10. BECKETT
BECKETT
The whole place erupts in cheers, whistles, and a few groans as Quinn climbs the small set of steps toward the bull. She looks confident, her shoulders square like she’s been preparing for this moment all her life.
I lean back on my stool, glass of water in hand, watching her. I’m alone, Landon having wandered off, saying he wants no part in our squabble. I don’t blame him—even I would hate to be caught between my sister and my best friend.
The operator gives her a hand up, and she swings a leg over like she’s mounting a throne instead of a machine designed to make her eat dirt.
My jaw ticks. This was supposed to scare her off.
Embarrass her. Send her running back to her daddy’s cushioned world.
Instead, she settles onto that saddle with a smile that promises she’s about to make me eat my words.
The crowd starts chanting, “Bull! Bull! Bull!” But all I can hear is my own pulse, sharp and insistent.
She shoots me a glance over her shoulder—brief, deliberate, enough to make my chest tighten—and then she nods at the operator.
The machine bucks to life. The bull jerks beneath her, snapping from side to side. Quinn clamps down with her thighs like she means business. The crowd goes wild.
Hell. She looks steady. Too steady.
Her hair whips around her face, her laugh carrying over the roar of the bar, and I feel something hot and unwelcome burn low in my gut. She’s not just holding her own—she’s owning the damn room.
“C’mon, sweetheart, give us a show!” some drunk hollers, and I damn near launch the glass in my hand at his head.
Instead, I drag my gaze back to her. She leans back when the bull dips forward, moves with it like she’s got rhythm in her bones. Every second she stays on, my irritation sharpens into something worse—admiration.
This was supposed to break her. Instead, she’s shining.
The bull kicks harder. She loses a handhold, and the crowd gasps, but she recovers quick, gripping tighter, jaw set. Stubborn as sin. That Atwood streak written in every line of her body.
She’s fire. Pure fire.
And then, in a blur, the machine bucks high and twists sharp. She’s airborne. She crashes down on the padded floor with a thud that knocks the air out of me as much as it does her. The crowd bursts into cheers and groans. I’m already moving.
By the time she sits up, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, I’m crouched in front of her. “You good?” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
She smirks, like I’m the fool for asking. “Better than good. I lasted longer than you thought, didn’t I?”
I open my mouth, but no smart remark comes out. All I can do is stare at her—sweaty, laughing, hair wild—and think, God help me, this woman might just be trouble I can’t outrun.
The second Quinn is off the mat and brushing herself down, I hear the taunts from the bar crowd.
“Your turn, Morgan!”
“Let’s see if you can last longer than the pretty little lady!”
I shoot them a glare that shuts a few up, then toss my hat aside and step up to the bull. But it’s not the crowd I’m performing for. It’s her.
Quinn stands off to the side, flushed and glowing, watching me with her arms crossed like she’s daring me to do better. I intend to.
I swing onto the bull, settle my grip, roll my shoulders once, and nod to the operator. The machine roars to life.
The first jolt snaps through me, but I’ve done this before. My body knows how to move with the rhythm. My thighs clamp down, my arm cuts the air, and I ride the surge like I was born in this saddle.
The crowd starts shouting, stomping. Every time the bull bucks harder, I answer with a sharper lean, a stronger hold, feeding off their energy. And every now and then, I let my gaze cut to Quinn—her lips parted, eyes locked on me, torn somewhere between impressed and annoyed.
I dig in harder.
The machine twists viciously, but I stick like glue, grinding down on every move. It’s not just about balance anymore. It’s about proving something. To Jace. To my old man. To Wrangler Creek. And maybe most of all, to her.
Finally, after what feels like forever, I throw one last defiant lift of my arm and hop off on my own terms. The bull jerks empty, the crowd erupts, and I land steady on my boots with a grin.
Winner.
I grab my hat and tip it toward Quinn, still catching her staring. “That’s how it’s done, sweetheart.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s fire there too. She hates that I won. She hates that I look good doing it. And damn if I don’t like the thought of her hating me just enough to keep watching.
The crowd’s still buzzing when I step down, their shouts and laughter chasing me across the floor. Quinn doesn’t clap. Doesn’t smile. Just stands there with that stubborn tilt of her chin like she’d rather swallow nails than admit I won.
I tug my hat back on and stroll up to her, slow on purpose. “So,” I drawl, “a bet’s a bet.”
Her eyes flash, and for a second I think she’s going to argue. Then her lips press into a thin line and she nods once. “Fine. You won.”
The way she says it, like the words taste foul, makes me grin wider. “Which means you owe me a prize.”
A few guys nearby whistle at that, and Quinn’s face flushes crimson. She glares at them, then at me. “You’re not getting that here.”
I raise a brow. “What, afraid of an audience?”
She steps in close, so close I can smell the hint of her perfume under all the whiskey and smoke. “I’m not afraid of anything. But if I’m doing this, we’re doing it somewhere… private.”
