by T. S. Joyce
Cheyenne gritted out, “You boys have one minute to get in my rig or I’m leaving without you and you can walk yourselves back to the city.”
“They’re even more fucked up than we are,” Hunter said, grinning as he looked from Two Shots to Dead to Quickdraw.
“That’s a super-big insult,” Wes enlightened them through the most obnoxious grin she’d ever witnessed on a man.
“Wes, thanks for letting us try to train here. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she muttered tiredly, knowing damn well she didn’t have to up her volume because werewolves could hear just about anything.
“We’re bringing the ladies tomorrow night, too. Can we get some extra tickets?” he asked.
“Of course. I’ll have them waiting at Will Call for you tomorrow.”
“You want to see your horse before you go?” he called after her.
She almost stopped. Almost. “I think it’s better if I don’t.” It would be like saying goodbye to Scout’s Honor all over again. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Two, Quickdraw, and Dead, you have one minute.”
And then she marched herself to her Expedition. She counted off sixty seconds in her head because she was dead serious about leaving those boys here if they didn’t high-knee it to her right now.
As the boys jogged toward her—Two Shots hopping on one foot as he pulled his jeans on and Dead holding his pile of clothes in front of his dangly bits—she rolled down her window and called out, “Hey, Wes! Thanks for catching me!”
“Thanks for making me feel better about my pack,” he yelled back.
She rolled her eyes heavenward and put the window back up. Her cheeks were burning again.
Two Shots opened her door and twitched his head for her to get out. “I’ll drive. Just go relax.”
“You had two shots.”
“That burned off with the adrenaline of trying to get to you.” His gaze darted to her hands clasped in her lap to hide the shaking.
“Come here,” he rumbled as the others got in the back.
With a sigh, she poured out of the truck, and he pulled her tight against his chest. “You’re okay,” he murmured against her ear, swaying slightly back and forth. “I’ve got you.”
She wanted to be tough and pretend that near-death experience hadn’t frightened her, but the truth of the matter was, she reacted to fear with anger. Tonight, she would replay that sick feeling of flying through the air with Dead charging for her, ready to trample her when she landed. That feeling of helplessness.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured. “You’re second guessing yourself right now, but trust me, you’re doing good.”
She nodded jerkily and tried to smile up at him. He searched her eyes. His were still the color of coal right now. He did kinda look like his daddy when the bull was in his eyes, but she wouldn’t tell him that.
“Let’s go get you that ribeye.” He gave her a wink and swatted her butt.
She flinched a little because she’d been surprised but, holy moly, she really liked that. That comfort. That little hint of possessiveness meets playfulness. That little hint that he was probably good at being pleasurably rough in bed. Yummy, terrifying boy.
She bumped her shoulder against him and then made her way around the front of the truck, hiding her burning cheeks by looking at the ground.
“Saw that!” Wes called out.
She didn’t even turn around, just giggled softly and threw a middle finger in the air. His laugh made her shake her head and want a nap.
“What’s your favorite color?” Dead asked from the back seat.
“Dead, not now,” she grumbled. “Just put your clothes on so your ass cheeks aren’t touching my seats anymore.”
“Please.” The somberness of his tone softened her heart. “What color?”
She sighed and did a three count in her head before she answered. “It’s yellow.”
“Like lemons?” he asked as Two Shots drove them toward the main driveway.
“Like sunshine.”
She didn’t miss the smile that stretched across Two Shots’ face.
“It’s kinda silly, I know. I picked my favorite color when I was eight. I think I was the only one who chose yellow.”
There was a sound of a food package in the back, and then Dead bumped her arm gently.
When she turned around, it was a Skittles package. He was cradling most of the candies, but when she opened the package, only yellow ones were left.
He didn’t say anything else, just looked out the window with vacant eyes.
For her? He didn’t need to apologize for trying to kill her anymore. She believed him. He didn’t mean to. His bull had, and maybe that was something she needed to think on more. Maybe Dead didn’t have control like the other bull shifters. Scary. But she needed to know that so she could manage risk for him in the future. She wanted to know everything. All their quirks, their needs, their likes and dislikes. She wanted to be the best agent she could for them. She wanted to be a part of their story.
And she’d learned a helluva lot today.
Two Shots reached across the console and squeezed her hand, gave her a smile, and then released her. Even with the gash over his eyebrow, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. And he was smiling for her. More butterflies flapped around on her insides, and maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she wasn’t too mature and above-everything to fall like this. Maybe she was lucky to fall again at all.
Because this? Whatever was burning between them? It felt right.
And it had been so damn long since anything felt right.
He’d come for her. Mid-buck, he’d targeted Dead and stopped him from killing her.
She was going to think on all that later and let it sink in. But for now? She was going to relax, melt into the warmth that Two Shots gave her, and just be thankful things didn’t go worse today.
Chapter Eleven
Two Shots couldn’t sleep. Not after what had happened today. Not after he’d seen the fear in Cheyenne’s face as Dead slammed into the fence she’d been sitting on.
Pretty girl. Tough girl.
