Twenty-Two | Colson
“How can you ride that well after drinking so much last night?” Harlow questions, pressing a button on the control panel.
I attempt to catch my breath as the mechanical bull comes to a slow stop, but the respite doesn’t keep my heart from thundering behind my ribs.
Luckily, I don’t wake up hungover very often, and this morning was no different. I’m wide awake and painfully aware of each part of the conversation that transpired between Harlow and me last night on the couch. Right down to the part where I admitted how beautiful she is.
I meant every word. I just wish it hadn’t come out with the scent of alcohol blended with the admission.
She hasn’t brought it up. I don’t think she will. Knowing how stubborn she is, I bet she’s trying her hardest to forget it happened.
But I won’t. I can’t.
Last night felt all too easy as her warmth bled through my clothes, flesh, and to the marrow of my bones.
I want to feel her again. I want to touch Harlow in all the ways I shouldn’t to see if she’d react the same as she did last night when she watched my fingers skim across her leg to that delicious dip where her thigh meets her pelvis.
I had enough whiskey to knock my ass out, but I can’t shake the feeling that something wants me to remember how she felt in my arms. The touch was innocent …
enough. The longer I think about it, last night’s interaction wedged a crowbar between something so solid between us that has existed for the last several years.
Somehow, it’s starting to fracture the animosity and indifference that built our rivalry.
It’s cracking our core, and where we go from here is as unpredictable as the seconds we chase.
I swing my leg over the mechanical bull, stand, and pull off my glove. “I’m old, remember? I can handle my liquor.” I hop off the soft platform and onto the dusty, old wooden floor of the barn. “I’m going to take that as a compliment, though.”
Her smile grows, but she wipes it away just as quickly. “It wasn’t.”
“Sounded like one to me,” I quip.
She solidifies her artificial scowl as she repeats, “You’re old, remember. You may be able to handle your alcohol better with age, but your ears aren’t as good as they once were.”
I jab my finger into her side, forgetting she has her riding vest on. She yelps, jumping out of the way anyway. “You’re such a brat sometimes.”
“It’s your fault.” She chuckles, the sound as bright as the sun seeping through the cracks in the roof panels above us. “You’re the only one who brings that side out of me.”
“Might want to take that back,” I warn. “I kind of like it when you tell me I’m the only one who makes you feel a certain way. Things like that go straight to my head.”
Both heads, but she doesn’t need to know that.
She shakes her head, softly laughing. The sound is so sweet, reminding me of the warm honey I drenched my biscuits in that she made this morning.
“Time to ride, dust bunny. Show me that you kept up with the training I gave you while you were gone.” There’s an itch in my fingertips to slap her perfect ass in those brown leather chaps over her boot-cut jeans to get her moving. I settle for clenching my fists at my side to battle the urge.
“I did,” she reassures.
“I don’t doubt you.”
She grins at that and steps onto the platform. She adjusts her glove, resituates the bull rope to her standard, tosses a leg over the body, and rolls her hips to center herself.
I’ve seen riders do that same motion a million times.
Hell, I do it myself. The way Harlow does it is so controlled and erotic that I move behind the control table to hide my growing erection pressing against my zipper.
With the way chaps look against my groin, she would surely notice the bulge in my pants.
Doesn’t help that I keep replaying what it felt like to touch her last night.
“With this first one, remember to breathe,” I remind her. “And don’t overpredict the movements you think it’s going to make. Listen to your body and be aware of the one moving under you.”
Her eyes widen, and she clears her throat.
Fuck. Why does everything carry a sexual connotation now?
We’re fucking professionals for God’s sake.
Last night changed something between us, and by the way she nods hesitantly, she feels it too. The tension that was between us is now vibrating, waiting to snap and mark us both.
I’m just trying to do my job and coach her, goddammit. Now, I have such a painful hard-on that I’m going to have blue balls later if I don’t choke my cock with my fingers after this.
She takes her time getting her grip just right and raises her free hand in the air.
“Ready?” I ask.
Harlow gives a nod, and I turn it on, studying her movements as it ramps up to the most advanced level.
It spins and bucks, starting in one direction.
She gets used to going counterclockwise, but Harlow gets caught off guard when it suddenly switches.
To the untrained eye, you would think she is breathing, but I notice the moment she stops.
It’s the same second Harlow loses her control.
Her balance wavers, and she struggles to catch up with the machine’s movements.
“You’re not breathing,” I raise my voice. “You’re leaning forward too much!”
It’s too late; she’s thrown off and tumbles to the padded platform, lying there face up for a moment before slamming her fist into it in frustration.
“This is bullshit! I was fine at home. I was focused on breathing and matched the movements move for move.” She huffs out a breath.
“When I’m here, I keep trying to imagine those rides and how they felt.
This time, instead of overpredicting what movement it was going to make next, like I usually do, I fell behind. ”
I grin.
She jumps up and crosses her arms over her riding vest. Her tone has a sharp edge. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Because you realized your own issue.” I gesture to her.
“You can’t think about those other rides; none of them is this one.
I’ve won two World Finals, and never once have I thought about those rides when I get on the back of a different bull.
You’re going to keep setting yourself up for failure if you don’t train yourself to realize that every other ride you’ve ever had in your career doesn’t matter—even the best ones.
And the worst ones.” I put focus on that part.
Harlow blinks slowly, processing my words. She stands unmoving for a few moments, blowing out a long breath that seems to have her muscles relaxing, before she gives me a firm nod. “Okay. I want to go again.”
