I hear her tiny intake of breath, and my eyes lock onto her mouth, pink lips parted in invitation.
“Thought you were ready to go, Cowboy?”
Her voice is breathy, obviously affected by me, and it urges me to make her lose her breath in other ways too. I dip my head to find she’s farther down than I thought. I have to bend my knees, but I need to taste her lips. Slipping my hands around her waist, I lift her up to her toes to meet me in the middle and press my lips to hers, inhaling to take in her scent as I take her mouth.
Strawberries. I don’t know if it’s her lip gloss or her shampoo, or even some perfume she spritzed on, but it suits her and makes me want to devour her like a juicy berry in the summer, biting into her flesh and licking every sticky drop as it runs down my chin.
Sensing that we could easily get carried away right here in the driveway, I pull back, and she chases my mouth a bit until I’m out of her reach, too tall for her tiny self to reach.
“Mmm, delicious. I believe that is what the French call an amuse-bouche.”
“And you know French how?” she asks, biting her lip. I’m so tempted to go back for another round, but I restrain myself, popping my elbow toward her like usual and escorting her to my truck to put her inside like the gentleman my Pops taught me to be.
“I’m full of surprises,” I tell her. I close her door carefully, and I smile as she gives me a raised eyebrow.
This isn’t like Doc’s truck. I won my truck during last year’s finals, and it’s big and tough, but with touches of luxury. It’s easy and comfortable as we head into town, stretches of pleasant silence broken up by little bits of conversation. There’s a little humming noise from Sophie’s side of the truck, and I realize she’s quietly singing along to the country song on the radio, Lauren Alaina’s “Road Less Traveled.”
Wordlessly, I turn it up a little, and she smiles at me before diving right in and belting it. She knows every word and is singing them, loud and proud and with feeling into her imaginary microphone. She’s got spirit, this girl, and knows how to throw herself into it even if she’s not exactly professional level. Actually, if my truck sounded like her, I’d take it in for a tune-up.
I grin . . . a private concert in the cab of my truck. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that, especially since Mark and Luke can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Sophie’s enjoyment is infectious, though, and I can’t help but sing along since I know nearly every word of the popular hit too. We hold the last note for as long as possible but give in before it ends, dissolving in laughter.
I give her a little side-eye, turning the radio down as Rascal Flatts comes on. “You know what, Soph? You can’t sing for shit, but that might have been the best concert I’ve been to.”
She reaches across and shoves my shoulder, sticking out a very pink and very kissable tongue. “Yeah, I can’t carry a tune, but after a few drinks, nobody in the karaoke bars seems to mind.”
I laugh, betting she’s probably right and that if she was onstage singing off-key, I probably wouldn’t notice either since all my focus would be on her other assets. “Okay, I’ll let you get away with that.”
“You can actually sing, though, Cowboy,” she says. “I’m surprised.”
I grin back at her, giving her a devilish little wink. “I have all kinds of skills that’ll surprise you.”
She lifts one eyebrow at me, humming. “I’ve seen some of them.”
“I’ve got more.”
Sophie laughs, leaning back in her seat. “I bet you do.”
Before I know it, we’re already in town. I park the truck and shuffle around to the passenger side to let her out, grabbing her hand this time as we walk up to the best steak house in town.
A few minutes later, we’re seated in some nice window seats and nursing a pair of beers, a local draft that doesn’t go too froufrou. “What do you think?”
“Not bad,” Sophie says, “but I have to admit, I liked the Negra Modelos last night more. I like the ambiance, though, and I’m looking forward to dinner.”
I laugh, teasing her a little. “I’m glad you’re not vegetarian. It didn’t occur to me until Mama pulled out her food the other night that you might be vegetarian.”
“Nope. I definitely try to get in plenty of rabbit food, but I’m not going to turn down a fresh-grilled steak, chicken, or fish,” Sophie replies. “Or sushi. Or . . . well, much of anything. Jake and I even survived on Hamburger Helper for nearly a year before he figured out how to cook even the basics, and I crave it on occasion when I’m feeling nostalgic or need comfort food. Seriously, some people do chicken noodle soup when they’re sick; just bring me some Hamburger Helper covered in Kraft powdered parmesan. But normally I’m adventurous with my food, willing to try anything once.”
