21. Silas
Jenny’s moved our rehab sessions to near the barns, resistance bands anchored to a post, the late morning sun finally warming my bare back. I roll my shoulder once, then pull, controlled but aggressively. The burn intensifying with each stretch.
“Okaaaay. That’s better,” Jenny says with some hesitation. “Strength’s fine too. But—” Her eyes narrow. “You’re still rushing it.”
First I was pushing it, now I’m rushing it. Damn woman’s going to refuse clearing me, I just know it.
I reset my grip and pull again, jaw tight. I don’t hear Jenny’s warning. Her judgement on how much I know I can handle. All I hear is Storm’s voice from the other morning, barely teasing as she looked me in the eye. I imagine they make those things to know what they’re doing.
“Ease up. You’re carrying a lot of tension.”
No kidding.
The band shakes as I hold the stretch longer than I should, bicep screaming, breath shallow. This isn’t about my arm anymore—it’s about control. Restraint.
Storm has to know I didn’t walk away because she offended me. I walked away because she doesn’t have faith in me. And okay maybe I was a little offended, but not because she thinks I’m leaving town again. That she thinks one time with me is going to be enough.
It’s not.
And the urge to prove it to her is too strong to keep resisting.
I release hard, arm dropping, chest heaving.
Jenny makes a note on her clipboard, not looking at me now. “Something on your mind, hotshot?” she asks bluntly.
My eyes flick to her. “Don’t call me hotshot.”
And I mean it. Not for the same reason I didn’t like it when Storm first called me that. But because it’s Storm’s.
“All right, all right, get a hold of yourself. Look, we’ve got two more sessions this week and then I need to fill out an official report on your progress. Whatever’s going on in your head, handle it, control it—whatever you need to do. Because it’s fucking with you.”
Damn right it is.
I catch my breath and look out across the pasture, jaw set. Then she comes into view.
Storm reins in her horse, dust settling around them both. She’s staring right at me. Jaw slack like she’s given up trying to close it. Her gaze drags over me, slow and unguarded. Something dark and satisfying coils in my chest.
Guess I’m not the only one distracted.
The small barn I saw Storm disappear into is warm and dim. Light peeks through the open doors, dust floating lazily through the air. That same familiar scent mixed with something new. Maybe her? Maybe me and what I’m about to do.
There are no animals in here. Probably too small for them, but it’s stacked with hay, saddles, tools, and there are coiled ropes neatly hung along the wall.
I find her absently moving stuff around like she’s making room for something.
She’s in a plain white T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, and a dark suede, tasseled cowgirl skirt that dips lower in the back and moves easy in the saddle.
She doesn’t hear me at first—clearly still lost in some image in her head. I’m tempted to take the moment to drink her in like this, unguarded—but it’ll only throw me off.
And I’m here to settle a score.
I’m still shirtless, sweat drying on my skin. The burn still fresh on my bicep. The bands are looped in my hand like an afterthought. And I can assure you, it’s not. I loosen the grip slightly, letting one end fall to the floor and drag. Storm’s head snaps up in my direction.
Her eyes drop. Then lift. Then drop again.
Good.
I let the moment stretch as I walk farther in, aware of everything—the way her movement slows, the hitch in her breath. I drag my gaze over the layout of the small barn. The sturdy post near the tack wall, the height, the space. The endless options.
It’ll do.
I stop near the post and casually hook one band around it, testing the tension with a slow pull. The snap cuts through the quiet as it settles back into place. Dust particles flinging into the space between us. Storm’s breathing changes. It’s subtle, but I don’t miss it.
“It’s going well, by the way,” I say, easy, not bothering turning to her.
“What is?”
“PT,” I mutter dryly like I’m not measuring every beat of her curiosity, heat following close behind as I add a second band about four feet away, improvising with an overhead beam.
I don’t have to look to feel her attention on me—the way the air tightens, the way her breathing sharpens. When I finally glance over, her eyes are dark, mouth parted.
I smirk—taking too much pleasure in her responsiveness.
To me.
My dick getting hard at the fucking possibilities. And that unknown territory of how far I can take her.
“So you thought you’d show me up close how well you’re doing?” Her voice wavers, despite how hard she’s trying to keep cool and fuck it’s hot.
I give the band one last test tug, slow and controlled, then let it snap. The sound makes her flinch.
I meet her gaze and hold it, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.
Storm glances at the open barn door. One I’d intentionally left open. “Silas, I’m working. But if you need to be alone with your . . . set-up,” she clears her throat, “I can go.”
“You can,” I offer, glancing at the exit myself. “Or you can close that door, get your ass back over here, and let me set the record straight.”
She swallows. Her eyes dropping to my biceps, pecs, abs. Her tongue slipping briefly past her lips before continuing the movement inside.
I don’t move. I barely breathe as I wait.
“Wh—what would I do if I come back there?”
I don’t take my eyes off her. “Give me your hands. Your consent.”
Her eyes flash at the bondages. “And then what?”
I cock my head with a smirk at my best friend. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
She releases a breath and moves to the barn door, closing it. I’m not entirely convinced she didn’t just do that to screw with me and intends on doing some damage herself, but I give her the benefit of the doubt.
She’s still when she turns back to me—and I’m not even offended that her eyes are on my chest. I imagine I’d have a hard time too if it were the other way around and she were topless. I cock my head toward the set-up.
She glances around herself. Then steps close, stopping a foot from me.
I smile. It’s not a victory smile. It’s not even to ease any discomfort. It’s pride.
And my unyielding fascination with her.