Bred By the Cowboys (Wild Rides #2)

Chapter 1

Janey

Spending an entire evening trying to avoid staring at Brookes and Mason Fletcher would be easier if they didn’t make it so hard to look anywhere else.

We’re at a first birthday party, for heaven's sake. Not a bar or a club where ogling members of the opposite sex is expected.

And there has definitely been ogling in both directions.

The party wound down, with most of the other guests hitting the road, but not Brookes and Mason. They sit on their cousins’ porch swing, sipping beer like the whole wide stretch of sprawling land and open night air was built around them.

Mason leans back with one arm stretched along the backrest, his posture loose in a way that still manages to feel deliberate. Brookes sits beside him, his body more contained, his weight angled slightly forward, his attention sharper.

Two brothers. Same blood. Totally different gravity.

And I’m drawn to both.

I lean against the doorway, transfixed in a way I haven’t been over a member of the opposite sex in far too long.

Mason draws the eye first. His shirt pulls across his chest when he shifts, the fabric stretched, hinting at the thick, solid muscle underneath.

The sleeves strain slightly at his upper arms, exposing sun-browned skin and a faded line of ink curling and disappearing beneath the fabric.

His forearm rests along the back of the swing, strong and marked, with a pale scar cutting across it.

His fingers flex idly, as if he's always half a second away from doing something with them.

Something filthy and amazing, probably. Or tough. He looks like the kind of man who could wring the neck of a wild beast or a violent man without breaking a sweat.

My gaze lingers on him longer than it should. Longer than I mean it to.

Brookes is different. He’s quieter in a way that makes him harder to read and, somehow, harder to look away from once I start.

Where Mason spreads his arms and legs wide to take up space, Brookes seems to hold himself in, like everything about him is controlled.

His sleeves are rolled as well, though the muscle there is leaner and more defined; the kind that’s formed by repetition rather than force.

There’s a small, almost hidden mark at his wrist, ink that disappears when his hand shifts, subtle enough that it feels private.

His hands rest loosely in his lap, though there is nothing soft about them.

They look as capable, rough, and familiar with work as his brother’s.

I’m ogling.

Again.

Heat creeps up the back of my neck as I drag my gaze away, suddenly very aware of myself in a way I have been all night. Of how I must look. Of how I must seem.

Eager, probably. Hungry. Shameless.

Desperate to be grabbed by those hands and held down. Made to do things I really want to do, even though I’d pretend otherwise.

This is ridiculous.

I'm not a teenager. I don’t lose my composure over a couple of men who must be at least a decade older than me. I might be young, but I have a good head on my shoulders and a set of boundaries that keep me away from temptation and danger.

My eyes flick back anyway.

Mason shifts, dragging his boot across the porch floor, the movement slow and unhurried, pulling the denim of his jeans tight across his thighs, and the ease of it sends a small, unwelcome ripple through me.

It’s his confidence. The complete lack of self-consciousness, as though he knows exactly who and what he is and has never once questioned it.

Brookes glances toward the house, and for half a second, our eyes almost meet. I look away before they do, my pulse picking up for no good reason.

Except there is a reason.

It sits low in my stomach, warm and restless, spreading slowly the longer I stand here pretending I'm unaffected and in control.

I shift my weight, pressing my thighs together slightly, as if that might ease the ache.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes me more aware of it. I’m warm and swollen down there, and maybe a little slick from all my filthy cowboy-centered fantasies.

Which is… deeply inconvenient.

I draw in a quiet breath, trying to center myself, though my attention drifts back out to the porch like it has a mind of its own.

Two brothers. Two rugged, older, imposing ranchers.

A very bad idea waiting to happen.

The worst part is how little that thought deters me.

“Earth to Janey.”

I jump, turning back into the kitchen to find my best friend Joelle watching me with a knowing expression, “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t hear you come in. It’s been a long day.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her tone carries enough skepticism to make my face warm. “You planning on going to bed anytime soon, or are you going to keep pretending you aren’t interested in those two hunks of men out there?”

A flush prickles my skin. “I needed some air.”

Her smile softens, turning fond. “It’s okay if you do, Janey. They’re good men. Handsome men. And you’re a grown woman with needs.”

I blink, surprised at my friend’s encouragement.

