Chapter 10 One thing about Beau Heartford as a boss is that he takes shit seriously and acts fast. No sooner had I mentioned to Tessa about possibly needing more trail horses brought in considering the increased number of ranch visitors, he evidently made plans from afar. Which is why I've had the instruction today to head over to Rhodes Ranch to collect a couple of new mares to introduce to the stable. It'll take them a while to get used to the place, and I'll have to see how they fit in with the pecking order of the others-not to mention how they are around new people, noises, and unfamiliar territory-before we can even start to think about putting guests in the saddle on either of them. But if there's anything Lucas Rhodes knows, it's horses. The guy has been running his ranch and herd for decades. If he's confident these two are the perfect temperament for the job, I trust he knows what he's talking about. Pulling up to the barn, I can see plenty of vehicles lined up near the arena-the local rodeo competitors must be training today. As my truck and trailer come to a jolting halt, I realize that means Kayce is likely to be here. No sooner than I think it, like I've conjured his presence, I spot his now all-too-familiar dusty black truck and plates. The guy seems to be everywhere I fucking go in this town. Considering he lives and works on top of a goddamn mountain, he bloody well has a knack for being in all the same places I end up. My knuckles blanch around the steering wheel. Last weekend at The Loaded Hog was a crap shoot. Having to deal with Kayce's stupid decision-making and his lack of interest in being responsible. Christ, it felt like having a sniveling little kid covered in mud, with tear-stained cheeks, and an arm in a sling sitting in my front seat all over again. So much so, I barely made it inside with the girl before making an excuse, easily finding her another cowboy to be entertained by. She didn't seem to care all that much, either. That asshole's chest puffed out like he'd just won a fucking buckle when it became clear I was offloading her and cutting a path for home. Getting out of my truck, I busy myself with sorting the back of the horse trailer, making sure there's nothing loose or out of place that might spook the two I'm here to collect. As I do a walk-through and double-check everything, I hear commotion coming from the arena. Someone has just burst out of a chute for a practice ride, and they're being cheered on by the others hanging over the railing. I readjust my hat and walk down the ramp, just as the pickup rider swings by to collect whoever had been out there. They do their job smoothly, securing the rider, who I catch sight of-a flashy grin and shaggy mess of sandy hair gives him away immediately. Chaos Hayes jumps down to the dirt and exchanges a few words with the guy still in the saddle, then lopes over to where his hat flipped off during the course of his ride. He squares it back on his head while heading toward the railing and joins the others. A small group watches as the next rider prepares to be released. In my chest, I feel a tightening, like a rubber band stretching to its limits. A tense withholding of breath. Because I don't have to see who is up next to know who it's going to be, and yet I can't bring myself to move from where I've stalled at the back of this trailer. My gaze turns to the chute, where all I see is a hat tipped forward, a chin tucked low. From personal experience, I know the routine. I feel the tingling in the pads of my fingers as if I'm the one sitting astride that horse, wrapping and re-wrapping my hold while absorbing the heat and breaths of the animal preparing to unseat me. Taking deep inhales so as to not go blank or lose touch with your senses and limbs once everything explodes out the gate. The crew hanging over the back of the chute are there, heads lowered as they all wait for the signal. Each of them with a job to do. Every single person working as a team to make sure the horse and rider are safe. This might only be practice, but they'll be drilling these runs as if it's a packed arena and prize money is on the line. Not to mention the safety of the man on the back of a bronc who is raring and ready to make his life hell for eight seconds. From all the way over here, the intensity, the concentration is visceral. Every person holds their breath in anticipation. That cream-color hat dips in a quick nod. The gate is flung open, and all it takes is one perfectly timed launch by the bronc . . . they both fly out of the chute. Kayce marks out perfectly with his heels and lays back with one hand high overhead. His other is wrapped around the rope just above the horse's shoulders. In hardly the blink of an eye, they're in the middle of the arena. To a casual onlooker, it would seem like a blur. Nothing more than hooves flying, the fringes of his chaps swinging, the rider's body being jerked around in a seemingly impossible way. But I feel every single flicker of muscle, each heaving breath and flex of the horse as if I were out there in the middle of that arena myself. Kayce's body holds the perfect balance of anticipating his horse's movements, and staying strong enough to withstand being bucked off. The arm he holds high looks balanced, comfortable. He's in perfect rhythm with the bronc. All