. . .
Maverick dropped the girls off at their hotel like a man barely surviving the aftermath of a bachelorette party gone feral. Layla fought him the entire way, swearing she could out-chug a frat boy and demanded to stop at a gas station for a corn dog.
Amelia, shockingly, didn’t put up a fight. She slid into the passenger seat of his truck like it wasn’t the same man she constantly threatens to stab with her tattoo needle. I saw the way he looked at her, too, like she was something holy he didn’t think he deserved. And the way she didn’t pull away?
That’s when I knew we were all in deep, messy trouble.
Now it’s just me, Carter, and the silence inside his truck that’s thick enough to strangle me.
He hasn’t said a word since we pulled out of the club lot. Not a single grunt, curse, or snide remark. He’s gripping the steering wheel so fucking hard his tattooed knuckles look like they’re losing color, and I’m trying not to squirm in my seat from the ghost of his hands still lingering on my hips.
My entire body is pulsing with leftover adrenaline. I can still feel the strobe lights in my chest, still hear the music pulsing in my ears. But most of all, I can feel him. The way he pressed his hard cock against me on the dance floor, the way his breath scorched my skin, the way he told that guy to back the fuck off like I was his.
Daddy issues in full effect for an older man I barely know, but I don’t give a FUCK.
We finally roll up to his ranch, the headlights of his truck cut across the quiet pasture, too bright and sharp against the darkness of the night. He kills the engine, and the silence is quite literally deafening.
I shove the door open and stumble outside, trying to shake the tension off like it’s something I can walk away from. The cool air hits my skin and does nothing to calm the nerves still brewing under the surface. I take the porch steps two at a time, swaying slightly as the leftover tequila mixes with the burn of everything I’m trying not to think about. My balance is fucking trash, and I wobble at the top, catching myself on the wooden railing with a muttered curse.
Carter says nothing behind me, but I can feel him watching. The heat of his stare never leaves me—not in the club, not in the truck, especially not now as I push open the front door and march into the house like I’m not unraveling one step at a time.
I shove off my rhinestoned boots in the entryway, one lands sideways, the other slams into the wall. I don’t bother fixing them, not even sparing them a glance. My head is spinning, my hands are shaking, and I need something to cool the fire roaring inside me before I vomit all over his precious wooden fixtures.
I stumble into the dimly lit kitchen, the only light beingemitted is the soft glow of the fridge light when I yank it open. I grab a water bottle and down half of it in seconds, hoping it’ll douse something. My thirst, my nerves, the feeling that I might explode if he says one more thing in that gravelly, southern drawl.
God, his voice is so fucking hot.
The cold water doesn’t fucking help, because, I know he’s still standing in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me like a touch I never asked for but crave anyway.
I turn my head slowly, expecting him to look away.
He doesn’t.
He’s watching me with that unreadable expression, the one that makes my skin prickle and my stomach flutter with butterflies. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful, and his hands are flexed at his sides like he’s trying to decide if tonight’s the night he finally snaps.
“Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all night?” I ask, tossing the half-empty bottle onto the counter, turning to face him fully.
His lips twitch as he looks at me like I’m both the problem and the only possible solution.
“What do you want me to do, Catalina?” he finally says, shoving his hands deep into his jean-clad pockets.
I take another long swig from the water bottle, the coolness sliding down my throat. The alcohol haze starts to thin, but the thoughts it was supposed to drown out only come back louder, one thought in particular.
Dark, brooding and standing ten feet away from me like a fucking warning sign flashing brightly in his kitchen.
I set the bottle down on the counter with a soft thud, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth as I turned to face him.
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice light and laced with heat. “Why don’t you stop playing the morally superior cowboy and show me how you’d fuck the attitude right out of me.”
He stiffens immediately, every muscle in his massive body locking tight. His arms lock rigid at his sides, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—a split second where the fire leaps behind the stormy blues and I know, without a doubt, he’s finally going to snap.
“Catalina,” he warns.
I don’t back down, I step closer like I’m testing a wild animal, like I want him to bite.
Because I fucking do.
My pulse slams in my chest as I rise onto my toes, sliding my arms around his thick neck, closing the space between us until there’s barely room for air. My breath fans hot against his ear, and I whisper, each word a match struck against gasoline.
