Ride: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Come on,” she whispers, trying to move faster.

  “No,” I growl. “Let me fuck you slow for once.”

  She sighs. I lock my fingers around her hip and hold her still for a minute, buried to the hilt. I can feel her throb around me, and it’s perfect and delicious.

  “Lula-Mae, I’m not gonna give you what you want,” I murmur.

  I pull out and slide into her again. Her toes curl and an explosive, breathy moan comes out of her mouth.

  “I’m gonna give you what you need,” I whisper.

  She just nods. I wrap my arm around her waist and keep moving as slow as I can make myself, filling her with every stroke until she moans. It’s driving me wild and I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, about to swing over the edge and into the abyss, but I keep going.

  “Jackson,” Mae murmurs.

  I fuck her deep and she moves her hips again. Her pussy is pulsing around me, almost throbbing, and I can tell she’s gonna come soon.

  “I’ll never get enough of you saying my name,” I say. “Especially like that.”

  “Like you’re about to make me come?” she asks, her voice low and breathy.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  I keep going, slow and deep and hard, and it’s almost torture, but Mae is moaning and gasping for breath, coming undone before my eyes. I can’t get enough. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen is here, and she’s mine, and I’m doing this to her.

  “Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Please don’t stop, Jackson, please.”

  “Not for the world, Lula-Mae,” I growl in her ear.

  “I love that you’re bare inside me,” she whispers. “I — oh, fuck, Jackson — ”

  I can’t hold out any longer. I slide my hand between her legs and circle her clit.

  Almost instantly, her muscles clench around me and she throws her head back. I think she’s gonna shout but she hardly makes any noise at all, just a quiet, barely-there moan, but I can feel how hard she’s coming as her pussy tightens around me like a vise.

  “Oh fuck, Jackson,” she whispers. “Jesus fucking Christ, Jackson.”

  I go over. I can’t feel her come and hear her whisper my name and do anything but come so hard I just about forget my own name. I murmur her name into her hair over and over again as we move in perfect rhythm, both totally lost to ecstasy.

  After a long time, we both go still but I’ve still got my arm around her, holding her as close against me as I can. She puts her hand over mine and laces our fingers together, then kisses my knuckles softly.

  I don’t say anything, because I can’t think of a single thing to say that encapsulates this sensation, this perfect feeling that for once I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m not thinking about bull riding or championships or Mae getting on a plane. I’m not thinking anything, because my brain is just a happiness fog.

  It’s a long time before I realize my arm has pins and needles in it, and slowly, we both roll onto our backs. Mae puts her arm over me and her head on my chest and kisses the left side of the horseshoe.

  “You were right,” she says, her voice low and lazy.

  “About what?”

  “I did need that.”

  “Any interest in revising your review?” I ask.

  Mae laughs.

  “That four-point-six really got to you, huh?” she teases.

  “Well, you keep coming back for more,” I say. “I can’t be that bad.”

  “If it’s a five-point scale, then two-point-five is average,” she says. “And four-point-six is pretty good.”

  “You like this better than pretty good, though,” I say.

  She rolls onto me a little more and rests her chin on my chest, her eyes dancing.

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “Four-point-seven.”

  I lean my head against my pillow and sigh dramatically, and she rests her cheek on my chest again, laughing. She traces one finger over the scar over my breastbone, then slowly, her fingers drift to other scars: one down my arm from the time I climbed over a barbed wire fence and fell off, one on my stomach from the time I fell off a bull funny and my belt buckle broke and cut into me.

  I have the urge to tell her the story behind each one, or at least the stories I can remember. I want Mae to be able to read me like a book, to be totally laid open for her.

  After a long time, she sighs.

  “I should go,” she says. “It’s late and I barely got any sleep last night.”

  “You could stay,” I say.

  “I wish,” she says softly. “I can’t get caught, Jackson.”

  After another moment she sits up and swings her feet off the bed. She looks out the window for a moment and I look at her profile, and then she stands and walks to the other room.

  I get up too, and together we hunt down our clothes. She gets dressed and I put my boxers on.

  “There,” she says. “Do I look decent?”

  “You look better than decent,” I say, and kiss her on the forehead. “You sure you can’t stay?”

  I know I should stop asking, but the thought of getting back into that bed without her is almost physically painful. I want to wake up with her next to me, just once.

  “Come on, Jackson,” she says.

  I kiss her, and it’s slow and lazy and full of longing.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” she says.

  “And no eye-fucking?” I ask, sliding an arm around her waist.

  “Maybe a little,” she concedes. “I think I won’t be quite as wound up after tonight.”

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” I say.

  She bites her lip, then looks up at me.

  “I know it’s useless to tell you to be careful out there,” she says. “But...”

  She trails off, touching the scar in the middle of my chest.

  “Try not to get another one of these, okay?” she says.

  “You worry too much,” I say, grinning at her. “I know my business, Miss Guthrie.”

  Mae makes a face, but I kiss her again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, hating this moment. “Try to act normal, okay?”

  She just laughs.

