Ride 'Em (A Giddyup Novel) (5 page)

“I would’ve, too, after seeing you.”
Crap
. Being tied up was like a truth serum, apparently. She twisted her hands to grip the leather and nylon, the back of her mind noting with approval that he’d left her enough slack not to interfere with circulation. The man clearly knew how to tie a girl up. In other circumstances, she’d be thrilled by that knowledge. “But not to get the deal.”

Logan pursed his lips, considering her. His gaze flicked over her hands, apparently checking the bonds as if it was automatic to do so. “So, just for the sake of argument, you would have let me, say . . . kiss you, if there was no land deal involved? If you’d just come here on vacation like you said?”

Her eyes were welling with tears again as she nodded. She looked down at the rough stones paving the floor, and watched a pair of drops fall to darken the dusty limestone. “I did come here on vacation. I really did. I mean, I planned to try for the deal, I planned to be straightforward about it, but . . . I’m not sure what happened.”

In her line of vision, Logan’s boots stepped forward until he was toe to toe with her. Another teardrop spattered down, hitting dark leather this time. His chest brushed her forehead and she leaned there, wishing she could stay like that indefinitely. Mortified though she was, it was still comforting. He smelled so good. When he spoke, his voice sounded rumbly, vibrating against her skull.

“It was Mr. Clapsaddle, by the way. At the feed store.”

“What?”

He hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her head up. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or more worried to see a slightly cynical, cockeyed smile on his lips. “That’s who told Lamar about you working for your stepfather. How Clapsaddle knew you were visiting here, I have no idea. It’s that Bolero grapevine. Maybe your mom told somebody else’s mom who has a cousin who sat next to Arlene Clapsaddle in church, who knows? I’m going to let you go in a minute, by the way.”

“In a minute? Why not just let me go now, Logan? I’ll clear out and leave you in peace. I know you’re never going to deal with my stepfather’s company.” The idea of him letting her go was suddenly the worst part of all. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want him to release her.
All tied up
was her comfort zone, the only part of the current situation she absolutely knew what to do with.

He moved closer, his fingers still trapping her chin. The harsh edge was back in his expression. “That’s probably true. But once I untie you, you’ll be out the door, and I wasn’t quite ready for you to go yet. I had one more point to make first.”

“Oh?” Mindy’s mind and heart were racing, her body responding to Logan’s proximity while her head tried to sort out what he might mean.

She didn’t have to puzzle over it for long. A moment later, his lips captured hers in a take-no-prisoners kiss. Her startled gasp was all the opportunity Logan needed to invade her mouth, but the moment she started to respond he drew back to tease his way over to her ear.

“I’m not too proud to admit if you
had
tried using sex as a bargaining tactic, we might be having a conversation about mineral leases right now. I still wouldn’t have sold the rights, but it could’ve been an interesting chitchat.”

Was that a suggestion? A threat? A compliment? Mindy cared for another two seconds, until Logan swiped his tongue over that spot behind her ear, the one that melted her knees and fried her brain. His hands roamed, exploring her in forays from her waist. First up, almost grazing the undersides of her breasts. Then down, curving behind her to cup her ass and pull her closer. He was so hard she almost felt bad for him. Whatever Logan was doing to her, he was clearly doing to himself, as well.

He kissed her again, channeling lust and anger into every possessive move of his tongue, into the rough grasp of his hands on her body.

When he pulled away without warning, she swayed forward, clutching the rein and halter lead for balance as Logan stepped back. Panting, he hesitated for a moment before blurting, “Well, I guess I showed you.”

If she’d had even a single one of her wits about her, she probably would have laughed. But of all the things she was feeling as she leaned toward Logan, amusement wasn’t among them. He untied her bonds with quick, jerky movements, not meeting her eyes.

Mindy hissed as she brought her arms down, wrapping them around her to stretch her shoulders. The muscles twitched from the strain, vibrating in a way that suggested they’d be sore tomorrow from the unaccustomed use. Pitiful. Her stamina wasn’t what it used to be.

