Page 59 of Untamed
The PBR World Champion annually is presented with his sport's coveted gold buckle, the ultimate symbol of achievement in bull riding. The custom-made belt buckle is valued at more than $10,000.
“I’m not asking for that. Just give me tonight,” I breathe against his lips. The shift in his demeanor reminds me he is a bull rider, all heart, all go with a confidence only they have.
“You won’t hate me for leaving in the morning?” he asks, voice marred with a slight tremble, never more vulnerable than he is in this moment. I love that he’s upfront about it, making sure I know what this is going into it.
I do. I never went into this thinking it would be any different. Besides, I’m leaving too, and I don’t want him to leave and wonder, what if? Shaking my head, I stand, wanting to touch him. I reach out, my hands gliding over the ridges of his muscles, so tight and taut. “I could never hate someone like you, Grayer.”
He swallows, his breathing coming a little faster. Stepping back, he creates unwanted distance between us again. “I’m not having sex with you just because you want me to.”
Desperate for a connection I can’t explain, my heart sinks. “But—”
Worry takes the smile from his eyes and he shakes his head. “What I will do is show you there’s more than just being with someone physically and getting off.”
“I . . .” I swallow, unable to comprehend what he’s saying to me. Sex, being with a guy, it’s always been purely physical for me. Nothing more. I never let it be more because of the complications that come with it. You know, the whole broken heart thing. I didn’t want that again. Not ever. “Uh. . . .”
Our eyes lock, and my heart swells before he says the words, “You need to believe you are worth it. Because you are.”
There’s so much more to him than what meets the eye. No one has ever said that to me. Not even Jamie. But we were young when I was with him. We met when I was four and he was six. He took me on my first date at fourteen and became my first everything. Then before I had a chance to experience first love, he was taken from me.
Grayer drops his head forward, staring at the ground. Drawing in a deep breath, he pushes himself from the wall.
He walks toward me, his hands on the hem of his dark shirt. He yanks it over his shoulders. My stomach flutters in anticipation, knowing he’s finally giving in to me. Dropping his shirt behind me on the hay bales, his steady and sure palms cup my cheeks. He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. Moments later, his kiss is so heavy I’m drowning in him and I never want to surface.
Taking my body in his hands, it’s a slow descent to the floor of the barn. He sets me down on the hay bale where his shirt is and then kneels before me. My heart jumps into my throat, my mind racing with thoughts of what’s next. I watch the muscles in his stomach and arms flexing with each movement. Spreading his knees, his hands are on my hips—rough and wild—yet steady and patient like he’s memorizing a beautiful canvas before him. Maybe this is how he’s going to show me there’s more than giving my body to someone. It’s an emotion, something I used to know long ago, but forgot what it meant. His fingers move to the band of my jean shorts, sliding across my exposed skin to meet in the middle of the button. His touch burns, ignites my every nerve and makes my heart race as my eyes drift closed. But not for long. I can’t be denied his eyes for long. I crave it just as much as his touch.
My eyes are on his, but he’s not looking at me; he’s watching my body curve around his as if that’s exactly what he’s been wanting. His jeans are still on—as are my shorts. He grinds his hips into mine, his arousal distinct, hard and straining against his jeans.
Then, when his mouth finds mine, it’s eager, but controlled in the sense that I can tell he’s not just some overeager kid. He’s a man.
With a simple twist of his thumb and forefinger together, he has the button of my shorts undone with one hand.
So talented. Now take me!
Although everything is happening so fast, he’s not rushing through it like we did the first night. Moving both hands from my waist, he hooks them around the backs of my knees. He brings both my legs to rest on his left shoulder, his eyes flicking to my ankle and the Indian feather I have above the scar. I shouldn’t have a tattoo, but I do. Pays to know people who will do anything to mark you with ink. “What’s that from?”
I raise an eyebrow. “The tattoo?”
“No. The scar.”
My eyes move to it. “Rattlesnake. Got too close and it bit me.”
“I know the feeling,” he teases. He’s not referring to a snake, that’s for sure. With a smile, he takes his hat off and puts it over my face, laughing.
It smells like him. Dirt and grass, but there’s a distinct leather cowboy smell that melts me on the inhale. It’s everything I want to remember.
I remove the hat to see him watching me. There’s a slight grin that hasn’t faded, but it’s more the intensity in his eyes that makes me nervous. He’s a man . . . everyone else I’ve been with have been boys compared to him. What if I don’t . . . I don’t know. Shit. What am I doing? He’s probably been with hundreds of women.
Taking the hat in my hand, I place it on my chest, covering my breasts. Grayer grins, knocking it away and then drags his hands back on my hips, dipping his fingers into the waistband of my shorts. “What do you want?”
Am I supposed to know what that means? I shrug. “I don’t know. Show me what you got, Eight Seconds.”
“You might regret that.” He gives me a wink and I lift my hips for him. Slowly, he slides them down over my thighs as his knuckles graze my skin. When they’re at my ankles, he tosses them near his hat on the floor.
I’m not sure what he’s going to do next, but his mouth is lingering on my skin over the bruise on my calf that’s forming.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, still looking at the bruise, and then giving it one more kiss.
“No.” I bend my knees, sliding my feet down his bare chest.
