Page 6 of Maverick (The Bull Riders #3)

Chapter Three

Maverick

When I wake up in the morning, it’s on a gasp.

Like that last breath a person takes in before they die.

It’s because I hear someone moving around the kitchen. Making coffee. Domestic noises.

I’m staring at the inside of my hat, and that’s when last night comes back to me.

Stella Lane. That stupid girl.

Pretty . Very, very dumb.

I take my hat off my face, and see her standing against the counter, wearing tight sleep shorts and a waffle print long sleeve top.

For a moment, I just want to lie there. I want to indulge in the sound of her making coffee and in the shape of her ass.

Because it’s been a long time since… A lot of things.

She’s a virgin. She told me that last night.

She’s also reckless, dumb, and na?ve. The virgin thing at least explains that. And actually, explains why she thought it was a good idea to bargain herself away for the evening, because only somebody who hasn’t had anonymous sex before would jump straight into that. Well, that wasn’t true.

Plenty of people could convince themselves that was a good time. I’ve done it. Not for ages.

You can lie to yourself. You can convince yourself that you’re not leaving pieces of yourself wrapped up in every blanket you roll out of after one of those encounters, but it’s a fucked-up mess.

I know the difference between sex for the sake of it and sex because you’re building something with another person.

Not that all casual sex is bad, it’s just…

Betting yourself in a poker game is a bad idea. And it’s a risk especially for women. Because God knows those men might not be worried about her pleasure at all.

The very idea of either of those men having her bent over the counter in the morning, hand pressed between her shoulder blades while they pump inside of her, staring at that gorgeous ass…

“Good morning,” I say, anything to stop myself from having that fantasy.

“Oh,” she says, turning around, and dammit, it’s not any better to look at her from the front. I can see her nipples through that top, and…

She’s got that athletic build that I like.

A nice balance between toned and soft. She’s an athlete.

A damn good one. Her ride last night notwithstanding.

I wonder if that’s what created the whole situation.

Clearly, she was pissed off about that, though it seems like betting your body is an overreaction.

I can’t imagine that she’s going to make it to the championship this year. Knocking over barrels like that…

She’s still in the middle of the pack, but I’ve been on the circuit with her long enough to know that’s not good enough for her. Nor is it normal.

I have an awareness of her. I have for a while.

Well, awareness is an understatement. Three years ago, when I decided I had to get it together and get back into things, I saw her leading her horse across the lot, and it was like my body suddenly remembered what lust was.

I don’t know what it was. I can’t take the feeling and spin it into words. It’s like a gold thread that lassoed me then and there and hasn’t let up.

It was unwelcome , then as it is now.

She’s unwelcome. Bottom line.

I ask myself right then what I would’ve done if Holt or Cade had won.

Well, I would’ve been in a fight. That’s all there is to it. And maybe that’s bullshit. Because I wasn’t going to take her either. But I wouldn’t have been able to stand one of them having her just because they won her.

If Stella wanted another man, I’d let her go to him with my blessing and be grateful that little handful was tied up and out of my hair.

But knowing that she bet herself, that she didn’t especially want either of them, that’s what I wouldn’t be able to stand.

So I tell myself.

“Morning,” she says. “Coffee?”

“That is mighty nice of you,” I say.

She looks like she wants to punch me.

Fair enough. I’ve been told I’m punchable.

More than once.

True, I think. I was a little shit when I was a kid, running around my small town in Idaho, causing chaos, stealing bags of chips out of the grocery store, and eating them down by the river all by myself while my mom sank deeper and deeper into her drug-fueled haze.

Then I got into fights. Oh lord, I’d fight. With anyone and everyone who looked at me wrong. All that anger so spiky and untamed inside of me had to come out, or I’d explode.

I was completely wild until I got into the after-school rodeo program in high school. Adrenaline, risking life and limb, and a chance to make some money doing it gave me focus. I even almost made some friends. Almost.

What can I say? I’m a difficult bastard at the best of times, and these have not been the best of times.

As Stella is discovering.

And I intend to draw this out. Because this is a life lesson. I’m older than she is. I’ve done a lot more living. I can recognize a train wreck when I see one coming.

This girl needs to check herself before she wrecks herself.