I wonder if she understands how even the little things she says have double meanings for me, some sweet, some dirty. “Does that adventurous streak extend to other areas of your life, or just cuisine?”
Sophie smirks, and I know the answer. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s enjoying the hell out of it. “Oh, I’d say it depends on my mood. Sometimes I’m game for just about anything. Other times, I just hole up with a book and don’t interact with humanity for days at a time. Better known as college life. Guess that’s over for a minute, though, until vet school starts up, and then it’ll be hard-core hitting the books again.”
The playfulness drops from her voice by the end, and I’m reminded that she’s right. Come fall, she’s going to school, and I’ll be back on the circuit. “Sometimes I wonder if I could have ever fit into that life,” I say. “I went from the ranch to the circuit and never looked back. Been competing since I was a kid and went pro as soon as I was eligible. Honestly, knowing my personality, I’d have flunked out of classes at normal schools.”
She tips the neck of her beer bottle at me, giving me a microtoast. “You’d be surprised. By the way, I want you to know, Doc told me to Google you, see what you were all about. I couldn’t, though; I decided I wanted to know from the source. So, tell me all about James Bennett, Rodeo Star.”
This is common ground, what every reporter asks me any time I get interviewed. But the person asking me is no reporter, and I know I’ll let Sophie in a little more.
“Well, like I said, I’ve been competing since I was a kid. I started out on the county-fair circuit, moving my way up as I got older. I went pro at eighteen, right after I finished high school. I’ve ridden pro for the last eight seasons, with some decent results. Last season I placed in the top five at finals, and I think I could have gotten top three if my bull had been a bit better.”
“What do you mean?”
I smile, reminding myself that while Sophie might know animals, she doesn’t know rodeo. “Okay, thirty-second explanation. There are four judges, all watching me and the bull. They award each of us scores between one and twenty-five. The bull’s four scores are added up and divided in half, with a total hopefully close to fifty. If I stay on the full eight seconds, my four scores get added and divided the same way, also hoping for up to fifty points. The bull’s score and mine are added together for a final overall score for that ride. In round three of finals week last year, I drew a bull I thought would be great. Turned out he wasn’t ready to fight that night, so I ended up number six.”
“So how long do you plan to keep doing this?” Sophie asks. “Seems dangerous.”
I nod, knowing she’s right. “Yes, but I still plan to ride until I’m too old or they tell me I can’t anymore. Which means I need to leave in late August to catch the fall circuits, make sure I’m in good competing shape physically and mentally for finals in November.”
Sophie chuckles, sipping her beer. “Wow, that was very . . . practiced. You rehearse those sound bites in the mirror, Cowboy? Now tell me . . . why do you try to kill yourself via bull for shits and giggles?”
I laugh, but she’s right; I slipped into my PR replies out of habit, and something about Sophie makes me w
ant to give her more. I take a deep breath, making sure I shift my mind out of interview mode. Our steaks come, and it gives me another chance to calm myself, say things the way I really want to.
“It’s not quite as suicidal as it sounds or looks. There’s a science to it, but it’s more an art. We get to know the bulls, and they know the riders; we read each other, trying to predict which way the other is going to go. It’s like a dance, but instead of one leading the other so that it looks graceful, one is trying to lead the other through rip-roaring chaos, and it’s up to the rider to find some elegance in the battle. That’s why I do it, I guess. It’s a challenge and it’s fun.”
Sophie is looking at me, hanging on my every word, so I continue, “Back when I was a kid, I always had all this . . . energy, I guess. Yeah, energy and chaos inside, and I always gave Mama and Pops fits, climbing trees so I could jump out, racing the train on my bike, never sitting still for even a second. But when I sat on the back of a creature with the same chaos but amplified with so much more power and I conquered it, it made me feel like I could conquer my own wildness too. When I ride, I feel centered and focused.
