A hot spark of arousal goes straight to my cock when he begins to move in time to the beat of the music reverberating through the speakers. It takes me a moment, but when my brain comes back online, I remember that I’m supposed to be actively participating in the dancing, and I move my body in a rhythm with his.
Despite my large frame, I’m not a bad dancer. My younger sister Niamh has been taking dance lessons most of her life, and I’ve been her practice partner for most of that time. Not that dancing with my sister is anything likethis. No. This feels more akin to socially acceptable dry-humping in public. Not that I’m complaining. And not that my dick is, either.
Sweat coats both of our skin and after a while, I begin feeling a little braver. A little bolder. I let my hands begin to roam,dipping under the flimsy material of his white t-shirt and enjoy the feel of his soft, sweaty skin under my calloused hand. He presses his body into mine in encouragement, and I let my hand slip into the waistband of his jeans, digging my fingertips into the fleshy part of his bum.
Making eye contact with him to check this is okay leads to him launching his lips on mine, and suddenly, we’re kissing in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by men grinding on each other.
His lips taste like rum and coke, and he smells like he doused himself in aftershave. Long, slim fingers clutch my t-shirt, and his other hand grips the back of my neck, holding me in place. I could pull away easily if I wanted to. But I sink into a headspace where I can relax as he takes control. It’s kind of aggressive, and at one point, his teeth knock into mine, but I’m kissing a man whose name I don’t even know in a gay bar in New York City. And my mum was right; I do feel alive.
Chapter Three
Nashville, TN
Dear future Cara
We made it to Nashville, and we’re staying in our first Motel. The reality is less like television and films and more like a lumpy bed with a lot of dark brown furniture, but it’s still an experience—even if it’s an experience that might give us lice.
The lady behind the desk let me use her computer to send an email to Sean. We’ve only been gone two weeks, but he’d already sent me three since my last. Sean always has a story to tell, and he always manages to make even the mundane sound so funny and interesting.
Between me and, well, me, I was nervous that my life might become boring as soon as I settle down, get married and have kids, but I can’t imagine ever having a dull day with Sean.
It’s a bonus that he’s so easy on the eyes.
Mammy always said you should be wary of charming men with silver tongues, but Granny Orla said I’d die of boredom if I settled for a dim-whit, and she was madly in love with Grandad right up until the day he died. I’m not sure I can say the same for Mammy and Da. No offence.
Anyway, I don’t need to tell you (me?) that my parents probably hate each other, so on with my travel update.
Tomorrow, we’re going to a real-life RODEO! If I don’t see a sexy cowboy in fringe chaps, then we’ll have to detour to Texas because I’ve not come all this waynotto see a sexy cowboy in chaps. And a cowboy hat. AND BOOTS.
Siobhan has also dared me to ride a mechanical bull, which isn’t very ladylike, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to show some big men how a wolf shifter holds her own. Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself. If I do, I’ll leave that part out of my next email to Sean.
Maybe I should buy some chaps as a gift for him? Now, there’s an idea. I think you’ll thank me.
From past Cara x
“What exactly is in a corn dog?” I ask, eyeing the meat on a stick.
“No idea, but it tastes good,” Noah replies through a mouthful of food.
Ugh. I tentatively nibble on the corner of it. The outer layer is sort of crunchy and slightly sweet. When I take a bite with the sausage, I appreciate the salty-sweet combo and decide I can get on board with corn dogs, which is a good thing because Noah bought six of them.
We make our way through the stands to find our seats. I feel like I’m on the set of a movie, surrounded by people in rhinestone-covered denim jackets, fringe chaps, cowboy hats and boots. I hope when Mum came she got to see a cowboy all kitted out. Even if I am a bit mentally scarred from the image of my da in a pair of fringe chaps. I’m kind of hoping she never did buy him that gift, but I’ve also never dared ask him. Some things are best not to know about your parents.
I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia when I inhale a deep breath. The scent of farm animals and leather is strong, reminding me of all the summers I spent helping my Uncle Karl on his farm in Marsden growing up. He’s a miserable bastard, but I loved taking care of the horses.
As more and more people begin to find their seats, the speakers are suddenly filled with commentators announcing the first bull rider, a guy from Austin.
When the gates open and the bull is released, my heart is in my throat as a guy—in what appears to be nothing but a helmet for protection—clings onto a bucking bull for dear life as the clock counts eight seconds. When the time is up, he launches himself off the back of the bull and ducks behind a gate for safety as three more men try to corral the bull into the shoot without getting stomped on in the process. The first rider scores eighty-seven, although I’m not entirely sure what a good score is in this sport.
Before long, the announcers introduce the second rider of the night, and I watch on as, right when the clock reaches three seconds, the rider is bucked off to one side. Only his arm is still clinging to the rope. As the bull rages, he’s bounced around like a rag doll before he appears to get kicked right in the chest. I wince as he’s ushered towards the medics.
“This doesn’t seem very ethical,” I say to Noah, putting my half-eaten corn dog back on the cardboard plate. I’m not feeling very hungry after that.
“Fun things rarely are,” he replies wistfully.
Rider number three of the night is apparently tackling the highest-scoring bull, but to his credit, he makes it look easy. When his eight seconds are up, he leaps off its back and lands gracefully on the ground, well away from where the bull continues to rage.
“I’m gonna need to ride one of those,” Noah says, eating his fourth corn dog.
