Chapter Thirteen
I NEED TO steal his knife.
That’s the only way. I need a weapon so I can get away from him—because no matter his vow, I am going to get away from him—and his knife is my best shot. All I need is an opportunity.
It’s just that I’m so freaking tired right now. I’m the kind of tired that I’ve never been in my life, and it’s all his fault. Because like everything else, he forced me to do it. He forced me to ride a horse.
With him on it.
Apparently, the reason we were at the ranch was because my husband needed a horse so we could ride on it and go home.
That’s what he said.
Those were his exact words, We’re going home, when he, despite my loud protests, picked me up and deposited me on the saddle.
And then before I could ask any other questions or just take a breath, he pulled on the reins and made a clucking sound with his mouth and took off at a gallop that I swear to God caused him to bark out a laugh.
Like he was finally doing something he’d been dying to do.
And I guess he was.
Eight years is a long time to stay away from something you love so much.
And I’m not going to lie, I finally understand what the fuss is all about.
Why people love riding so much. I think it’s the freedom.
The wind in your hair; the sun on your back.
It’s the fact that it feels like flying.
Like throwing your hands up and just soaking up the world. The peace. The nature.
The adventure.
Gosh, is that what it feels like, being on an adventure?
Like the blood is rushing in your veins and the adrenaline is going.
Like you’re flying, and even if you crash and burn, it’ll be worth it.
At one point, I wanted to turn around and tell him that.
It would be the kind of thing I’d tell Bo, but then I realized—for the thousandth time—he isn’t Bo.
He never was; he never will be. So all I could do was hold on and let him have his moment.
Now here we are, hours later, still riding.
At a more sedate pace, however. But still through the woods.
I take in the canopy of branches and leaves above me.
There are bits and pieces of sunlight streaming through the gaps, and I try to figure out what time it is.
I have no clue if it’s early afternoon or late, or how far away we are from Black Rock.
I guess I fell asleep and now I’m awake, and everything hurts.
My back. My thighs. The place between my thighs.
There’s a kink in my neck, too, that I try to get rid of by stretching the length of it.
Which is when I realize something. That I’m still in the same position that he put me in.
I mean, why would I be in a different position; we’re literally stuck together on top of a horse, but still.
Now that we aren’t galloping or I’m not lulled to sleep, I’m becoming aware of certain things.
My back is all but melted into his front, the side of my face is cradled between his pecs, and my spine is sagging and settled cozily into his pelvis.
And then there are his thighs that are hugging mine; his arms that blanket my arms. With one of his hands grabbing the reins while the other, God, the other, is splayed wide on my belly.
It’s so large that his thumb goes up and grazes the underside of my breast and his pinkie is almost tucked into my belly button.
Not to mention, the heel of his palm.
He’s pressing it into my belly, using it to keep me all locked in and tethered to his hard body.
Did it get harder over the course of a day?
Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m not afraid for my life like I was yesterday when he was threatening me, so now I’m finally realizing there’s no way he’s made of muscles and bones, no.
I think he’s made of steel or iron.
Really hot iron with ridges and grooves that I want to rub up against. I don’t know where the urge comes from, but I want to. I need to. So I arch my back, pressing my head back on his chest, and wriggle my hips, whimpering.
I can’t believe how good this feels, moving against him, rubbing up against his torso and twisting my hips in the confines of his thighs.
Which is why it comes as a shock when he abruptly stops me.
His large hand on my tummy grows rigid and pushes in even more as he effectively traps me against the cage of his body.
Then, dipping his face down, he growls into my ear, “Stop moving.”
My eyes are wide as I blurt out, “I wasn’t.”
It’s a total lie, of course. And in the face of the vow he made to me only a few hours before, no less.
But I couldn’t think of anything to say when I’m trying really hard to ignore the scrape of his stubble against the side of my face.
It’s just as sharp as it was yesterday, but somehow I don’t mind it.
And his scent of leather and musk, which I inhale with every breath I take, is still as aggressively masculine as it was before.
But all it does is make me feel all soft and feminine rather than weak and terrified.