She’d been in trouble, and he almost hadn’t made it to Dead in time to stop him. He knew that rage. Dead would’ve gone right through Wes Kaid to get to Cheyenne.
Dead’s bull was fucked up. Oh, he was good at hiding it. At controlling how he changed and keeping himself separated from humans, but his bull hated them. And that, ladies and gents, was exactly how Dead of Winter was the number two bull out of hundreds in this circuit—hatred.
That hatred had been aimed at Cheyenne today, and Two Shots couldn’t stop playing it on a loop over and over in his head.
Her room was just a couple floors above him, but going up there would be pointless. It was three in the morning, and she would be fast asleep.
He should let her sleep.
Big day tomorrow, and didn’t he know it. The pressure wasn’t the same anymore. It was bigger now. If he had a bad ride and dropped to number four bull, Cheyenne wouldn’t be representing him anymore, and the thought of her having to drop him made his guts churn.
No more talking on the team text. No more spending time with her. No more learning random things that made him even more protective of her. No more being there if she got in a dangerous spot again.
No more being close enough to absorb all the goodness she radiated. He was like a sponge, soaking up the good—the sound of her laughter, the country twang she got in her voice when she was being sassy. The pretty pink in her cheeks when she was mad at him and the boys for being dipshits. The way she’d posted up for him in that interview. Protective girl.
She hadn’t been wearing her pantsuit today. No siree, she’d been wearing tight little cut-off shorts that had showed off her curves. Little red tank top, exposing the perfect amount of cleavage that had kept his mind circling on how soft her breasts would feel in his hands.
Big day tomorrow.
He rolled over onto his other side in the hotel be
d and checked his phone. Ten-ten at night and he’d been lying in bed for two hours already. He always did this—always tossed and turned the night before an event.
He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, opened up a text that had come from Dead outside of the loop.
There were several pictures of him and Cheyenne.
Unbeknownst to Two Shots, Dead had taken pictures of them at lunch before they’d gone to the Kaid Brothers Ranch. Dead and Quickdraw had sat on one side of the table, devouring roast beef sandwiches, the cannibal savages, with Cheyenne and him on the other side. The first picture Dead had sent him was of Two Shots holding out the chair for Cheyenne before they sat.
He didn’t think about it. Wasn’t trying to win brownie points. His momma had just raised him right, to be respectful of women. Cheyenne would have to put up with a lot over her time representing the bulls, but as long as Two Shots was here, he was going to make her feel taken care of when he could.
In the picture, Cheyenne was in the middle of sitting down, but she was looking off to the side with this sweet, surprised smile as he pushed her chair in under her.
The next was of Two Shots grinning at something Dead had said. He almost didn’t recognize his smile it was so big. So easy and genuine. It wasn’t the smile he wore for the interviews or promotional pictures. It was a real one, and it had been so damn long since he’d seen it on himself. And Cheyenne? She was leaning on an elbow on the table, a French fry dangling from her fingers, her lips parted slightly, her dark hair fanning out over her shoulders, and her eyes…those pretty brown eyes…they were trained on him with this look of awe. Awe? What was she thinking in that moment? What would make a tough girl like her go all soft like that?
The next picture was of them both laughing. Two Shots had his hand resting on the back of her chair and she was leaning toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world to be close to him.
Oh, he was in trouble with this one.
Another text came in from Dead. The media will see you together like this. They will chew her up and spit her out. You owe her, Two. Protect her from it.
He didn’t like anyone having an opinion on his feelings or personal life. Didn’t like being told what to do, but Dead was right.
Yeah? And how do I do that? Send.
He expected Dead to tell him to stay away from Cheyenne. He really did. He was already pulling on his sweatpants to go to Dead’s room and beat the shit out of him for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
But Dead didn’t message him what he’d expected. Instead, the text that came through said, When you’re in front of the media, pretend you aren’t in love with her. Buck good tomorrow. Don’t lose focus, don’t fuck up. Night, Two.
A wave of desperation washed through him. Desperation for a connection, he supposed. I killed her man. Send.
So?
So what right do I have? Send.
To protect her? To make her smile like she did in the pictures? To open her heart back up? Every right, and fuck what they’ll say. You owe me ten thousand dollars for this therapy session. This is weird. Sleep, asshole.
Two Shots huffed a laugh. Well, that was the truth. It was weird asking any kind of advice from another bull shifter, much less a dominant, competitive one. He sat there on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at her pretty face in the pictures. That woman didn’t know how to hide emotion. He could read every thought right there, etched into her expressions. She was so readable. He hadn’t found a single thing he didn’t like about her.
He saved the pictures and sent them to just her. In a private text. And then he laid back down and rested his hands on his stomach, staring at the ceiling.
When his phone lit up on the nightstand, he frowned at it. Cheyenne was awake and putting heart reactions on every picture he’d sent.
Can’t sleep? she asked.
His stupid heartrate kicked up like he was about to buck in front of a crowd.
I don’t sleep so good before events.
She was typing, but stopped. Typing. Stopped.
And then she didn’t respond at all.
Crap.