I’m familiar.

And if she has to contend with me— and the irritation of the consequence of what she did last night, rather than a disappointing sexual encounter— she can count her blessings.

Of course, if we’d fucked, it would’ve been good.

My brain goes blank for a moment. Letting myself think about something like that is so foreign now that the thought short-circuits me for a second, honest to God.

The idea of taking Stella and laying her down on the bed and showing her what pleasure is…

Oh Lord.

It’s been so fucking long since I’ve felt the touch of a woman. Soft hands on my skin, hot breath on my neck, nails in my back.

I can imagine her strong legs wrapped around me, urging me deeper.

Hell. Fuck. Damn.

Stop .

My imagination needs to get a goddamn grip.

I can’t touch a woman if I’m this on edge. There was a time when my life was drunken bar hookups. Both of us stumbling back to the motel and just screwing our way into oblivion because we both needed it.

The alcohol was key because I was horny, but not edgy. There’s all this anger inside of me, this intensity, and I’ve never wanted to unleash that on anybody.

When I met Sadie, I knew I had to be different .

More thoughtful. More careful. Present. Definitely not out for my own drunken pleasure, and not…this feral thing rising up inside of me and demanding that I devour Stella like the little lost lamb she is.

I’ve got to get myself sorted out before anyone gets caught in my personal crossfire.

I didn’t make a vow of chastity or anything.

But my ability to sort myself out as a human being all feels caught up in the rodeo. Like there’s a chapter that I can’t quite close yet, and it needs to happen before I can…

Yeah. That seems reasonable.

Not that I really care that much if I’m reasonable. That’s not the goal.

The goal is just winning.

To get through.

That’s all.

The coffee maker finishes percolating, and she takes out two metal camp mugs and pours a generous amount for both of us.

“I hope you don’t mind it black.”

“I prefer a pumpkin spice latte,” I say, accepting the mug from her offered hand, and smiling slightly when I see the lengths she goes to in order to make sure our fingers don’t touch.

“Do you really?”

“I’d like you to guess. I prefer a little bit of mystery, if I’m honest.”

“You’re definitely a mystery. What was all this?”

“I told you. I wasn’t going to let you make a fool out of yourself. But I wasn’t going to embarrass you by exposing you as somebody who wasn’t going to be able to follow through on a bet. Anyway, this suits us both. I remain the villain, and you are a wild card.”

“They’re probably going to call me a slut.”

“Probably. That’s life. But you’re the one who threw your body in the mix.”

She shifts uncomfortably, and I feel like a dick. Which is fair, because I am one.

“Yes, I am the one who did that. Thanks for the reminder.” She grimaces, almost comedically. I almost envy her for a second.

For that brief moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be a decade younger and to care about all that so much .

What other people think. What they expect.

Generally speaking, I don’t miss that, but it’s part of caring. And I do miss that sometimes.

Caring. Feeling. Wanting.

Instead of just a grim drive to finish a task so I can…

I find it best to never think about what might come after.

“You’re clearly going through something,” I say.

“Is this a therapy session?”

“It can be. I don’t charge an hourly rate. The cup of coffee will do.”

She’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I didn’t know you were human. I just thought you were…”

“The specter of doom rolling around the arena? An easy mistake to make.”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Yeah, what I did was stupid. But I told you last night, humiliating as it is, I’m a virgin. And I’m tired of it.”

“It would not be hard for you to get laid if you wanted to get laid. You don’t need to bet yourself away to some random game of chance.”

“I know. I mean, I’m not being down on myself or anything, but… men will stick it in a hollow tree, and we both know that. Except you, apparently.”

“The men who will stick it in a hollow tree don’t have scruples. Some of us do. Men as a species might not, but I have no investment in taking advantage of someone who’s clearly in a bad space.”

She looks down, her cheeks turning pink. “I thought you would.”

“I know. I do like to cultivate a reputation, but I’m an asshole, not a predator. Two different things.”

Her eyes meet mine. “I guess so. My sister is getting married. My sister was also made the shortlist for the Olympic dressage team at only twenty-two. While I have never been close to the Olympic team, like I aspired to be by this point.

Partly my own fault.

“Is this your first time staring mortality down?”