  23

  Mae

  I ride the elevator down, leaning my head back against the cool metal. I can still feel his arms around me, his lips on mine. I can still see his face in the dark, lit only by the Vegas strip glowing outside the window, and it’s making me crazy.

  I just breathe. I’d rather be in Jackson’s bed, snuggled under the covers and laughing, but instead the elevator doors open onto the casino floor. It seems even brighter and louder at nearly one in the morning than it did earlier, like I’ve walked into some special, clanging hell.

  At least it’s safe to go home this late in Vegas, I think.

  In the cab, I start driving myself crazy. I’ve never been great with uncertainty, and I have no idea what we’re doing.

  He said there was no one else, but does that just mean now? For the future? Are we exclusive? Are we dating?

  What does he even do in the off-season? I wonder. Am I just his girlfriend when I’m around, but when he goes to other rodeos there’s other girls?

  I think this is real, but does he? Or are we just having fun?

  Is this a friends with benefits scenario?

  I know I’m being an idiot. I know all signs point to this is a real thing, and they also point to just talk to him about it already, but sometimes once I get going on this train of thought it can be hard to hit the brakes.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and look out the window at the scorchingly bright strip as it rolls by, and make myself take a deep breath.

  You worry too much, I tell myself. Way too much.

  It doesn’t help that I’m dead tired and worried about us getting found out. Not to mention worried about Jackson doing an insanely dangerous thing every day.

  Everything is combining into one giant puddle of anxiety, each little thing tumbling into the next and the ne
xt. It’s not like I’ve ever been particularly chill in the first place.

  The taxi drops me off one casino away from the Wynn. I pay the driver and start walking, the sidewalk still jammed with people. I force myself to count my steps and not think about anything else.

  On the upside, I’m so busy at work that I barely have time to think about any of this. I’m at the arena, which is way off the strip at the University of Las Vegas, by seven in the morning. Bruce interviews a whole batch of rodeo front-runners and I take their pictures as they pose with their belt buckles and chaps and hats.

  I’ve got fifteen minutes for lunch before steer roping starts, so I run through the arena building and toward a sandwich shop in the student union, because I’m starving.

  I walk in, out of breath, and the door chimes. The guy ordering at the counter looks over his shoulder.

  It’s Jackson. Of course it is. The one person I shouldn’t be speaking to in public.

  He nods. I nod back and try to read the menu, but I have no idea what I wind up ordering. The guy behind the counter gives me a number, and I wander out of line to go wait.

  Jackson’s also waiting. The sandwich shop isn’t that big, but it’s pretty full of rodeo people. Mostly I think they’re spectators, but I recognize a couple of cowboys.

  “It’s Mae, right?” Jackson asks as I stand near him and pretend like I haven’t noticed him there.

  “Right,” I say, trying to smile politely. “Hi again.”

  “What kind of sandwich did you get?” he asks. His arms are crossed and he’s standing a few feet away, but I can feel him looking at me like I’m naked.

  I swallow and look at my receipt.

  “Roast beef and horseradish,” I say. “You?”

  “Chicken salad,” he says.

  The shop calls a number and another guy steps forward, grabs his sandwich, and leaves. Jackson turns and looks at the counter.

  “My dinner tonight got canceled last minute,” he says, keeping his voice low and normal-sounding, like he’s talking about potato chips.

  “So you’re available early?” I ask.

  My heart thumps, and something warm and liquid begins to snake through me, just like always.

  “Let me take you to dinner,” he says.

  He picks up a bag of chips and shows them to me.

  “Pickle chips?” I ask, and wrinkle my nose.

  “I heard they’re good,” he says, but he puts them back.

  Someone else walks in. We’re quiet until she starts ordering, and then Jackson steps next to me again, so we’re facing the same way, talking quietly without looking at each other.

  “We can’t,” I say, pretending to be incredibly interested in reading the labels on the soda fountain.

  “Far away, off the strip,” he says quickly. “Vegas is big.”

  At least he didn’t call me Lula-Mae in public, I think.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Please?”

  I take a deep breath. I want to say yes, to go out in public with Jackson like we’re normal people and not people having some secret torrid rodeo affair.

  I cannot believe I just thought the phrase torrid rodeo affair.

  “It has to be low-key,” I say.

  “Is that a yes?” he asks.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “This is stupid, Jackson.”

  “Chicken salad sandwich for Jack?” a woman behind the counter calls. Jackson steps forward and takes it, and I stand alone in the middle of the sandwich shop, heart racing. He grabs some napkins and packets of mustard, then nods at me again.

  “I’ll pick you up,” he says quietly. “Text me where.”

  I just nod.

  “Good to see you again,” he says, louder now, and smiles at me.

  “You too,” I manage to say.

  Jackson leaves, and I wait for my sandwich, feeling like a pile of sweat and nerves and stupidity.

  I’m almost used to watching him ride. Even I have to admit it’s impressive, because bull riding is hard, dangerous work, and Jackson’s good at it.

  Hell, he’s the best. My heart might stop every time I think about it, but I also get a thrill every time the crowd cheers for him. There’s a flash of fierce pride every time someone screams his name, and God knows I could watch his cocky swagger all day long.