that natural talent he's always had for connecting with his horse bursts to the fore with each buck and flick, but there's also a maturity present in him now, too. At first, I can't discern what it is. The ride is over and done with-those eight seconds are eaten up in a few rapid heartbeats. But as the pickup rider closes in, that's when the difference I've been trying to identify becomes apparent. He's stronger. More definition to his frame than I remember him having the last time we competed against each other. It sits on his figure well and allows him to appear more in control, more relaxed, and sure of himself, like he's already got the certainty of a win locked in his bones. When he jumps down from the back of the pickup rider's horse, he lifts a hand to run through his hair, and it shows off the shape of his back. His shirt pulls tight, revealing the way his shoulders are broader now than they used to be, with planes of lean muscle tapering down to his trim hips. He jogs over to collect his hat from the dirt, and I get a look at his ass when he bends down. As he straightens back up, I feel it . . . something curls, hot and tight, right down low in my stomach. Oh, fuck no. My eyes snap away from the sight of my stepbrother's ass in a pair of jeans and chaps. The pulse thumping in the side of my neck is a motherfucking traitor because there is no goddamn way I just drifted into that kind of territory. I was watching his form. I was taking notes on his ride so I could give him hell about details he needed to improve upon the next time I see him. I was watching to see if he's bothered to hone his talent, or if he's still fucking around like when he was younger. That's all. I shake my head and stride off toward the barn. Lucas Rhodes had better have those horses harnessed up and ready to go, because I'm very much in a mood to get the hell out of here, leaving behind a cloud of dust and fuck knows what that was taking hold of me. "How are they looking?" Beau's voice echoes in my ear as I do the final check on the horses for the night. It's damn late, and I'm beat, but I know he was wanting to hear how the new mares have settled. "They're happy, eating plenty, and have been super relaxed. Even got the Duchess' approval. She gave them a good sniff through the fence and seemed perfectly fine about having new friends to get to know." He laughs. "As long as they don't try to buddy up to her boyfriend, she'll tolerate them." I can't help but smile to myself, leaning on the door of Pepper's stall. She comes over to cautiously inspect my jacket sleeve. "You're not wrong there. But I'm confident they'll fit right in. I'm planning to spend a bit of extra time with them in the coming week, see if either of them have any traits we need to be mindful of, and I'll run them in the neighboring pasture until everyone gets more familiar with each other." "Sounds good, Raine. You just keep me updated if there's anything you need." "Will do." I give Pepper a chance to run her soft nose over my outstretched palm. She snorts, followed by a humid sigh on discovering there aren't extra treats on offer. "I'm not gonna hold you up, just wanted to check in. But I am gonna tell you to call it a night. It's late, and I can hear those horses snorting in the background." Beau clears his throat. "Unless you want me to set Tessa on you . . ." I chuckle. "Nah, I'll stay away from the wrath of a pregnant lady who would love nothing more than to tell me she knows best." "You've learned fast." "She's persistent." "That, my sister absolutely is." I hear a muffled noise in the background. "Right, I gotta run. Go the fuck home to bed, man. I don't want to find out you're sleeping curled up in the stalls." "You betcha." We say our goodbyes and hang up, which is my cue to drag my ass out of there. Not that I have far to go. Hooking a hard right out of the main doors, the stairs up to my flat run along the side of the barn. It's fully dark out, with only the glow of a full moon in the sky to see by, hanging plump and golden above the mountains. Over toward the main house, light spills from a handful of guest cabins, but the majority are darkened at this late hour. It's peaceful around the place, with the faintest hint of a breeze rustling through fall leaves yet to be shed. However, the seemingly idyllic country scene doesn't do anything to soothe the tension still thrumming in my veins. I hate that I haven't been able to kick my strange affliction from earlier today. I fucking detest this unease that lingers and lurks, unwanted. Maybe I should have just fucked that girl from the Hog on the weekend. Obviously, all this bottled-up angst is getting to me because I'm strung tighter than ever before, and even after a full day's work on the ranch, I can't seem to settle. My apartment is gloomy as I step inside, shades of gray and inky black, lit only with the glow of moonlight flooding in through the windows. I don't even know if I can be fucked with getting the place warm since I'll only be here to rest my head until dawn creeps over the horizon. Flipping on a couple of lights, I ditch my jacket and boots, then hang my cap at the hook by the door. While crossing to my bedroom, I'm already stripping out of my shirt, and the bunched flannel gets tossed to the floor as I reach the shower. It's been a