Page 32 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

DANGEROUS QUESTIONS

~SHILOH~

“ W hy don’t you join me then?”

Her voice cuts through the humid air like a blade.

No coy lilt, no softening sugar—just a straight shot challenge.

Her eyes hold mine over the mountain of suds like a sniper sights through glass.

Garnet and gold, sharp as brass casings in sunlight.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. The whole room shrinks until there’s only her, the bathwater, and me caught square in her sights.

For half a breath, my brain scrambles—protocols, warnings, memories of mistakes that ended in funerals. She’s fragile, she’s new, she’s been through hell. A six-foot-four wall of old violence shouldn’t breach that. But the words die in my throat because her eyes don’t say “stop.” They say, try me.

The combat part of my mind recognizes inevitability when it sees it. This isn’t a slip. It’s a bullet leaving the chamber.

And I’m already hard enough to pound nails.

She notices—hell, she probably smelled it first. There’s a dare at the edge of her mouth when I step closer, the old wood under my bare feet creaking like a loaded gun.

Vanilla-scented steam curls around her, mixing with the spiced cherry sweetness of her own signature until the air tastes like a sin I’m about to commit.

My hands brace the clawfoot rim. Heat rolls off the water, off her, until my forearms prickle. Bubbles don’t hide much—the slick outlines of her thighs, the soft arch of her foot, the tremor in her breathing.

She’s surely majestic naked…

“You’re sure?” My voice comes out lower than intended, roughened by want.

She blinks slowly, deliberately, like chambering a round.

“I’m sure, soldier.”

Fuck…

The word hits somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

Every rational bone in my body says to call this off or at least play it safer than I’ve ever played anything in my life. I run through the whole mental checklist like it’s a hostage negotiation—remind the civilian not to escalate, keep emotional distance, never, ever get attached.

But Red’s the kind of problem you can’t just solve.

The second those words come out of her mouth, the universe shifts, and all of those neat little protocols and fallback plans get blown apart like so much dust in a crosswind.

I glare at the wall behind her, at the warped wood, the old whiskey jug on the shelf, the splintered towel rack—searching for some anchor, some reason to pull back.

Instead, I just find more of her.

Every time I think I’ll shake myself out of it, my gaze snaps right back to her, to the way she watches me with those unwavering eyes. Not predatory or pleading, but with a rare kind of ferocity. The eyes of someone who’s already survived the worst and knows she can take a little more.

My hands curl tight on the porcelain. I can feel the heat of her radiating through the surface like the metal of a freshly spent shell.

I’m supposed to be cool, calculated, separate from all of this.

But the truth is, I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in years.

Maybe ever. That’s the real danger, the one nobody trains you for—the op that doesn’t end when you leave the room.

There’s an excuse for every scenario:

If I say I need to check the perimeter, she’ll know I’m running.

If I act aloof, she’ll know it’s a lie.

If I say I’m worried about her, she’ll call bullshit and remind me she’s a grown woman.

If I say her offer is too tempting, I’m screwed either way.

Every avenue just leads back to her, to the way her skin flushes up her throat when she’s embarrassed or angry or, right now, turned on.

I know those signs by heart. I know what it means when her pulse jumps and her lips part just so.

Or when the air fills up with her scent, the sweet and wild spike of it is almost dizzying.

I try to focus on anything else—the way the condensation beads on her collarbone, the tiny pink scar just above her hip, the nervous flex of her toes under the bubbles. But all it does is make me want to know every inch of her, memorize every secret.

The real kicker is, I could shut this down easily.

Say this is suddenly transactional and nothing more, or even say she deserves better than some broken-down military Alpha with trust issues, who doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.

But none of it would be true.

And I don’t want to lie to her…oddly enough.

She’s not looking away. Not blinking, not fidgeting.

Just waiting to see if I’ll take the risk.

My cock is already a lost cause, a steel bar against my thigh, and I swear to god if she asks me again, it’ll be game over. The bubbles tremble with the tremor in her hands. She tries to hide it, but I see it—she’s nervous, too, and that only makes me want her more.

Not to break her, not to overpower, but to give.

Fuck, when’s the last time I wanted to give anyone anything?