  Today he’s riding a bull named Screaming Heat. The bull doesn’t sound like anything special, but Jackson got a good score yesterday, so he’s neck-and-neck with another cowboy. He needs this ride to qualify if he’s going to win this thing, so the closer we get to his name, the tighter the knots in my stomach get.

  Tomorrow he rides Crash Junction, but I’m trying to take things eight seconds at a time.

  “Up next is Jackson Cody on Screaming Heat!” the announcer finally says.

  The crowd loses their minds.

  I thought yesterday was nuts, but today they’re twice as loud, easily. People are jumping up and down and waving signs. In the media area, everyone pushes forward, all eyes on him.

  I force myself not to smile. This is just another ride, I tell myself.

  I steady the camera on his form jumping into the bucking chute. Screaming Heat snorts and shakes.

  Jackson tightens the rope, and just like always, he looks at me for a moment.

  Please please please please please please is all I can think, a heart-pounding prayer that he’ll be okay.

  The gate opens. Screaming Heat bolts out and the clock starts, the seconds ticking up slowly. My palms are sweaty with anxiety but Jackson’s got this, riding the bull with confidence and panache, totally in control the whole time.

  It’s impressive. Also kind of sexy.

  The clock ends, and Jackson jumps free and rolls once. There’s a horrifying moment where I think the bull’s after him, but then it trots off toward the exit.

  Everyone screams. The whole arena echoes with the sound of it. There are even more signs today than there were yesterday, and people are waving them like mad, along with pom-poms and cowboy hats.

  Jackson grins and waves at the crowd, turning in a quick circle. Just before he heads for the gate, he finds me again.

  In what’s becoming some kind of ritual, he looks at me for a little too long. Then he nods and touches the brim of his hat. He’s breathing hard and looking at me like he knows that I practically dissolve when he looks at me like this.

  I swallow hard, scrunching up my toes in my shoes, because as much as I hate how dangerous bull riding is, this moment?

  It does something to me, something deep and dangerous. It makes me feel like I’m nothing but raw lust and libido, and I want to jump onto the sand and run to Jackson and kiss him, right there, in front of everyone. I want him so much it takes my breath away, and I think he knows it.

  I hit the shutter and get it on camera. I’m never going to send it into Sports Weekly, but I want it for myself.

  Then it’s over. Jackson pulls himself over the gate. The cheering eventually dies down and the rodeo goes on.

  We finally wrap up hours later. Bruce interviews half the bull riders, I think, and I spend a while photographing the after-rodeo scene: cowboys sneaking drinks out of flasks, bulls and cows and horses being led away.

  Cowboys signing autographs for fans, talking to them, joking around. Jackson especially. A group of female fans asks me if I’ll use their phone to take a picture, and eight of them crowd around him, smiling at me.

  I do it, but I’m a little jealous. There are no pictures of the two of us.

  I get a text when the arena’s finally emptying out. I look around to make sure no one’s looking at me, and I spot Jackson across the room, phone in hand.

  He looks at me. I look at him.

  Jackson: ?

  I look toward the doors and think for a moment about the place I’m least likely to get caught.

  Jackson: Come on, Lula-Mae.

  Me: Okay, there’s a Super 8 on the road behind the Wynn. I think it’s a block north
. Pick me up outside that.

  We look at each other across the room, and at the same time, we both smile.

  Jackson: In an hour?

  Me: Yeah.

  Jackson: :-D

  I don’t look at him again as I leave, because I’m afraid I’m just going to start laughing with sheer giddiness.

  Vegas is strange. The moment you’re more than a block off the strip, it doesn’t feel like you’re in Vegas anymore. It feels like you’re anywhere in the western United States, with one-story houses and apartments, Starbucks, and McDonalds.

  Jackson wouldn’t tell me where we’re going, but I’m glad Sasha and Dani talked me into taking a dress with me. It’s not fancy, just a sleeveless little black dress, but it’s better for whatever we’re doing than jeans.

  I think, anyway. He said dinner, but for all I know, he could mean indoor skydiving and then dinner.

  A cab pulls up. I swallow. The window rolls down and Jackson waves at me. I get in.

  The moment my door closes, he pulls me across the seat and kisses me. I resist for a moment, but it’s only a moment, and then I’ve got my hand on his face, my knee across his, and my tongue’s in his mouth.

  When I finally pull back, I realize Jackson dressed up too.

  “You own a blazer?” I ask.

  “Come on,” he says, grinning.

  “It’s not even denim,” I tease. “No boots, no hat, no giant belt buckle? Who are you and what have you done with Jackson?”

  “I think you look pretty as a peach,” he says, and puts his arm around me.

  “You do clean up nice,” I say.

  “Thank you,” he says, and kisses the top of my head. There’s something sweet and protective about it, and for just a moment, I close my eyes and enjoy this.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “A little French place I found,” he says.

  “What’s it called?”

  “It’s got a French name.”

  I look up at him, waiting.

  “Are you gonna make me try to pronounce French?” he asks.

  I just nod.