long-ass day of handling horses, and I'm ready to wash all the grime and restless thoughts the fuck away down the drain. The shower takes a minute to heat, with wisps of steam slowly making themselves visible while I wait. As I unbuckle my belt and set to work on my jeans, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The black and gray scene of a wolf howling at a cold moon sits over my pec, surrounded by swirling cloud formations covering my collar bone and the front of my shoulder muscle-only I know how that ink conceals the divots embedded there from his cigarette burns. The last ones he gave me before he realized he couldn't fuck with me like that ever again. Stepping out of my jeans, I move under the water, and my shoulders finally drop from being up around my ears nearly all goddamn day. Warmth rushes over my skin, trickling a serene, ease-filled line down my body, wetting my hair to plaster against the back of my neck. With both hands, I scrub my face, discovering the lengthening stubble that I'll have to trim sometime soon. Otherwise, I'll wake up one day to discover a full mountain man beard going on. Rivulets of water track over my stomach, and in the process of reaching for the soap dispenser, I look down and curse. My goddamn dick is hardening and demanding attention. Like it knows I'm on edge and needing one hell of a release to rid myself of all this pent-up tension I've been lugging around. Christ. I don't want to be giving into this, but at the same time, what other choice is there. I'll probably poke my own eye out by the morning if I don't take care of this situation right now. I silently grit my teeth in disgust, refusing to give an inch of space to the acknowledgment that part of today's mental strain-in fact, the vast majority of how tightly wound I've been since arriving in Crimson Ridge-has been due to a certain blond-haired, golden-boy idiot. As I run the soap over my chest and stomach, it's fucking inevitable that my palm is gonna keep sliding further south. Slamming one hand against the wall, my chin drops, and right before my eyes, the length of me swells as if on cue. My cock is full and hard, jutting out before I've even taken myself in hand. And from the very moment I wrap my fist around the shaft, I feel a shudder of relief roll straight to my toes. I squeeze roughly, tugging from root to tip, while my jaw clenches so forcibly I'm in danger of hearing a crack. This is a fucking joke. I don't need to be popping random boners and having sudden urges to jerk off, all because of a guy I can't stand being around. It makes no sense to me why this intense frustration is giving my dick a reason to be swollen and hard as stone. Staring back at me, the world's most inconvenient erection thickens beneath my fingers. As I stroke myself, rapid and firm, I'm not in the mood to drag this out. Whatever bullshit hornyness is afflicting me, I'm of a one track mind, needing to deal with it as fast as possible. My eyelids grow heavy as the intense pleasure builds low in my stomach. That same heated, coiled feeling from earlier on, the sensation that hung around in that spot all day, roars to life. Wholly unwanted. Completely unbidden. With each shuttle of my fist, pressure winds tighter at the base of my spine. My stomach muscles bunch, and my balls tingle. "Fuck. You." I grunt out loud. The words hissing, spitting into the stream of water. And it's the worst goddamn thing in the world, because I can't stop the torrent coming at me fast and hard. I can't slow my strokes. With each tug and squeeze, the image grows more vivid. Blue eyes flash, staring up at me. Flushed lips hang parted, obediently waiting. A strong hand threads through short strands of hair as my cock sinks into that hot mouth, and I fucking groan. It's my hand holding tight to the figure on their knees for me. It's my tattoos and my fingers that curl to yank that blond hair until I hear the soft little masculine whimper of pleasure in response to my command. They take every inch and moan with delight when I hold them there for me to use. Hips driving in and out, I fuck that willing mouth and it's total bliss. "Unnghhh. Ffffuuck." Cursing violently over and over, my dick erupts, shooting ribbons onto the shower wall, coating my fist in cum. The blinding force of my cock pulsing and kicking catches me by surprise. A throbbing, agonizing release that goes on longer than it has any goddamn right to. I'm reduced to a panting mess, heart thundering against my ribcage. And I fucking hate it. I'm pissed as all hell at my stupid brain for getting off to those images, of mixing up memories of other guys with my present day reality. There are any number of past hookups I could have fixated on. Jesus, even a fistful of poker-straight red hair clenched in my grip and plush lips would've done just fine. It wouldn't require much imagination to know what that would have looked like if I'd taken her up on the offer to blow me in the back of my truck. I don't have any interest in figuring out how or why those details invaded my thoughts. I've been with blond haired and blue eyed dudes before. Sure, at some point, I've had a guy younger than me begging me to take his mouth. Someone somewhere would've had a catalog of similar features. A random, jumbled memory. That's all it was. Nothing more.