I let the silence hang a second longer, then I reach across the space and touch her cheek, just to prove it’s real.

Her skin is fever-warm, pulse caught under the thin shell of bone. She shivers, and it’s not from the water.

I don’t kiss her. Not yet. I just let my thumb trace the line of her jaw, gently as I can, while she holds her breath.

Her eyes go wide and a little wild.

I see the moment she realizes how exposed she is, how naked not just her body but her intention has become.

And still, she doesn’t back down.

I want to say something poetic or even just coherent, but all I manage is a low, “You’re dead serious, aren’t you?”

She nods.

Blushes deeper, but doesn’t look away.

“I said what I said.

My control is a cracked dam.

The want is spilling through in every direction, pressure mounting as every heartbeat sends another fissure through my so-called discipline.

Standing at the edge of the tub, I’m locked in a standoff with the most dangerous person I’ve ever met, and she’s not holding a weapon—unless you count those eyes, the curve of her collarbone above the bubbles, the way her lips part just enough to show she’s not sure if this is a test, or a joke, or a hallucination.

Red must see the moment my resolve finally snaps.

She shifts, arms bracing the rim, and tries to stand—but her legs are still half noodles.

She wobbles; the motion sloshes a wave of perfumed water over the edge and onto my bare feet, but before she can really tip, my reflexes have already caught her.

I reach in and grab her by the waist—gentle, but not clumsy.

I’m not sure if I’m pulling her out or in.

Her skin is so warm it nearly burns, and when she falls forward, her damp shoulder lands square in my palm, then her whole self comes crashing into my chest. The contact is a shock, and also a relief, as if the universe has been wanting to glue us together since the day we met, and it finally found a way.

Her chin lifts, and suddenly her mouth is inches from my own.

The only things separating us: a thin layer of suds, the prickle of her wet hair, and the knowledge that if we cross this line, neither of us will ever be able to walk it back.

Her lips are parted, but she’s not smiling—her eyes dart up, searching mine for some hint that she’s not alone in this madness.

I look back, and if my face is betraying anything, it’s that I’m not just into this, I’m three seconds from losing my goddamn mind.

She swallows, the motion visible along her throat, and her voice—so much smaller up close, almost delicate—says, “Oops. That was totally not intentional.” She’s blushing, and her hands are still braced on my chest like she’s about to push away, except she doesn’t.

For a second, I think we’ll just freeze like this, both of us pretending the last thirty seconds never happened.

But then I hear myself—my own voice, low and rough and not even pretending to be cool—say, “Close your eyes, Red.”

She blinks, startled.

“What?”

“Be a good girl. Close your eyes and stay.”

It’s not an order, but she treats it like one, lashes fluttering down as she leans back enough for me to ease her into the tub again.

I let go of her, careful so she doesn’t slip or get hurt, and she sinks back into the water, arms hugging her knees, chin tucked down to hide the way her whole face is on fire.

Before she can say anything else or build another wall of sarcasm, I strip out of my sweatpants and t-shirt.

Modesty is the last thing on my mind, but I turn away just in case.

My cock is a lost cause, and I’m not about to make a spectacle of it before she’s ready, so I move around to the far side of the tub, giving her a second to breathe.

I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink—a full-body reminder that I’m twice her size, scarred and battered and not even trying to hide how bad I want this.

I slide my hands along the clawfoot rim, knuckles white, and lean in. The tub is old and deep, barely wide enough for one, but I don’t care. I reach into the water and let my fingers drift through the suds until I find her waist.

“I’m putting my arms around you,” I mutter, voice barely audible over the splash. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up, just nods. Her hair is a wild tangle, cheeks flushed scarlet, eyes half-closed in something between fear and anticipation.

I pull her gently to me, the water surging with the movement, and lift her out of her curl so she’s pressed against my chest. She’s light— almost nothing —and so soft it’s like touching something that might evaporate if I’m not careful.

I hover there, not sure if I should go further, not sure if I even know how.

She sighs, long and shaky, the scent of her rising with the steam and hitting me so hard I almost stagger. Her arms drift up, hesitating, then settle around my neck. I feel her pulse, frantic and strong, more alive than anything I’ve touched in years.