Chapter 10 #2
Honestly, this isn’t a thing I’ve ever enjoyed, but with Beau, there’s just something about him that makes me want to take all of him, with all of me.
Maybe it’s the fact it’s been so long since I’ve been with a guy, or maybe it’s just him.
The masculinity of him, the raw heat, the power, and the fact that even when I know I would never be stupid enough to trust him long term or want anything more from him than this, I do trust him, in the here and now.
I trust him not to hurt me, in any way. It’s a safe space, a place to explore this, and excitement bubbles just beneath my skin, especially when he groans into the phone then rapidly slams the receiver into the cradle and just throws his head back in complete abandon.
‘Bailey …’
Is that how I sounded when he was going down on me?
Wild and unhinged, totally lost to everything and anything?
I move my mouth faster, taking his whole length as far as I can, hitching him at the back of my throat then pulling away, again and again, until a curse hisses from between his lips and his hands are pushing beneath my arms, lifting me up, and his mouth is seeking mine, his hard cock jutting against my stomach as he lifts me and kisses me, pushing me back to the bed and coming over me, his movements frantic and commanding, the heat between us blowing out of control now, leaving me with no sense of anything but this fucking moment, and this fucking man.
‘You are …’ He stares at me, frowning, lost for words, and I grin, because I really, really like that I can do that to him.
‘Yeah?’
I move my hands down his stomach slowly to his cock, and curve them around his rock-solid length.
He shudders, eyes slamming shut. I stare up at him, ignoring the heaviness in my body, just enjoying this.
‘Beau?’
His eyes fire open, chest shifting visibly with the force of his breath.
‘Yeah?’
‘Fuck me.’
‘No, Bailey, you started this.’ His eyes are steady, holding mine. ‘You fuck me.’
Seconds later, after he’s ripped a condom from the packet and rolled it down as quickly as humanly possible, he moves to sitting on the edge of the bed, dragging me over him so I straddle his lap and do just what he said.
He is mine, and the pleasure is mine to dish out, at my pace, in my hands, my control.
The power is as thrilling as it is addictive, only I’d never be stupid enough to get addicted to riding Beau Donovan.
I’m in the shower when the room service is dropped off, so by the time I pad out wrapped in a hotel robe, Beau’s pulling lids off bowls and plates to reveal enough food to feed a family of ten.
‘Umm, are we expecting company? Maybe the whole tour?’
He winks at me. ‘You ever seen a cowboy eat?’
I pull a face and gesture to the table. It’s practically groaning under the weight of his food. ‘You’re telling me you can dispose of all that?’
‘You gonna put it in your article if I say yes?’
‘Maybe. I mean, it’s a human-interest piece and this is definitely interesting.’
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Then, sure. I doubt we’re going to be sending scraps back to the kitchen. What’ll you have?’ He waves to the table, beckoning me over, and I hesitate for the briefest moment before closing the distance between us.
The shower was restorative and sobering. Some of the mania has dispersed, leaving me with a serious question mark in my mind over what the hell I’m doing.
At the arena today, I knew I had to have him. I knew that I would regret not reaching out and taking this opportunity with both hands. But I can’t ignore the fact that this was very, very out of character.
‘Wait up, Bailey.’
I stop walking and look around—am I about to stand on something?
Confused, I furrow my brow and look back at his face. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re overthinking.’
My jaw drops. How the hell can he know what’s in my mind?
‘It’s as clear as day on your face. It’s just sex. And this is just dinner. Got it?’
I press my lips together. ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ I say, infusing my tone with a breeziness I don’t feel.
He laughs. ‘Keep working on it,’ he suggests. ‘Burger?’
It looks mouth-wateringly good. ‘Thanks.’
I take it with me to the end of the bed, sitting down with my legs crossed, then placing the plate on my lap.
‘Stop freaking out.’
I stare at him, contemplate denying it again, shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m trying.’
He moves to the counter that runs beside the window and lifts the wine glass I’d poured earlier, bringing it over to me. I take a long drink, then place it on the carpet.
‘You know what will help?’ I ask as I take a bite. It’s huge but delicious. Mayonnaise leaks out and down the side of my mouth. I wipe it with the back of my hand, but a second later Beau’s handing me a pile of napkins. Heat flushes my skin pink.
‘What will help, Bailey James?’
I contemplate telling him why I don’t love the way he keeps using my surname, then decide not to.
The thing is, I actually do kind of like it, because he’s the only person who says it like he finds it irresistible.
Everyone else does it like a nepo-baby thing, but not Beau.
He has no idea who my dad is, and I love that.
‘Let me interview you.’
He sits down on one of the chairs, his legs spread wide. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a big white shirt, and he looks better than perfect. ‘Okay, fine. Shoot.’
The way he says ‘shoot’ makes me feel like he means it almost literally.
‘It won’t hurt.’
His jaw clenches and I almost burst out laughing. This side of him is so incongruous with the Beau I feel like I’ve gotten to know through the clips online.
‘What’s the matter, cowboy? Worried I’m gonna rattle out some skeletons from your closet?’
His eyes latch onto mine and my breath catches in my throat as I feel some heavy, silent communication from him. Something he’s holding back, yet also wants to tell me.
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I’ve seen you tackle a bull with your bare hands, remember?’