He got up and paced in front of the bed. Maybe she’d just fallen asleep. Or maybe he’d made her uncomfortable? He should just go check on her. Maybe sit by her door and make sure everything was okay. Maybe just knock and apologize for the middle-of-the-night texts.
No.
Be cool.
Just lay in bed. Yep.
He laid down and rested his hands on his stomach again. “Relax,” he muttered out loud. “You can chase her again tomorrow.” He laid there for all of three seconds and then got back up and headed for the door. “Nah, let’s chase her tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
Cheyenne padded down the hallway, half nervous, half excited.
She would just help him get to sleep and then she would go back to her room and get a few more hours of rest before she had to be up for the day.
She pushed the elevator button.
He was only two tiny floors below her, probably lying in bed, staring at the ceiling—
Ding.
She looked up at the opening elevator doors and froze.
Two Shots stood there, tall, flexed up, chest heaving, no shirt, gray sweatpants riding low on his waist. His eyes were the color of night, and his fists were clenched at his sides.
There was this loaded moment when time froze, and she stayed ensnared in his hungry gaze.
He stepped out of the elevator and wrapped her up in his arms. That was the only way she could describe it. His arms went around her just as she reached for him, and his lips crashed onto hers. They went straight back to the wall, and her shoulders hit hard. His lips were all over hers, moving with her mouth and, God, the taste of him. The feel of him. The warmth, the strength, the utter confidence he had when he touched her.
The kiss was desperate. Hungry. She could barely breathe under the weight of him, but she didn’t care.
He pulled away so suddenly she pitched forward, but he caught her hand and kept her steady, tugged her toward her room. Did he know which room?
He huffed a breath and turned on her, and then so fast she could barely comprehend his movement, he hoisted her over his shoulder and walked to her room, shoved open the door she’d left propped open by the chain lock, and let it close behind them with a click.
When he pitched her onto the bed, she yelped as she landed. The bed was soft and caught her, but then he was crawling over her body, tugging at her panties from under her oversize sleep shirt.
“Tell me this is a bad idea, and I’ll stop,” he growled.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“Tell me we’re wrong for wanting each other.”
“We’re not wrong,” she gritted out.
“Tell me to slow down, or I’ll make you mine right fuckin’ now, Cheyenne.”
She pursed her lips and refused to give him that order.
He yanked her little pink panties off her ankles and threw them on the floor, then laid his weight on top of her, his hand sliding up her shirt. His hand was so warm, so strong, so sexy against her breast, and then his lips were on hers again. God, she was burning! Burning from the inside out as if he were setting her soul on fire.
She ran her nails up the back of his hair and held him closer. That set off more fires. He let off a soft rumbling sound against her lips that couldn’t pass for human. Sexy man. Sexy creature. Sexy monster.
He rolled her onto her side and pulled her tight against his body. Damn, he was strong. So much stronger than he’d let on. His fingers dug into her hip as he rolled against her. His erection was hard and swollen against her belly, and she wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. Needed him inside her.
With fumbling fingers, she untied the string at his waist and pushed his pants down to his thighs.
“Good,” he rumbled against her lips, his hands finding her tits again.
> She moaned and bowed back against his touch. His lips drifted to her exposed throat, and she was losing it. This was too fast, but she didn’t want to slow down. She wanted him to take her exactly how he wanted to. Set her on fire, she didn’t care about anything else right now.
He pulled the shirt over her head and looked at her body. This was the moment, right? It was the moment she was supposed to wonder if he liked the way she looked. She didn’t have to. The slow, predatory, thirsty smile that stretched his face told her he liked her body just fine. He arched her back and pulled her nipple into his mouth. She gasped, held his hair so he would stay there. He lapped at her, over and over, until she was moaning his name.
“Good,” he rumbled again.
She opened her eyes slowly and looked down at his head as he pulled her other nipple into his mouth and took care of it in the same way. God, it was so sexy, watching his head bob back and forth as he sucked on her sensitive nub.
She pulled him back by his hair, reveled in the wicked gleam of his eyes as he locked her in his gaze.
“My turn,” she said, feeling braver than she ever had.
She pushed him onto his back and crawled down, positioned herself between his legs and smiled at him as she pulled her sleep shirt over her head. The cool breeze from the air conditioner felt so good against her naked skin. Cheyenne tossed the shirt and grabbed his swollen shaft.
“Fuuuuuck, woman, do you know how sexy you are?”
And she felt it. She felt sexy for the first time in… When was the last time? When had she ever felt so comfortable, so confident in a bedroom? Never.
She leaned over and slid her mouth over the head of his cock, teased him with her tongue. The groan he let off as he drew up his knees was the sexiest thing she’d ever heard. He arched back, and this felt like power. His hand went to her hair, and he pushed her down gently, then pulled her up, pushed, pulled, teaching her his pace.
His breathing was already ragged, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were intent on her. His lips were slightly parted, and he tensed every time she slid her mouth down onto him. Three more strokes, and he pulled her off. Easing her back, he positioned himself between her legs and gripped her wrists above her head.