Chapter Three
The horse barn tack room was a sanctuary where horseshoes, saddles, ropes, and lassos were tools of the trade. Cassidy had fond memories of learning to care for horses there. It was also where she’d first thought about being a rodeo star when she grew up.
Cassidy, the grown-up and former rodeo performer, now stood at the wooden workbench, her hands working in a mechanical rhythm that bordered on violence. She dipped a heavy rag into a tin of neatsfoot oil and scrubbed it into the dry leather of a western saddle.
The smell, a heavy mix of oil, horse sweat, and dust, was thick in the air. It was a scent Cassidy equated with hard work. With the passing of each hour, she knew she was losing this way of life that she coveted.
She pressed down hard on the leather until her knuckles turned white. She imagined she was scrubbing away the image of Sterling Thorne’s cold blue eyes and the memory of his hand on her throat.
The saddle stirrups dangled like dead weights from the wooden buck. It belonged to Rusty, the oldest gelding on the ranch. Rusty was leaving on Thursday. He was being shipped off to a riding academy in Montana simply because he was a liability on a spreadsheet.
Cassidy bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.
The morning light filtered through the single grimy window.
The dust motes danced in the stagnant air, but every speck of dust made the room look more grim.
The room was cluttered with generations of debris.
Bridles hung from hooks on the walls, their silver bits tarnished.
Reins were tangled like snakes in a basket.
She had come here to hide, to work until her arms ached and her brain shut down. But the anger was a living hot and sharp inside her chest, clawing at her ribs with every breath.
She grabbed a stiff-bristled brush and attacked the fleece lining of the saddle pad, producing a harsh, rasping noise that echoed off the rough-hewn timber walls. Still, she scrubbed until her shoulder burned and she couldn’t feel her fingers.
She did not hear the door open; the heavy latch was silent. Then the quality of the light changed, and a shadow fell across the workbench, blotting out the sun.
She knew then she was no longer alone. Cassidy froze, the brush hovering over the fleece.
She did not turn around because her body already knew who it was. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the drafty room raced down her spine.
“You are damaging the material,” a deep voice said.
Cassidy closed her eyes for a second and took a breath. Only after she forced her heart to beat at a normal rhythm did she turn.
Sterling Thorne stood in the doorway.
His presence seemed absurd in the tack room—a creature of glass and steel standing in a box of wood and dirt. He was wearing the same immaculate midnight blue suit without a speck of dust on the lapel, like he had just stepped out of a climate-controlled New York City boardroom.
He was watching her hands clinically.
“If you apply that much pressure to the fleece,” he said, “you will tear the backing. That renders the equipment worthless for resale.”
“Resale.” To Cassidy, the word tasted like bile. “Is that all you see? Price tags?”
She turned back and slammed the brush down on the bench.
“I am cleaning it,” she said tightly. “I am trying to make sure the horses have decent gear when you ship them off.”
“The academy is well funded,” Sterling said, stepping into the room.
The space instantly felt smaller. He sucked up the oxygen, displacing the air.
“And the animals will be fed,” he continued. “Which is more than I can say for their current situation.”
Cassidy spun around dripping oil from the rag onto the floorboards.
“They are happy here,” she snapped. “They are loved.”
“Love does not pay for hay,” Sterling retorted.
He slowly walked toward her, examining a hanging bridle as he passed. He lifted a rein with one finger, noticed the dry rot, and let it drop with a look of distaste.
“You are sentimental, which makes you weak,” he observed. “You cling to objects because of what they represent rather than what they are.”
“I am loyal,” Cassidy corrected and took a step forward even though she was shaking again. “But I guess loyalty isn’t a line item on your spreadsheet.”
Sterling stopped five feet away and looked directly at her.
“Loyalty is a variable,” he said coolly. “It has a value. But in this case, the cost of maintaining that loyalty exceeds the potential return. Therefore, it is a bad investment.”
He spoke as if he were explaining gravity to a toddler.
“You are cruel,” Cassidy whispered. “You come here and tear everything apart. You don’t care about the history or who gets hurt.”
“I care about the bottom line,” Sterling said, “but cruelty is intentional malice. I have no malice toward you, Cassidy. I simply have a schedule.”
“Screw your schedule!” Cassidy shouted.