“I’m sorry,” she offered again, since it seemed to apply on several levels at the moment. Sorry he’d stopped. Sorry he’d ever started. Sorry about his possible blue balls, and that she’d ever come to his ranch in the first place. She was a sorry, sorry specimen of a woman. “I’d better get going.”

“No.”

Stunned, she looked up at him. “No?”

Logan looked embarrassed. “I mean, you’re free to go if you want. But damned if I’ll refund your money. So you might as well stay the week.”

“Because I’m a paying customer.”

He nodded. “Ma’am.”

She coughed into her hand, looking toward the door. Logan stepped out of her way, and she moved in that direction but turned with her hand on the doorknob, considering a handshake. A second later, she thought better of it. Best not to touch him. In fact, that was probably the only way.

She nodded back at him, then opened the door and headed out into the night.

C
rocodile tears.

Had to be. Logan chided himself for ten kinds of fool as he strode through the cooling night air, making a final round to check that all was well before he turned in.

He also wanted to give himself time for full boner deflation before he went back to the house. Robert was never one to let a hard dick go by without a comment. And detecting them was one of his superpowers.

It wasn’t easy, though. Logan kept thinking of the scene in the barn, and then there the damn thing would go again. Because it had felt like a
scene
, hadn’t it, and he’d craved nothing more than to get Mindy naked and start leaving marks until, when she cried, he knew for certain the tears were real.

He had lost his head at one point in there, he knew that much. Maybe when she’d bowed her head like that, standing so still and penitent, but graceful and proud at the same time. So like a remorseful submissive, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to restrain her in some way. To keep her from rattling apart until he could decide what to do with her. And then . . . it had seemed to have exactly that effect on her, holding her together. And after he’d lashed the first wrist to the shelf, she’d offered up her other hand without his even having to ask . . . seemingly without realizing she’d done it.

And then she’d relaxed into the bonds and said the thing he couldn’t get off the auto-play in his mind.

Sir
. Why did it have to be “
sir
”? And he wouldn’t have thought twice about it—this was Texas, people still said “sir” and “ma’am”—except that she’d caught herself and changed it as if she’d said something wrong.

His cock thrummed against his fly, complaining silently about the neglect.
Patience, Sparky
.

As he walked down the path past the cabins, he dragged his thoughts back to the substance of the conversation. The mineral rights. Bud fucking Jameson. And Mindy, Bud’s paid lackey. They wanted the use of what lay under Logans land? They’d get it over his dead body. He came from a long line of holdouts, and the ranch’s position on the underlying granite substrate had even foiled previous attempts at sneaky, underhanded slant-well drilling from neighboring properties. The bulk of the land was basically in the middle of a natural underground moat. If there was oil, nobody was getting it without going straight through Logan Hill—and that was not happening.

His palm itched, and he slapped it against his thigh, the sound falling curiously flat in the thick evening air. This part of the trail was bounded by shrubbery, deadening noise as it provided privacy. All the cabins still had some lights on. Everything seemed to be in order.

That palm wanted something softer than his own leg to land against. His own hand conspired with his brain to remind him of Mindy’s butt, and how tempting it had felt during the brief, mad grope he’d allowed himself.

Jesus. She’d been so pliant in his grip, whimpering and fucking melting against him when he stole that kiss. As if she were already turned on, already getting into the scene, maybe aroused by the bondage. Probably a rope bunny . . .

Oh
.

He was so stunned he stopped in the path halfway between the cabins and the trailhead, then whirled to look back through the gloom at the warm glow from the window he knew was hers.

The way she’d offered her hand. The way her pupils had been blown the few times she’d lifted her gaze from the floor. The way she’d seemed to become more relaxed, not less, by the restraints and his manhandling.

Sir
.

No. Nope. No way could he let himself think what he was thinking, not even for a second. Because it was just wishful, that was all, wishful thinking he had no call to be doing about Treacherous Mindy. No. The high school cheerleader crush-from-afar did not walk back into your life a decade later and turn out to be a kinkster.

Much less a submissive. Bottom to his top. Yin to his kinky yang.

Impossible.

And even if she were, which she was not, it wouldn’t matter. Because treachery.

His right hand ached, and he realized he’d been clenching it into a fist. He forced the fingers to relax and turned resolutely back toward the main house. With every step away from her cabin, though, he felt a stronger and stronger pull to turn around.