“When I don’t get to ride for a bit, don’t focus on my training, I have a tendency to get a bit lost. When I was a teenager, I got into trouble around town. Nothing major, just backfield parties that got a little rowdy or mudding through fields that didn’t belong to me.”
Sophie laughs. “I can see that. Teenaged James Bennett getting dragged home by the town sheriff and Mama dragging you in the house by your ear. What about now? You still get into trouble in the off-season?”
I shake my head, proud of what I’m going to say next. “No, not too much time off duty now. When you’re in your prime age, you’re fighting for the podiums, and if you’re lucky enough to get there, you’re fighting to put on a good show every night and keep the streak going. It’s hard work, and you go in realizing that even on your best night, you might have only two or three scored rides in at most seven chances. Some nights you might only have one, so you have to make it count. Plus, the last couple of seasons, I sent a lot of my earnings back home to help out. Pops swore they didn’t need it, and Mark even agreed that they were doing just fine, but it felt like the right thing to do.”
“You’ve got nothing for yourself?” Sophie asks, and I shake my head, smiling.
“The only way I could get Pops to take dime one was to show him that I was saving some for myself. I fudged him a bit on some numbers to make him agree, but I’m doing fine. I’ve been able to put away a decent nest egg for when I’m done.
“Besides, I’m only able to help out here a few weeks a year now, so I figure my contribution to the ranch needs to pay for the ranch hand doing the work I’m supposed to do myself. It’s the least I can do, and this is my way to help the family business. Somehow, riding bulls has helped me funnel that wildness, and now that I’m grown, I try to at least be responsible, even if I’m still a bit full throttle most of the time.”
Sophie gives me an admiring look and takes another draw from her beer. “Well, you sound like you’ve got a little bit of Boy Scout in you after all, Cowboy. I’m not sure why Luke was teasing you about being a bad boy at dinner.”
She looks at me skeptically, and I shrug. “Well, the circuit’s not exactly known for being gentlemanly. It’s more like a moving frat house with a brotherhood in Wranglers instead of popped collars, surrounded by what we call buckle bunnies. It’s a bit unruly and, I’ll admit, a bit like Candyland for an eighteen-year-old boy. I told Luke about some of my misadventures that first season, and he’s never let me forget about it.”
Sophie nods sagely, giving me an appraising look. “Perhaps a bit wild after all, then.”
It’s like I’m under a microscope, and for the first time in a long time, I want to pass inspection. It’s weird, and I shift around in my seat. “I feel like I’ve been rambling all night. You done?”
Sophie takes one last gulp of her beer, finishing it off before nodding. “Yep, and I’m thinking I got a bit more insight than a Google search would’ve given me. Feel free to ramble away anytime.”
I throw a few bills on the table to cover the meal and tip, and we head out. I take a side street out of town, driving toward Outlook Point. It’s to the north of town, on the way toward the resort area, but it’s got some great views of town about halfway up the mountain.
I haven’t been up here with a girl since high school, and I’m praying it’s deserted on a weeknight, because I’m not ready to take Sophie home just yet.
CHAPTER 9
SOPHIE
It doesn’t take me long to realize we’re not exactly driving out the same way we came in, but I don’t say anything. My interest in how things are going with James overrides my curiosity at what he has planned for our date. Besides, he’s been honest and open. He could have lied, said he was a choirboy on the rodeo tour and that Luke’s full of shit. He didn’t, and if he only knew the details about my past, he’d understand he doesn’t need to worry. I’m not one to judge.
We drive through a copse of trees and pop out the other side to a stunning view to our left, and James pulls off into a small field, driving forward until I can see all of Great Falls spread out beneath us. I lean forward in my seat, a delighted “Oh my . . .” escaping my mouth before the seat belt pulls me back. “Ow.”
James reaches over and unclicks my belt as he puts the truck in park. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I giggle, leaning against my door and smiling. “I bet you say that to all the buckle bunnies.”
He ducks his head, and I think I’ve stung him a little. Maybe there’s a hint of truth in my teasing, but I honestly doubt James is the same kid who partied a bit too hard a few times at eighteen. I don’t care if he is a bit wild, honestly. This is just for fun, even if I am more interested in James than I have been in anyone in a very long time.