“Atta girl,” I praise.
Those bright fucking eyes that I catch myself staring at far longer than usual dart between mine. There’s something dancing there, and though I try to dissect the look, I can’t.
My brows dip. “What?”
She wets her lips, and they lift into a soft smile. “Aaron used to say that to me.”
Well shit. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No. No.” She waves me off, swinging her leg over the machine again to get comfortable. “It just makes you feel more like my coach now.”
My mouth curves, her response putting me at ease.
I analyze her posture as she threads her hand through the bull rope and grips it tightly.
I turn it to the lowest level, watching her wait patiently for it to speed up.
The look of confusion that crosses her face when she realizes the speed is stationary rather than increasing is priceless.
Harlow keeps her free hand in the air, but she looks like a child riding one of those kiddie machines you would slip a coin into at the grocery store. But this is important for my next lesson.
I leave it on, hop up onto the platform, and approach her side as she slowly rides.
“Uh—what are you doing?”
“I need to show you something, and it’s easier this way.” Her brows furrow with her uncertainty. “Do you trust me?”
She swallows nervously before giving me a gentle nod.
I place one hand on top of hers, clinging to the bull rope, and move my other hand directly behind her on the hide where she’s sitting.
With the movement of the machine, my hand slightly brushes her ass.
She audibly sucks in a breath at the slight contact—so do I.
And I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t trying to seek out a way to touch her.
To see if she’d still react to me like she did last night on the couch when that electric current flowed smoothly between us like there was never a severed connection to begin with.
“Alright.” I ignore the sensation zipping between us. “At this pace, do you feel the friction of its body underneath you?”
“Yes,” Harlow murmurs.
“At this pace, do you feel the way you fluidly move with it?” Why the hell is my voice so gravelly?
Her body moves back and forth slowly, and I absentmindedly splay my fingers across the small of her back slightly above her ass, grinding my teeth at the warmth that shoots through my hand and up my arm.
Desire rushes to my dick when I see the way blood floods to her chest and cheeks.
Am I making note that she isn’t squirming away from me? Yes.
Was this a fucking horrible idea? Also, yes.
Now I’m thinking how perfectly the swells of her ass would fit in the palms of my hands. How beautiful she would look riding my thick cock if roles were reversed and she was on top of me instead.
I release her, taking off my hat to cool myself down as I head back to the control panel—the entire time feeling her eyes follow me.
She knows I’m turned on. And by the way she was releasing those little, breathy gasps that I wanted to swallow by claiming her mouth with mine, I know she’s turned on, too.
It’s kind of the perfect distraction she needs to push past.
I shouldn’t do it, but I want her to see what she does to me.
I turn up the mechanical bull to the beginner level.
It’s enough to have her focus on her form, but not anywhere near enough to toss her off.
I lean against the table and fold my arms over my sternum, not hiding the erection behind my jeans this time.
Her eyes fall to the outline of my cock, her chest going unnaturally still.
This might work in my favor.
“You’re not breathing,” I point out.
She blows out a panicky laugh. “And you know why.”
“I do,” I agree, trying to keep the shit-eating grin from appearing. “Here in a second, I’m going to turn this up until we’re at the max. Don’t let me distract you. Find something else to think about.” Besides what you’re doing to me. “Focus only on this ride, your body, and your breathing.”
She closes her eyes and blows out a breath before drawing in another one. When Harlow’s eyes fly open, I know it’s game time. The solid wall of pure determination set in her gaze is mesmerizing.
Fulfilling in a way I’ve never experienced.
I could fucking watch this determined look in her eyes all day.
I speed it up, watching her stay centered and move fluidly. When it ramps up to full speed, bucking and spinning out of control, she makes it look effortless.
“Yes!” I cheer, knowing damn well she’s so focused she can’t hear me, but I decide to do it anyway.
I should be focused on her skill—her agility. Should, yet it doesn’t mean I do.
Not when she grinds against the body in a way that has a raging inferno pumping flames across my limbs and to my dick. Her form is near perfect, and yet all I can focus on is the way her hips roll back and forth. My groin throbs, and an onslaught of images rushes me at once.
Harlow’s blonde hair wrapped around my fist as I thrust my hips into her from behind.
Harlow on top of me as I clutch her hips in my hands as she rolls her body, sliding my cock in and out of her tight pussy with the same determination that infects her veins when she rides a bull.
And those lips …
Fuuuck.
She’s probably a perfect little cocksucker because Harlow Hartt doesn’t half-ass anything.
I should’ve known these thoughts would be dangerous in more ways than one. The image of her kneeling and staring up at me with watery baby blues flashes across my vision, and it’s my undoing.
I don’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late. I grunt as my dick pulses in my jeans, my muscles contracting with the shock of euphoria that obliterates my system. My eyes widen as I feel my release coat my stomach and wet my boxers.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t had sex in what feels like forever. I’m a man. Of course, I jack off. But nothing has ever felt quite like that. And I was imagining it.
Goddamn, I am fucking old.
My muscles solidify, forcing my body not to show the signs of my climax as I swallow the groan trying to escape.
Unlike the last time when she was thrown off, she leaps and lands, quickly regaining her balance. When she stands up, her smile is so contagious that I can’t help but laugh at the hold this girl is starting to have on me in a way I never could’ve predicted.
Harlow’s probably thinking about how she’s getting back on track to make a name for herself. While I, on the other hand, am cursing myself for how fucking screwed I am.