My blood heats instantly, every nerve strung tight as a bull rope. I don’t argue. I just let her grab my wrist and drag me past the crowd, down the narrow hallway where the music dulls to a thrum.
She pushes open a door into one of the private rooms—a plush couch, dim lighting, a curtain drawn tight over the entrance. Then she lets me go, spins around, and fixes me with a look that’s half warning, half challenge.
“Sit.”
I do, sprawling back into the couch like a king who already knows he’s won the crown. My hat tips low over my eyes, but I keep them locked on her as she exhales slowly, steadying herself.
Then, with a lift of her chin, she starts.
At first it’s just the sway of her hips, the slow slide of her hands down her own body, testing me, teasing me. But when her fingers catch the hem of her top and peel it over her head, the air in the room shifts. My mouth goes dry.
She’s fire and defiance wrapped in silk skin, every move a dare. And damn if she doesn’t own me already.
By the time she climbs into my lap, grinding down with that smug little twist of her hips, my restraint’s hanging by a thread.
“You wanted your prize,” she whispers against my ear, her breath hot, her body hotter. “Don’t say I never keep my word.”
I grip her waist hard, pull her flush against me, and growl low enough that only she can hear, “Sweetheart, I’m about to collect every last bit of it.”
The rest of the world—music, noise, the bet itself—falls away when her mouth finds mine. Heat crashes between us, fierce and reckless, and before I know it we’re tangled, desperate, giving in right there in the dark.
She’s in my lap, heat and silk and a wicked little smile, rolling her hips like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. The music outside is a dull throb; in here it’s just her breath and mine, tangling.
“I want to taste you again,” I rasp out.
“Again?” she questions, looking confused.
“Yes, you taste really good,” I smirk.
“But you said we didn’t have sex,” she reminds me.
“We didn’t.”
“Then how do you know what I taste like? Do you remember?” she asks hopefully.
“I said we didn’t have sex, but I didn’t say we didn’t do other things,” I inform her.
Her face falls, but only for a bit, and before I can ask a follow-up question, her mood shifts, eyes lighting up with molten desire. “Say it,” she murmurs, palms braced on my shoulders, eyes locked on mine. “You won.”
I tip my head back, grin slow. “I won.”
“Good.” Her mouth grazes my jaw, a tease that steals the ground out from under me. “Collect.”
My control shreds. I catch her face in my hands and kiss her hard, and she answers with a little sound that turns my bones to smoke. She tastes like mint and stubbornness. When I slide my hands down, memorizing the curve of her waist, she arches into it, fearless as ever.
“Quinn,” I rasp, because there’s one line I’m not crossing without hearing her say it.
She holds my stare. “Don’t stop.”
Clothes go in a careless trail—her fingers skimming my ink, my hands learning every place she softens and sharpens. She guides me back to the couch, straddling me again, and when our mouths meet, the kiss goes slow, then deeper, until neither of us is pretending this is just a bet anymore.
“Tell me if—“ I start.
“If I want more?” She smiles like sin. “I will.”
We come together, a hot, clumsy rush that turns deft in seconds.
She finds a rhythm and I match it, hands anchoring at her hips, feeling the flex and power in every move.
She’s not shy about chasing what she wants, not shy about taking it, and it undoes me more than any sweet little surrender ever could.
“Beck,” she breathes against my ear, and the sound of my name on her tongue is a brand.
“Yeah,” I grit out, rolling my hips up to meet her. “Right there, sweetheart. That’s it.”
Her nails bite into my shoulders; I swear and kiss her again because I need something to hold onto besides the way she’s breaking me open. The room blurs to heat and breath and the slick slide of skin. She’s a wildfire in my hands—focused, relentless, beautiful—and for once I don’t fight the burn.
It builds, tight and dizzy. She clenches around me, eyes going wide, lips parting, and I feel it hit her first, a shiver that tears a gasp from her throat.
I chase her over the edge, swearing into her mouth, the world dropping out from under us until there’s only the two of us and the frantic pound of our hearts.
She collapses against me, cheek to my shoulder, both of us breathing like we just outran a storm. My hands smooth down her back on instinct, soothing, claiming, maybe both.
After a beat, she huffs a laugh into my neck. “Smug looks terrible on you.”
“Liar,” I say, voice wrecked. “You love it.”
She lifts her head, eyes still glazed and dangerous. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Her mouth twitches. She slides off my lap with a wince that hits me low—the satisfied kind—then reaches for her clothes. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before I can stop myself, and she stills, something soft and startled flickering across her face.
It’s gone in a blink. She clears her throat, straightens her top. “Debt paid.”
She cracks the door, checks the hall, then glances back at me like she’s already ten steps ahead. And just like that, the spell shifts, still hot, still humming, but threaded with something I don’t have a name for.
I drag my shirt on and settle my hat, watching her with more than victory thrumming in my veins. Yeah. I won. So why does it feel like I’m the one who just surrendered?
Maybe working with her won’t be so bad after all. I should give her a chance and see where this will go.