Allison had been about compromise; she’d fit so neatly into his day-to-day life in so many ways, been so perfect on paper. The right background, the right job schedule and career goals, similar tastes in movies and games, friends he got along with . . . But their kinks had never quite matched up. There’d always been tension, that little something off. It had never been effortless, and that was the gold standard, wasn’t it? Wanting that—the possibility of that—drew his mind back again and again to the feel of Mindy’s body against his, the way she’d offered herself, the sounds she’d made that seemed perfectly attuned to his libido.

Because he had willpower, he kept walking. But by the time he reached the front porch, he’d given up on giving it up. He grudgingly took a seat on the creaking swing to the left of the door, making the most of the cooling breeze as he let his mind pick things over. Mindy might stay the week, might not. If she
did
, he needed to have a plan for dealing with her, some kind of attitude he could adopt that would make the whole situation more manageable.

Show her who’s boss
.

No, no, no . . .
Okay, well,
yes
.

Logan was no pickup artist. But he’d had enough management training in his old job to know something about dealing with people, and he knew that you often had to start with whatever dynamic was already there. Mindy might not be a sub, but she reacted like one. And he was a Dom. So what did that natural dynamic tell him to do?

He clamped down on the first several lurid images that came to mind, and cranked his mind back to possibilities that wouldn’t shock the other guests. What
flavor
of not-a-sub was Mindy? In the barn she’d been anxious, penitent, and—annoyed as he’d been with her, suspicious though he still was, he had to give credit where it was due—not actually a brat. She never had been one of those. Thinking back, he recalled her in high school. Cheerleading, but also driving over to Kerrville to volunteer at the hospital. And part of the group that went to the elementary schools to read to the little kids. Even now, the thing with her stepfather—she was spirited, enthusiastic, but almost ridiculously eager to please.

Service sub
. Or rather . . . a
person
who liked service. Liked to have a job to do, to feel she was helping somebody. Maybe even liked to lose herself in that a little. He could use that. Put her to work—using the fact that she was an old high school friend to excuse his presumption to the other guests, if necessary. She would feel useful, he would get some free work out of it, and if it wasn’t entirely ethical on his part . . . well, she would never know he was kind of getting off on it, would she? And if she didn’t like it, she could always leave. Nothing skeezy about that. As a bonus, sending her on little errands around the place would also get her out of his sight for chunks of time. Depending, of course, on the errands.

If circumstances were different, he would send her out to cut her own switch. Then have her bring it to him, present it, present herself. He could almost see the brilliant ladder of marks he would leave with a slender wand of oak, almost feel the resistance of her creamy skin as he slapped the wood in a careful, symmetrical pattern. It was tricky not to break the skin with a switch, and splinters were a concern, so he’d have to resist the follow-through. Although maybe, just at the end, right across the sweetest curve of her beautiful ass, he’d let it fly. Make
her
fly. Cut through the surface and let her know she’d paid in full for whatever she’d done. And then he’d fuck her until he couldn’t see straight.

The disgruntled ache in his groin reminded him this train of thought was going nowhere helpful. Well, maybe he wasn’t ten kinds of fool after all. He was mostly only one: the kind who thought with his dick.

Sighing, he pushed off with his feet, setting the swing in motion again, and tried to think about the ranch’s profit-and-loss statements instead of Mindy Valek’s ass.

* * *

“You and me, Moose. You and me.”

The spider didn’t answer. He seemed content to hang in his web, scarcely moving. There were already some rips and suspiciously lumpy spots in the gossamer, so she assumed Moose had fed for the evening. She really didn’t want to sleep with him in the cabin, but since the alternative seemed to be heading to the main house for assistance . . .

“You just stay on your side, dude. Invisible wall, right here.” She gestured, knowing it was pointless, but still too much a child of the media to completely rule out that the spider might somehow understand. Moose might come to cartoon life in the night, to croon supportive lullabies. Or weave her a magical garment. Who was she, in her heart of hearts, to deny the power of these fantasies?

