Page 34 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

"Do you know what the hardest part was?" she asks.

"What?"

"Not the clients. Not the performances or the groping or the propositions. The hardest part was that I started to believe I'd never get to choose. That I'd die in that place, still holding onto a promise that didn't matter because there'd never be anyone I wanted to give it to."

"And now?"

She looks at me for a long moment, those garnet eyes seeing straight through to parts of me I thought I'd buried in desert sand.

"Now I'm in a bathtub with a man who's worried about my circulation issues and lets me steal his dog and can't tell nail polish colors apart but picks the sparkly one anyway."

"Is that good?" I decided to ask, trying not to smirk at the whole nail polish thing.

"That's..." She pauses, seeming to search for words. "That's the first time in three years I've remembered that I get to want things. Not just survive, endure, or perform, but actually want."

"What do you want?" The question comes out rougher than intended, heavy with my own wanting.

She bites her lip, and I track the movement like a sniper tracking a target.

"Right now?"

"Start there."

"Right now, I want to stay in this tub until we're both pruney.

I want to paint my toenails sparkly red.

I want to eat something that isn't casino buffet leftovers.

I want to sleep in a bed that doesn't smell like industrial laundry detergent.

" She pauses, taking a shaky breath. "And I want to kiss you without it being about survival or strategy or putting on a show. "

"Red—"

"I know it's fast. I know we barely know each other.

I know there's pack dynamics and history and a thousand reasons why this is complicated.

But I've spent three years not wanting anything because wanting hurt too much.

And now I'm here, and you're here, and I want to want again.

Even if it's messy. Especially if it's messy. "

I study her face, looking for any sign of uncertainty or pressure or the kind of desperate gratitude that would make this wrong. But all I see is determination and desire and a spark that three years of hell couldn't extinguish.

"You sure?" I ask.

"No," she admits with a small laugh. "But I'm tired of being sure. Sure is safe and boring, and I've had enough of both."

I bring my hand up slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving her time to change her mind. Water runs off my arm as I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

"For what it's worth," I murmur, "I want to kiss you too. Have since you left those fucking panties in the storage closet like a calling card."

She grins, the expression wicked and sweet at once.

"They were my favorite. You best cherish them.”

I chuckle dangerously, wondering if I’m going to start collecting her undies like little trophies.

Collecting and buying her new ones.

"Can you keep another secret?" she asks finally, her voice small.

I don't mind looking down at her as she lifts her head, those garnet eyes meeting mine with something between hope and fear. We're so close I can see every fleck of gold, every shift of emotion across her face.

"Of course."

She takes a breath, and I watch her gather courage like armor.

When she speaks, the words come out in a whisper that changes everything:

"Would it be odd to ask for you to be the one to take my virginity?"

My cock throbs hard, painful against my attempts at control. I keep my face blank through sheer force of will, but inside, every alpha instinct is roaring to life. The words replay in my mind, each repetition sending another jolt of pure need through my system.

"Would it be odd," I repeat, the words vibrating up from something deep and animal in my chest, "to ask for me to be the one to take your virginity?"

It sits there, suspended in the humid air, echoing off the tile.

My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s lower, darker, rough enough to scrape paint off a barn wall.

She’s still looking at me, lips parted, eyes wide, like she can’t decide if she wants to bolt or pounce or melt right into my arms. I feel like I might do all three, if I don’t pull my shit together.

I’m trying to picture it—her, naked, open, trusting me to be the first. It’s not a fantasy; it’s a fucking gauntlet.

Every molecule in me wants to say yes, right now, climb on top of her and devour her until she’s boneless and shivering and marked inside and out.

But there’s a whole other part—a smaller, meaner, deeply fucked-up part—that wants to run away.

Because this isn’t just sex. It’s a goddamn responsibility.

A trust fall from the edge of the universe, with me as the only net.

The bathwater is scalding, but I’m shivering.

All the training, all the missions, all the times I’ve stared down a rifle barrel with no guarantee I’d come out the other side, nothing fucks me up like this.

The way she’s looking at me, waiting, hoping, is more dangerous than any IED or landmine or psycho with a grudge.

I want her. I want to peel her open and drown in every inch of her.

But I also want to do it right. I want her to want it, not just survive it.

I want her to remember this as the moment she chose, not the moment it was decided for her.

I want to be the reason she never regrets keeping that promise to her dead mother.

The pressure is a live wire beneath my skin.

I can feel myself getting harder by the second, but I don’t move.

I just look at her, willing my voice not to crack.

"Red," I say, and it comes out as a plea.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t laugh. She just watches me, her expression raw and vulnerable and fucking fearless.

"Yeah," she answers, voice barely above a whisper. "I want it to be you."

I swallow hard. I’ve never felt more seen, or more exposed, in my life. She’s not asking for a favor. She’s not asking for me to fix her. She’s asking for me—just as I am, just as she is.

I’m not a beautiful man. I’m not gentle, or sweet, or even safe. But I can be good, when it matters. And I want to be good for her. If she’s brave enough to ask, I can be brave enough to answer.

I lean in, slow, telegraphing every inch of distance. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting her scent fill every empty space inside me. My hand finds the back of her neck—the same way I’d calm a spooked mustang. I want her to know I’m not going anywhere.

"Are you sure?" I ask, last chance for her to change her mind. I want to say a hundred things—how honored I am, how much I want her, how scared I am I’ll fuck it up—but all that comes out is the question.

She nods, the movement so small I almost miss it. But then her fingers close over my wrist, strong and deliberate.

"Yes," she breathes.

And that’s it. That’s all I’ll ever need.

I study her face, memorize it, because I want to remember exactly how she looked when she made this decision.

For all the blood rushing south, my heart is pounding in my throat.

I don’t move, not yet. I let her see that I’m not going to pounce.

I’m not going to take. I’m going to be here, with her, for as long as it takes.

"Okay," I say, the word a quiet promise.

She closes her eyes, and I see the tension leave her shoulders. She’s ready. She’s not scared—no, that’s wrong. She is scared, but she wants it more than she fears it. That’s a kind of bravery not even the Marines can teach.

I dip my head, brush my lips over hers, gentler than I’ve ever been with anyone. It’s not about heat, not yet—it’s about letting her know I heard her, that I’m here, that nothing is going to happen except what she wants. When she sighs, it’s like a weight leaving both our bodies.

And just like that, the whole world narrows to this tiny, steaming slice of bathroom, her bare skin slick against mine, the taste of her breath on my lips.

The knowledge that I’m the one she chose.