His response is to lift his own burger and take a big bite. He manages it way better than I did—no messy mayonnaise squishing down his chin.
‘How’d you get into bull riding?’
He visibly relaxes at my softball question. ‘I barely remember. I grew up on a ranch. We all rode horses, then bulls.’
‘So your parents were behind you?’
‘Knowing how to do it, sure. Occasionally, at home. But not competitively.’
I nod thoughtfully, take another bite of the burger, then swallow. ‘What did your parents want you to do?’
His grin drops a little. ‘I have no idea.’
‘But not this?’
He hesitates a moment, a muscle jerking low in his jaw. ‘No. Not this.’
‘Anything but this?’ I push, trying to get a handle on how much opposition he faced at home.
He places his burger down carefully, wipes his fingers on a napkin, taking his time while choosing his words. ‘My mother died a long time before I went pro. I was just a kid. Obsessed with bull riding, but I reckon she thought I’d outgrow it.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘How old were you when you joined the tour?’
‘The first time? Twenty-one.’
I put the plate on the end of the bed then cross the room to my handbag, pulling out my notepad and bringing it back with me. I scribble down his age. I know I’ve got that in my notes, but somehow hearing this from him just makes it all land differently.
‘And what about your dad?’
He expels a breath then smiles, but it’s tight. Maybe a few days ago I would have bought the nonchalant act, but I see through it easily now. ‘The ranch was his life.’
It’s a partial answer. I tap the pen against my notepad. ‘And he wanted it to be your life too?’
There’s a tightness around his jaw that shows me I’m right; he’s holding something back. I keep my own expression relaxed.
‘I think he’d have liked that, yeah. Better than this, anyway.’ Another flippant grin that doesn’t make his eyes crinkle. ‘How about you, Bay Jay?’
I laugh. ‘Seriously? That’s not happening.’
Now his grin is more genuine.
‘What about me?’ I take a bite of my burger, then wipe my hands on a napkin.
‘Did you always want to be a journalist?’
It’s my turn to freeze, a forced smile plastered to my face. ‘Ugh, pass.’
‘Pass? Is that an option?’
I grimace. ‘For me, yes. Not so much you.’
‘Why is it so hard to answer?’
The detritus of my plans litters my mind.
My hopes and effort, all my hard work. Reflexively, I shift my foot, thinking of the injury that sidelined me from the first love of my life.
‘No,’ I say eventually. I don’t generally talk about the dreams I once held.
Everyone just presumes that journalism was always my goal, given who my father is, but the truth is I ran pretty hard and fast away from this.
‘No?’ He shovels some fries into his mouth; his Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. I stare at his throat, thinking that even that part of him seems somehow strong.
‘I didn’t always want to be a journalist.’
He nods, serious now, serious in a way I suspect he isn’t often, then reaches for a handful of fries. I take one of mine, eat it slowly, thoughtfully.
‘Probably around the same age you fell in love with bull riding, I fell in love with dancing.’
His eyes narrow but I barely notice. In my mind, I’m back in my childhood living room, watching a performance of The Nutcracker Suite on TV. ‘Actually, I think I might have been younger. My parents like to say that as soon as I could walk I could plié.’
He’s watching me intently, but I don’t mind.
If anything, the heat of his gaze is focusing my thoughts, making it all feel more tangible.
I don’t talk about this often, because the grief is something I live alongside.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get over the life I had to walk away from. Maybe I don’t want to.
‘You’re a dancer?’
‘I was a dancer,’ I correct, the pang in my heart almost taking my breath away. ‘I started lessons at four. By thirteen, I was flying to New York to train with world-class ballet productions.’ My smile is wistful. ‘My whole life was ballet, until it wasn’t.’
He’s quiet, eyes resting on me. ‘I was offered a place at one of the most prestigious dance schools on the east coast,’ I murmur.
‘It was the happiest day of my life. But then, that summer, I was cast in a production of Romeo and Juliet, and I began to feel this godawful pain in my foot. I can’t describe it.
I danced through it for a couple of nights, terrified to tell anyone, but then one day I could barely even walk.
’ I focus my gaze on Beau’s face. ‘I was diagnosed with a chronic metatarsal stress fracture. It was devastating.’
‘What does that mean?’
I sigh heavily. ‘It means I can’t ever dance again.’ I shake my head quickly. ‘No, that’s not entirely accurate. I can dance, like you might dance or whatever, but I’ll never be able to do pointe work. It meant I had to kiss goodbye to the only thing I’d ever wanted to be.’
He makes a growl, rich with feeling, with sympathy, and for once, I just let it wash over me.
‘It wasn’t a job, Beau, it was in here.’ I press my fingers to my chest. ‘It was my identity. I was a ballerina. And then, I wasn’t.’
He stands up, reminding me forcibly of his size, and holds out a hand to me. ‘Show me.’
The words land between us, not making any sense. I frown, watching as he reaches for the remote control and turns up the volume on the TV. The music station I’d put on earlier fills the room with the strains of a slow country song, moody, croony singing wrapping around me.
‘Come and show me how you can dance now, beautiful.’
My heart stammers, but I’m standing, my body moving almost of its own accord, my heart in my throat as I put my hand in his and tell myself this doesn’t mean anything. He’s just a guy, I’m just a reporter here to interview him, and this? This is just one little dance.