it still.

“Sorry,” I say.

“For a girl who says she don’t wanna know about my scars, you sure mess with them a lot,” he says, half-teasing.

“I don’t like knowing all the ways you could get hurt,” I say. “It gives me too much imagination fuel.”

“It’s almost over,” he says. “One more ride tomorrow and then I’ve got six weeks to recuperate. And I already rode Crash once.”

“Yeah, he’s a kitten,” I say.

“He’ll be curled up in a sunbeam and purring when I’m done with him,” Jackson says, and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be fine. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”

“That’s not even a pun,” I say.

“I believe it’s called a fact, Miss Guthrie,” he says.

I sigh, and Jackson laughs. I roll onto him a little more, my chin on his chest.

“What happens if you win?” I ask.

“I get a really big belt buckle and eighty thousand dollars,” he says. “Plus the everlasting glory of being the first three-time world champion, et cetera.”

“You only get eighty thousand dollars?” I say, surprised.

“I think you mean I get eighty thousand
whole dollars
,” Jackson says.

I pause.

He shattered his sternum, and the one guy who wins everything only makes eighty grand?

“You ain’t impressed?” Jackson says.

“It’s just not a lot of money for a lot of danger,” I say. I try to sound diplomatic, but I don’t think I succeed.

“No one is here for the money,” he says. “We’re here because we love doing it.”

“I know,” I say. “There can’t be enough money in the world to make rodeo worthwhile.”

I want to ask
what happens to old riders
or
who pays your medical bills
or
what are you going to do after this,
but I don’t.

He laughs.

“I live in a trailer on my parents’ ranch and drive a twenty-five-year-old truck,” he says. “My overhead is low.”

“A jizz-covered trailer,” I say.

“I
told
you, that’s just the kitchen table,” he says. “And it’s your fault.”

“I’m not sorry,” I say.

We lie there for a moment, both of us curled into the same part of the massive king bed. Jackson starts messing with my hand, sliding his fingers through mine. Matching up our fingertips into tents. Folding my hand into his and then unfolding it.

“Do you need to go?” he finally asks.

“I should,” I say without moving.

He flattens my hand onto his chest again and puts his over top of it. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, and it’s steady and reassuring, a slow
thump-thump
.

“I don’t want to,” I say, quietly. “I hate pretending.”

“It’s a couple more days,” he says.

Thump-thump
.

“I just wish it was different,” I say.

“Stay,” he says. “I’ll be up early, but I’ll set the alarm so you can get back in time.”

I sit up, cross-legged, on the bed and look out the window, where Vegas is glowing. Jackson rests his hand on my knee, and I run my fingers over his knuckles. There’s a thick scar across a couple of them.

“How’d you get that one?” I ask.

“Thought it was a good idea to rope a steer without gloves on,” he says. “Rope burn.”

I move my fingers down his arm to the long, thick one on his forearm.

“I told you about that one in Oklahoma,” he says. “I got thrown. Compound fracture. I’ve got a metal rod.”

My stomach does a flip, and I make a face. I turn his arm over and look at a thick white spot on his forearm.

“I was helping a buddy brand his cattle and walked into the brand,” he says.

“You didn’t notice it was there?” I ask.

“I might have been drunk,” he says, and laces our fingers together again. “Most of the scars aren’t from bull riding, most of them are from me being a dumbass,” he says.

“Is that because you don’t get hurt that much, or because riding mostly breaks bones?” I ask.

He half-smiles and looks away.

“I was trying to make you feel better,” he says, and I laugh.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Are you sitting up because you’re leaving?” he asks.

“I’m just sitting up,” I say.

He looks at me for a long moment.

“I could visit you in New York next month,” he says. “Plane tickets are cheaper in January, and I could stay with you.”

I look out the window one more time.

Screw it
, I think.

I lie back down and snuggle into Jackson.

“You’re staying?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t,” I admit.

“Your favorite phrase,” he says.

“Shut up,” I tease.

I flatten my hand against his chest and feel his heartbeat.

“What do you want to see in New York?” I ask.

* * *

I
t’s
two in the morning before we finally fall asleep, spooning in the middle of the massive bed. Jackson’s got his arms around me and I’m warm and almost blissfully happy as I drift off to sleep.

It’s fine
, I think as darkness takes over my mind.
It’s just logistics. We can work anything out
.

I wake up to a voice saying my name, and I feel like I’m surfacing from the bottom of a deep, deep lake.

“Mae,” it says. “Lula-Maaaae, wake up.”

“What do you
want
?” I ask.

I roll over, away from the voice.

He laughs.

“You weren’t kidding,” Jackson says.

I roll over again and look at him.

“Shut up,” I say.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, and grins. Then he holds up a paper cup. “I brought you coffee.”

I blink at it, then at him. I sit up, slowly, pushing my hair out of my eyes.

“It’s five-forty-five,” he says. “You should get going pretty soon if you want to keep fooling everyone.”

He hands me the coffee and I take it. I look at him and take a sip, then another, longer sip.

Then I lean forward and smoosh my face against his shoulder.

“Why are you in a good mood?” I mutter.

“Sun’s up, birds are singing, you’re in my bed, I ride today,” he says. “I got a whole list.”

“Are you always like this?” I ask.

I lift the coffee to my mouth. The angle’s not quite right, and I spill a couple of drops on my leg.

“Ow,” I say, but don’t move.

“Like what?” Jackson asks. “Awake before six?”

“And
happy
about it,” I say. “We need some ground rules.”

“Besides
let Mae sleep in as long as possible
and
bring her coffee in bed
?” he asks.

He has a point.

“We can talk about this later,” I say, and take another long drink of the coffee. “Thank you.”

I put my dress back on, and search for my underwear for a while before I remember what happened to it. I look at myself in the mirror and pray that I don’t look too much like I’m taking a walk of shame.

I drain the coffee and toss it into the trash can. I still don’t feel like a person, but Jackson comes over and gives me a long, slow kiss anyway.

“I think I have horrible coffee breath,” I say when he pulls back.

“Yep,” he says, and kisses me again. I’m still not really awake, but this feels wonderful and fuzzy, one of his hands on my lower back.

When we pull back this time, I put one hand on his chest where the scar is.

“Good luck,” I say, and I mean both
go win this thing
and
please don’t get hurt
.

He grins.

“You coming by the hotel suite of the three-time World Rodeo Champion tonight?” he asks.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” I say. “And yes, obviously.”

He kisses me one last time, and I leave. I buy another cup of coffee in the lobby and drink it in a taxi. Then I shower in my own hotel room, get dressed, go downstairs, and get two more cups of coffee.

* * *

E
ven though I
work like crazy, I can only think one thing:
Jackson is coming to New York
.

It’s not for another month. He’s not moving there. I have no idea when I’ll see him after that. But it’s something, it’s a little glimmer to hang my hopes on.

I feel like I spend the day surreptitiously watching Jackson interact with fans. Now that he’s close to being a really, really big deal there’s more of them than ever. He’s smiling and polite and gracious to them, even when one lady kisses him on the cheek.

When the stands start filling up before the afternoon rodeo, there’s even more signs. Most of them are the same WE LOVE YOU JACKSON or GET NUMBER THREE, though there’s one that says KISS ME CODY, carried by a pair of forty-something women in tight jeans.

I watch them from the media area and try to burn holes in the sign by glaring. It doesn’t work. They sit in the front, so I get to look at the sign the whole time.

I don’t even need a sign
, I think grumpily. After all, it’s thanks to Mr. Cody that I’ve gotten about seven hours of sleep in two nights, so really, this is his fault.