Page 83 of Untamed
When a rider makes an eight-second ride and is not disqualified, he has made a qualified ride and, therefore, earns a score.
In the basement of the bar is a private room with a mechanical bull centered on mats and another bar with about twenty people. It seems private, as if only the selected few are allowed down here. With low lighting, the walls are black, and neon beer signs line the walls of the secluded room.
It’s clear within minutes that Grayer is definitely one of those “selected few” and nods and tips of hats follow his entrance. He’s given a beer, and one for me too, which he twists the top off and hands me, keeping his left hand in mine. Like taking his hands off me is just not possible.
“Do you know all these people?”
He looks around. “Mostly.” And then he draws in a long breath, a motion that exudes sexiness at all levels, and gestures with his hand to the room with the bull. “Ever been on a mechanical bull?”
I swallow, not sure if I heard him right. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glossy from the alcohol. “No. Is it like Hammer?”
Grayer snorts, his frustration for my stunt still evident. “No. Not at all.” He nods to the mats. “It’s set for slow.” And then he gives my backside a light smack. “Show me whatcha got, honey.”
Show him? Is he serious?By the expression on his face, I know exactly what that means. He wants a show and I’m hell-bent on giving him one.
We walk over to the mechanical bull and I place my hand on the cool metal. “You yelled at me the last time I was on a bull,” I remind him, smiling.
He shrugs and places his hand over mine. His left hand rises to my jaw, splaying to cup my cheek. “That’s totally different. This time I’m in control.”
I blink. Stunned. Notice the meaning he puts behind the words? I do. “You’re in control,” I repeat, letting him know I know why he wants this. I follow his stare to the controls. With him behind the controls of the mechanical bull, he can do just about anything he wants to me. My cheeks heat as I inhale the scent of him, all man, all mine for now. He could have any woman in this bar, yet here he is, wanting me.
He glances at my mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. When he speaks, the words pushed out breathlessly, I can tell he desperately wants to kiss me. His gaze is too intense, his dark eyebrows rising in question. “Ya gonna do it or what?”
I break eye contact, staring at the bull. “I’ll do it.” When have I ever said no to trying something new? Well, it’s not entirely new. I did ride a real bull. Surely with Grayer behind the controls he’d be gentler than a real bull. But then again, this is Grayer and he’s certainly not gentle.
Grayer smiles, winking, as he exhales through perfectly parted lips. “Hang on.”
It’s not easy to get on there, but Grayer gives me a hand onto the bull, lifting me easily by my waist. Then music starts in the basement. Maybe planned, I’m not sure, but it gives me that little push I need to do this. Somehow having music with anything can give you motivation. Adrenaline shoots through my extremities.
“I’m the Only One” by Melissa Etheridge starts out with the distinctive twang of the guitar and then moves into the bass and lyrics.
Confidently, I take hold of my hat and shift my hips forward on the bull, while Grayer sits in a chair with a clear view of me and a beer in hand. I’m curious what he’s thinking. So curious I want to ask, beg him to tell me what he wants to see. I mean, he suggested this. Obviously he’s looking for something, right?
My nerves peak with my racing heart, my hands trembling slightly but the fear subsides with each breath I draw in, waiting for him to hit the button.
Taking a look around, I notice I have an audience, men who are clearly with women, but sneaking stolen glances in my direction as I sit on the mechanical bull.
“Ready?” Grayer asks, his voice raised so I can hear him over the music, his hand on the button.
I give the same nod he does when he’s in the chute.
He hides his grin by lowering his head. His jaw tightens and he brings his beer to his lips, his face villainous. Taking a slow drink, he pulls the bottle away from his lips, he’s laughing lightly, and then presses the button with his other hand. Leaning further back in the chair, he shifts his hips so his legs are out in front of him, one bent as he slouches to the right near the button. Appearing cool, calm, and completely unlike me.
Raising my right arm in the air and keeping my left one on the metal saddle, I make sure my hat’s on my head properly when the bull starts to move beneath me. It’s definitely not like being on Hammer, but with slow, steady rocking motions, I see how watching this could easily turn a guy on.
With a heavy sigh, my breath expels and I rock with the bull, rolling my hips in a way to get Grayer’s attention, make him see I’ve got skills he hasn’t seen yet. Each movement is not only in tune with the bull, but the beat of the song playing. Maybe he set the speed like that on purpose.
I do know one thing for sure. Grayer has complete control over the bull beneath me by that button and the handle his right hand is on and I think that excites him a little. He’s controlling me in a way I’ve never experienced, giving me a thrill only he can.
I want to do more than tease him. I want to torture. I want him to know what it was like for me back in Ellensburg when he wouldn’t even look in my direction. The want, the desire, it can’t be tamed unless you’re allowed to touch. And I want him to experience the frustration I had on the way here. The anticipation of not knowing what would happen once we met again.
When the bull’s on the downward motion, I squeeze my legs together to keep from slipping off.
My hat falls to the ground with it and then I arch my back into the rocking. Whistles and catcalls move throughout the room and I’m doing everything I can to turn Grayer on, including spinning around on the bull and rocking to the movements backward.
By the way he sits in the corner, slouched in the chair, I know he’s turned on. I can see it in the way his eyes are set, his jaw flexing and the way he tenses when the whistles around him get to him. I can see his chest rising and falling faster and faster, struggling to stay seated during this when he realizes what these men are seeing.
Beyond the fisting of his hands and the tightened jaw, there’s a condescending smirk tugging at his lips. Like if any guy made a move to do more than whistle and watch, that smirk is telling them it wouldn’t be a good idea. He watches the crowd, eyebrows rising to one whistling and clapping a little more than others and making suggestive moves. I recognize him as one of the other bull riders. When he knows Grayer’s looking at him, he catches Grayer’s stare and backs up, dropping his eyes as he retreats.
