2. Evie
Evie
I wasn’t sure I’d be brave enough to ask for what I wanted.
The answer turns out to be yes as the words leave my mouth.
Gabriel’s mismatched eyes darken—one blue, one green—and I feel it low in my stomach, a hot pulse that makes my thighs press together under the bar.
I want his hands on me. I want the weight of that quiet, careful strength.
I’ve wanted it since I first caught him watching me from the rail like I was the only thing in the arena that mattered.
Most of the cowboys in this bar are still buzzing from the arena, hats tilted at an angle that means “look at me,” voices a half-notch too loud.
But not this man.
He’s big through the shoulders and long through the legs. Dark hair that curls at his nape. Firm jaw, high cheekbones. A man who takes up space without announcing it.
Gabriel’s been careful with me all night. Paying attention the whole time to what I say and what I don’t. When I stop talking, he doesn’t fill it. When I laugh, he doesn’t push for more. When my hand brushes his, he goes still but doesn’t move away.
He said the best run of the night, like a man who wasn’t trying to get anything out of it.
I’m not unused to compliments. You win enough times, you get used to people telling you that you’re good, and you learn to absorb it without it landing. But with Gabriel, it lands because he makes me feel like he sees the woman beneath the barrel racer.
And somehow, that’s far more dangerous.
The circuit is loud and temporary. You win, you collect, you drive on.
People only stay long enough to see what you can do on a horse, and then they’re gone.
I taught myself not to want more than that.
But tonight I want this—his careful attention, the heat under all that restraint—for a few private hours.
No strings. No tomorrow. Just once, to be wanted without the titles or the dirt under my nails or the next trailer hitch waiting.
That’s why I say, “I have a room. At the motel off the highway.”
He goes still, his mismatched eyes holding mine.
My courage almost flees. Almost. “I want this. If you do.”
He pauses, not rushing his answer. “Are you sure?”
Somehow, I know he’s not asking for appearances’ sake. He’s asking because the answer matters to him. Because if I said no right now, he wouldn’t push, not even a little. I’d walk out of this bar, and he’d let me go.
But you don’t want him to let you go.
No, I don’t, and that’s the scary part.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”
Gabriel nods. He leaves money on the table that covers both our drinks and tips Emmett without being seen.
Then he holds the door—he doesn’t put his hand on the small of my back the way men do when they’re claiming a thing; he just holds it open—and we walk out into the Montana night with a foot of cool air between us and the whole dark sky overhead.
The parking lot is quiet. My truck is by the fence.
Somehow, despite all the empty spaces, his is parked next to mine. I choose not to examine that coincidence too closely.
He follows me, and five minutes later we’re at the motel. The door barely clicks shut behind us before the careful restraint we’ve both been holding cracks.
Gabriel crowds me against the wall, not rough but intent, one big hand sliding to my waist like he’s been dying to touch me all night.
His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is immediate, deep, and starving.
A low sound escapes me—half moan, half relief—and he drinks it down, tongue stroking against mine until my knees turn to liquid.
He tastes like beer and heat and something darker that makes me ache.
“Still sure?” he murmurs roughly against my lips.
I answer by tugging his shirt free and running my hands up the hard plane of his stomach. His muscles jump under my palms. “Stop asking and touch me.”
That’s all it takes.
He strips me slowly, like he wants to savor every part he unwraps.
My shirt, then my bra—his mouth closing hot and wet over one nipple while his hand palms the other.
I arch into him with a sharp gasp, heat flooding between my legs so fast it makes me dizzy.
Every flick of his tongue sends sparks straight down my spine.
My fingers fist in his dark hair, holding him there as I grind against the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans.
“Gabriel—” His name comes out breathless.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me to the bed and laying me down. Then he takes his time, discovering my body with his hands and mouth as if he’s memorizing every inch. When he peels my jeans and panties down, the cool air hits my soaked center, and I shiver. His eyes flare at the sight.
“Fuck, Evie,” he breathes.
He spreads my thighs and settles between them, shoulders holding me open.
The first slow drag of his tongue over my clit rips a cry from my throat.
He doesn’t rush—long, slow strokes, sucking gently, then firmer, reading every twitch and moan like a map.
Two thick fingers slide inside me, curling just right, and the stretch is so good it borders on too much.
Pleasure coils tight and vicious in my core.
I come hard, back bowing off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as white heat explodes through me. He works me through it, gentling his tongue until I’m shaking and oversensitive.
Too much. Too good. This was supposed to be simple.
Then he rises over me, shedding the rest of his clothes. He’s beautiful—broad shoulders, corded arms, heavy cock flushed dark and leaking. My mouth goes dry with fresh want.
He rolls on a condom with steady hands, then braces above me, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
It’s not. I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him in.
The first push is a slow, burning stretch that steals my breath. He’s thick, and I feel every inch as he sinks deep, groaning low in his chest. The sound vibrates through me. For a second, we just stay there—joined, breathing each other in.
Then he starts to move.
It’s devastating.
Deep, rolling thrusts that hit something inside me I didn’t know existed.
Every stroke drags pleasure through my whole body.
I cling to his back, nails digging in, meeting him thrust for thrust as sweat slicks our skin.
The room fills with the wet sounds of sex—broken moans, his low curses when I clench around him.
He shifts his angle, and suddenly it’s perfect. I cry out, heels digging into his ass as another orgasm crashes over me, harder than the first. Gabriel curses, his pace turning rougher, more desperate, chasing his own release while I’m still pulsing around him.
He comes with a guttural groan, hips jerking, face buried in my neck.
We stay locked together afterward, hearts hammering. The weight of him is perfect. The quiet that settles over us feels easy and comfortable—which already feels like a problem.
The second time is slower. His chest against my back as he takes me from behind, one hand working between my legs, rubbing tight circles on my clit while he fucks me deep and steady—unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be.
Afterward, I lie awake while he sleeps.
I watch the ceiling, then his face. In sleep, he looks softer, younger; that careful control finally relaxed. One hand rests on the mattress between us like an invitation I’m trying not to accept. My body is deliciously sore, marked by his mouth and hands, and my chest feels dangerously full.
I built tonight to be simple. One night. No strings.
Lying here with his scent on my skin and his cum still warm between my thighs, I realize we didn’t use a condom the second time. Panic flickers—brief and sharp—then I shut it down. Timing’s wrong. It’ll be okay.
Still, I already know the rules I insisted on are too small to contain what happened tonight.
This was supposed to be a careful man who looked at me like I mattered for a few hours.
But the way he asked every single time if I was sure, the way he took me apart and put me back together like he had all night and nowhere better to be…
it got under my skin. It already feels like more than I can carry on the road tomorrow.
I slip out before dawn—boots in hand, keys ready, truck starting quietly in the dark blue hush. I don’t leave a note. The rules didn’t allow for one.
I only look in the rearview once.
Then I put both hands on the wheel, set my jaw, and drive.