On the other hand, it was a Texas spider—a big, fat, small-town good ol’ boy—so more likely it would come to life spouting misogyny and burping up a Shiner. She didn’t want to be in
that
cartoon. But she’d chance it rather than risk running into Logan again.

Mindy’s stomach growled, reminding her of the dinner she’d skipped.
Stupid
. Stubborn, because she did plan to stay the week. But stupid, because she knew all it would lead to was hopeless fantasizing.

Logan. Those stern, steely eyes. The leather around her wrist, his hands strong and irresistible as he secured her to the shelf bracket. Shivering, Mindy raised a hand to her face, touching the stubble burn by her lower lip and sighing—then covering her mouth as though silencing herself could somehow stifle the imagery in her brain. Or the memory of the smells—the leather, the saddle soap, the hay and sweet oats, the
eau de Logan
she could still detect on her own T-shirt.

Possibly that part was in her own head. There was no way his scent could linger longer than horse. But wasn’t the mindfuck the most powerful kind?

Her own imagination lent Logan powers she knew he probably didn’t have. Even better bondage skills, for instance. She’d already mentally revised the barn scenario, tossing out the mismatched restraints to feature leather ties on both wrists, and halter ropes securing her ankles to . . . something. Didn’t matter. It was going in the spank bank, ranking right up there with the impersonal-Dominant-stranger-in-the-motel-room-with-the-businesssman-friend fantasy. She wasn’t
proud
of that, but she wasn’t going to apologize or lie to herself, either. That ten minutes or so in the barn with Logan Hill had been so hot she was still reeling from it.

Or maybe that was the hunger. Her stomach roared audibly, and Mindy growled back at it. There was no way she’d make it through the night. And she didn’t have so much as a granola bar in her purse.

“
Shit
.”

In theory, guests were welcome in the main kitchen between meals—it had been part of the grand tour. There were chips and fruit to snack on, and cold cuts for sandwiches. A big cooler of soda and water bottles. All part of the down-home charm. Logan had never stated a closing time. Probably an oversight on his part, but still, it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Picking up the flashlight, she stepped out the front door and glanced up the trail to the top of the hill. Lights were still on at the big house. They beckoned, whispering to her of warmth and food.

Deciding to chance it, she locked the door behind her and flicked the flashlight on. A few yards away, a startled armadillo scuffled off the path into the scrub. It was unusual to see a live one, and she wondered if it was a good or bad omen.

Bad
, she decided retroactively as she hit the trailhead and scanned across the wide yard to the main house’s front porch. Even facing mostly away, obscured by the porch pillar and the back of the swing, Logan was clearly recognizable by his blue plaid shirt and his golden-blond hair. Ridiculous how it formed gentle waves wherever it was long enough, but didn’t seem to frizz. And his eyelashes, long and dark despite his blond coloring, while her own were so pale they were practically invisible without mascara. Unfair things. But life was full of those.

A ruthless landman would be standing there in the darkness, contemplating how to turn the whole situation into the ideal negotiation. Use the casual setting to disarm the other party. Find common ground. Learn what they needed, what they were lacking. But really, all Mindy could think about was the prospect of a sandwich. Probably the cutthroat businessperson should remember to pack emergency granola bars.

She was halfway across the yard when he spotted her, and a thick blanket of awkwardness fell over the scene as he watched her approach. She expected him to stand—good manners and all that—but apparently he was done with cordiality for the night. At the bottom step she stopped, feeling like she was petitioning for entrance to the inner sanctum. If she’d made it across the side yard unseen she could have detoured toward the side of the house and gone in through the kitchen door with nobody the wiser, but probably this encounter was inevitable. It had that feeling.

“Mindy. What do you need?”

So. Definitely done with cordiality
.

“I wanted to know if I could still get a sandwich?” When he just lifted his eyebrows, looking mildly surprised, she reminded him, “I skipped dinner.”

“Right.” Reluctantly, he stood and opened the door for her, gesturing her through.

She couldn’t resist a sniff as she passed him, but only caught the faintest hint of the smell that had lingered so tantalizingly on her shirt earlier. It was all she could do to resist rubbing a hand across his chest, or leaning her forehead there the way she had earlier, when she’d cried like such an idiot.