The sound of her voice rang in the small room, but Sterling did not flinch or even blink. He just watched her. His stillness was terrifying, like a wolf waiting for a deer to bolt.
“Your emotional outbursts are becoming tiresome,” he said softly.
“Then leave,” Cassidy pointed to the door. “Get out of my tack room. Get off my ranch.”
“My ranch,” Sterling said.
His correction snapped something inside her. She wanted to shove him and that arrogant suit out the door and into the mud, maybe wipe that calm expression off his face.
Cassidy lunged without thinking, storming toward him with her hands raised to push against his chest.
“Move!” she ordered. When her hands made contact with his lapels, it was like shoving a brick wall. He didn’t budge or rock back on his heels.
Instead, his hands shot out in a blur of motion, and he caught her wrists in an iron grip. His fingers wrapped around her bones and locked her in place, not hurting her but definitely stopping her cold.
Cassidy gasped and tried to yank her hands back, but he held fast.
“Let go,” she hissed.
“No,” Sterling said.
He stepped forward, using his weight to drive her back. Cassidy stumbled, and her boots skidded on the dusty floorboards. She retreated one step…two steps.
“You want to fight,” Sterling said, his voice a low rumble in his chest that vibrated through her arms. “You have been wanting to fight me since I got out of the car yesterday.”
“I hate you,” Cassidy spat. She struggled against his hold trying to twist her wrists. It was useless; he was too strong.
“Good,” Sterling said, driving her back again.
Cassidy’s back hit the metal saddle racks, and the bars dug into her spine. She was trapped.
Sterling pressed in, not stopping until his body was flush against hers. The contact was a shock to her system.
He was hard everywhere. His chest was a solid wall against her breasts. His thighs were heavy and thick against hers. The heat coming off him was an inferno burning through his Armani wool suit and her thin flannel shirt.
Cassidy looked up at him and her breath hitched in her throat.
His eyes were dark, but the ice was gone. In its place was something hot and dangerous. He wasn’t looking at her like an asset anymore. He was looking at her like a meal.
“You want to fight,” he repeated, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. “But that isn’t all you want.”
“Get off me.” Cassidy’s heart was hammering against her ribs.
“Make me,” Sterling challenged.
He released her wrists, but he didn’t step away. His hands swept down to her waist and he gripped her hips, digging into the denim of her jeans. He pulled her forward and ground his hips against hers.
Cassidy choked on a gasp.
There was no mistaking it. He was hard—thick and heavy against her belly. The ridge of his cock pressed against her through the layers of clothing.
It should have terrified her and made her run, but Cassidy felt liquid heat pooling in her core, heavy and molten. Then her body betrayed her instantly as it dripped down her thighs. Her nipples hardened against her shirt.
“You feel it,” Sterling growled. “Don’t you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer and crashed his mouth down on hers.
His lips were hard and demanding, tasting of coffee and power. He didn’t ask for entrance, he took it. His tongue swept into her mouth and stroked against hers with a rhythmic, arrogant possession.
She should have bitten him and pushed him away. Instead, Cassidy made a whimpering sound in her throat and grabbed his lapels, bunching the expensive fabric in her fists.
She pulled him closer and opened her mouth to him, meeting his tongue with her own. She kissed him back with all the rage and frustration that had been building in the last twenty-four hours.
Sterling let out a deep, guttural moan and shifted his grip on her hips to lift her.
Cassidy was light in his arms and went up easily.
He sat her on the edge of the saddle rack, and her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.
She locked her ankles behind his back and pulled him into the cradle of her thighs.
He filled the space between her legs, stretching her open. Cassidy noted he was huge everywhere. Even through his trousers he felt massive.
Sterling broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Then he bit down lightly on the sensitive area where her pulse was fluttering like a trapped moth.
“You taste like trouble,” he muttered against her skin.
“Shut up,” Cassidy heaved. She arched her back and pressed herself against him; she needed more pressure.
Sterling’s hand moved from her hip to between her legs. He cupped her crotch through her worn, faded jeans. His palm was hot as he pressed the heel of his hand against her mound and ground down.
The sensation was sharp and exquisite as the rough denim rubbed against her swollen clit. Cassidy cried out. It was too much, yet she craved more.