She’s had her fair share of highs and lows.

I guess falling in love with two cowboys and shackin' up with them in their ranch house has done wonders for her enthusiasm for that type of man. Two years ago, when the only experience she’d had of cowboys was the one who’d taken her virginity, left her pregnant, and ran, her opinion was very different.

Now that she has a stable home for her son and a constant look of happiness in her eyes, cowboys are suddenly the dish du jour.

“A grown woman with sense,” I say, even though I feel like I lost it somewhere on the way into this house.

Or maybe, there’s something about this place that fogs the mind into thinking sex with multiple cowboys is perfectly normal.

A forbidden cowboy menage vortex. Like the Bermuda Triangle but involving much more hot, rugged group sex and fewer strange disappearances.

Although right now I wouldn’t mind disappearing into the Fletcher brothers alternative sex dimension for at least a month.

They could fold me like a pretzel and roll me in the hay all they like!

Not that I’d ever admit that to a single soul.

Joelle shrugs like that doesn’t matter a bit. “Well, don’t stay up too late. Some of us have plans.”

Her gaze flicks toward the stairs, timed perfectly with the sound of Wade’s voice and then Caleb’s drifting down.

Right. Plans. I should really be asleep before those plans come to fruition. I love my friend but hearing her engaging in orgasmic group rancher sex would be mortifying.

Is rancher sex a thing? It should be. All those ropes, and hats, worn jeans and leather.

My mind descends into the gutter. Again.

“Goodnight,” I murmur.

“Night.”

I busy myself with preparing my bed on the sofa and getting ready to sleep.

My pajamas are white cotton with eyelet embroidery, a pretty camisole and shorts set that I treated myself to with my last paycheck.

Shame there’s been no one else to appreciate them.

I clean my teeth, wash my face, and brush my hair.

Overhead, footsteps cause the ceiling to groan. I guess Joelle and her men are turning in for the night. Sleeping down here was definitely the sensible option.

Then I hear laughter from outside. The Fletcher brothers haven’t left yet. What are they waiting for?

You?

I shake my head. Those men outside can't possibly be hard up for female attention. If I had to place a bet on it, I’d say every virgin, spinster, and widow within a thirty-mile radius has succumbed to the appeal of their rustic cowboy charms.

As have I. At a child’s birthday party. Over sandwiches, balloons and cake.

Embarrassing.

My mouth is dry, so I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, intending to head to bed, but instead, I find myself switching it for another beer and heading outside, propelled by some insane craving to live a little while I’m away from my mother’s confining expectations.

Cool air brushes over my skin as I step onto the porch. The swing creaks softly as both men look up at the same time.

“Janey,” Mason says. “Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is an easy drawl with roughened edges, and it hits me square in the clit.

“It’s early for me,” I admit, trying not to shiver.

I usually stay up to read, but I don’t tell them that. I’m pretty sure cowboys have a type, and book nerds aren’t it.

And there are two very large distractions sitting twenty feet from my sofa bed.

Mason shifts, making space between them. The gap looks big enough to be polite, and small enough to feel intimate.

“Come sit.” He pats the seat like he’s encouraging a wary pet, and the words settle low in my stomach as I step forward, unable to resist his authoritative tone.

This feels like a big decision. Probably a bad one.

I’ve spent my life being a good girl, living up to my parents’ expectations.

It’s the safe option. The easy option. Saying no to everything with a chance to hurt becomes a habit, but I’ve been bored with my life for a while.

Since Joelle moved out, I’ve been rattling around in my home alone, and it’s sad.

More than sad. It’s pathetic that a woman of my age doesn’t have anything better to do than live between the pages of a fictional story.

I’m far enough away from the confining influence of home to push that wary woman aside a little.

Maybe it’ll be fun to play-act as a different person for a while.

Maybe I’ll like being the kind of woman who slides between two cowboys who have been looking at her like she’s hot food and maybe flirt a little.

I sit. So good at taking instructions. So adept at bending my will to others, except this feels like my will.

The swing dips gently under my weight, settling quickly.

Warmth presses in on both sides of me almost immediately.

Mason rests solid against my right thigh, his arm still stretched behind me.

Brookes adjusts slightly on my left, his knee brushing mine with contact that feels light and deliberate at the same time.