It grows even thicker when he exhales sharply at my lie and flexes his fingers on my belly. I eye that hand, big and bronzed with veins going up and down the back of it, and find myself saying, “It’s just that, uh, you’re very hard.”
His chest jerks behind me. “Rubbin’ up against me isn’t gonna make me any less so.”
“And very big,” I continue.
His fingers on my belly flex again. “Again, writhin’ on my lap like a goddamn stripper isn’t gonna make me any less big.”
I’m not an idiot.
I know what he’s saying. I know what I’m saying too.
I just don’t know why I put it that way.
Probably residual sleep and all my aches and pains, and whatever is happening to me at this proximity and how secure he keeps me against his body on my first horse ride.
But that stripper comment was uncalled for.
Especially after what he did last night.
So I try to sit upright as I say, “And you’d know that, wouldn’t you.”
He keeps his hand firmly placed on my belly, refusing to give me even an inch. “I would and I’d probably slide a twenty-dollar bill into your thong and send you on your way because you’re just wastin’ my time.”
Gasping, I elbow his gut and he grunts, flinching. “That was extremely offensive.”
“No less true,” he murmurs. “I did vow I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Yeah, well I’d never dance for you anyway,” I throw back, ignoring the racing of my heart.
“I think you just did.”
I elbow him again. “And if I’m a twenty-dollar stripper, why are you so hard?”
I can’t believe I’m talking about this so casually. Or that I actually want to wiggle some more and feel that hardness on my back. Maybe being kidnapped and fake-marrying-by-force a criminal cowboy is breaking my brain.
“Because,” he replies, his voice low, “I spent the last eight years behind bars with just my hand for company. Not to mention, didn’t find the relief I was lookin’ for last night either so anything from a little breeze to a soft, buttercup-smellin’ body wriggling in my lap could get me hard.”
I bite my lip at the mention of that flower again and blurt out, “Did you… really not do anything with that stripper?”
His chest shifts again with a breath. “No.”
At his answer, my heart soars, but then I kick myself in the head for melting at it when it’s not as if his fidelity—even if you could call it that—means anything. Instead, I go back to the topic at hand and accuse, “It’s your fault that I was moving.”
“Pretty sure it’s yours,” he murmurs, pulling on the reins to guide the horse away from a particularly large rock. “Since you’re the one with all the moves.”
I ignore how expertly he does that. “That’s because I hurt, okay? In case you don’t remember. I’ve never ridden on a horse before.”
“I don’t.”
“What?”
“Remember,” he finishes while maneuvering the horse around yet another roadblock.
“That it was in your third letter you told me you’ve never ridden before.
But since you’ve read about it a fuck ton and seen other people do it, seein’ as you live in the Wild West, it’s probably the same thing.
” Then, “How’s that workin’ out for you though? ”
What an ass to not only poke fun at me but to also remember what I told him and in which letter. Even I don’t remember that.
I ignore the racing of my heart and dig my nails into his forearm as I mutter, “You probably remember it because you wanted to draw up an elaborate plan to torture me. As evidenced by this…”—I growl, trying to think up a word—“this whole traveling-by-a-horse bullshit and ow!”
All of a sudden, the horse jerks underneath me, making me jerk and almost lose balance. And I have to grab on to him even more tightly.
“You did that on purpose,” I accuse because he did.
“His name’s Rocky,” he tells me.
“What?”
“The horse. Learn to use it.”
I breathe out sharply, scratching his arm. “Oh right, you’re a cowboy.”
“That I am,” he drawls with exaggeration.
“Of course, you’d be more concerned about your ho—Rocky than me.”
“Ain’t no use denyin’ it.”
I scoff. “I knew it. I always knew cowboys made the worst boyfriends.”
“Well, what can I say; we don’t like to be tied down.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, tell me this: If your barn was burning, what’s the first thing you’d save?”
“Pretty sure I’m about to find out.”
“Your horses.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup.” I nod. “You’d get all your horses out first and then go in for your girlfriend.”
“You got me. I do love my horses.”
“Who, by then, would probably be dead.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you need to worry about it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you aren’t just my girlfriend.”
“I—”
“You’re my wife.”
“I’m not. I’m—”