His country-boy charm is damn sure working on me, especially when partnered with his lean, muscled body, occasional streak of growly bad boy, and teasing nature. He’s one of the first men in a while who challenges me, and I respect that. He’s a gentleman, a rogue, country smart, and sexy as fuck. All topped off with a sweet hat when he rides his horse.
And judging by the hard ridge of his cock I felt as I rode him last night, I want to get an up-close-and-personal visit with what’s filling out those tight jeans he wears.
He lowers the tailgate on the truck and places his hands on my hips to help me hop into the bed. I realize that his hands nearly span the circumference of my waist; they must be huge. My waist’s definitely narrow—I’m pretty petite—but I think the comparison more aptly highlights just how large his hands are.
I get lost for a moment, thinking about how those big hands could hold me just right, cupping my tits or my ass, his thick fingers filling my pussy.
He spreads a puffy, plaid sleeping bag out in the bed before sitting and pulling me down beside him.
“Not much a view of the city sitting down here,” I say.
“It’s beautiful,” James admits, “but I think the natural sky is far better.”
I look up to the sky, the darkness stretching far and wide above us, broken up by little sparks of stars. He’s right; there’s nothing here to distract from the light show Mother Nature is putting on overhead. “Wow. It’s so gorgeous out here. You don’t get to see the stars like this in the city. Even at the ranch, there’s a little bit of light pollution.”
James nods, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Tell me about the city, about your life there. Seems only fair after I told you about growing up on the ranch and rodeo. Even?”
He winks, and I can’t help but giggle a little at what’s quickly becoming “our joke.” “Well, as a kid I grew up in a good-size house in the suburbs when my parents were with me. It was nice . . . trees, went to school with all the kids on our street, just a normal childhood.
“After . . . well, Jake moved me to a tiny apartment in
the city to save money while he got his businesses up and running. Slowly but surely, he became more successful, and we moved up a notch every few years.
“Ultimately, we lived in a penthouse condo in the middle of downtown by the time I was in high school. It was my time to get a bit spoiled, even if Jake never is willing to admit it. He did a good job, changing his plans in ways I couldn’t even understand at the time but always protecting me and guiding me. Somehow, he managed to stay my brother, even though he had a fatherly role for a lot of years.”
James rubs my shoulder, and his voice is warm. “He sounds like a good guy. Must be to have raised you.”
I nod, leaning against James and running my hand over his chest idly, enjoying the interplay of his muscles underneath the soft cotton of his shirt. “He is, and he put up with a lot. Like I said, I wasn’t always the easiest teenager to look after. But I went to college, also in the city. So, my sum-total experience with country life had been on field trips and lab classes until last summer, when I worked on a ranch owned by one of my professors. I spent the summer there, just shadowing him mostly and being annoying with the number of questions I asked.”
“And that changed you into a country vet?” James asks. “Brave.”
I laugh, running my hand lower, over his stomach, and enjoying the feeling of his taut six-pack. “I guess. But something about being outside, far from the hustle and bustle of city life, just feels right. I wasn’t expecting it—goodness knows Jake was expecting something totally different from his prissy little sister—but it’s . . . home. In my spirit, it’s home.”
“I daresay we know how to hustle and bustle out here in the sticks too,” he says, his fingers trailing over my shoulder, rubbing slowly and softly, making the heat in my body build without ever being lewd. “We gotta hustle to keep the ranch afloat, and there’s always work to be done.”
I nod, pressing my thigh against his and feeling more of his warmth. “You’re right, but it’s different here. There’s a list of things that need to be accomplished, and at the end of the day, you can tell you’ve done a good job by the weariness in your bones, the happy sounds your animals make as they settle in for the night. And you know how to slow down, too, to enjoy a good meal and good conversation, or just the simple pleasure of sitting in a place like this. In the city, it’s never-ending, and it’s more like a rat on a wheel. People in the city are busy just to stay busy—no real reason other than that. Not better or worse, just different.”
Buck Wild (Bennett Boys Ranch Book 1) Page 7