I hum with contentment and lean my head back against his chest.
This feels both entirely new and entirely settled all at once. Like my body recognizes his as home in a way that feels profound.
“So,” I say, putting my hand over his forearm, watching my finger as I trace a line along the dip in his muscle there. “You have a lot of experience.”
He snorts. “There’s a whole thing. Rodeo groupies. We call them Buckle Bunnies.”
“That feels problematic, Dallas.”
“I think it can be. I definitely think there are issues within that culture. With the way they get treated and how some of the guys see them. But I’m pretty new to the whole thing, I mean, relatively. And ever since I’ve been in the rodeo, videos and stories about hook-ups with athletes have been going viral.”
“And?”
“You just have to accept that if you’re going to fuck around, your junk could end up posted somewhere. Or, the story of what happened. I don’t need that kind of threat to make me a decent guy, but I’m just saying I think that has changed the culture a lot in sports. It used to be, even the married guys were flinging it around here, there and everywhere, but now, with social media, half the time their wives are as famous as they are. If they got up to shit, women would just message the wives and tell them. I think that changes the power dynamic a little bit. So yeah, I think there’s sort of a cachet thing that comes along with bagging a rodeo rider, and I’m not going to say I haven’t enjoyed that, but I don’t think it’s quite as unsavory as it used to be.”
“All right,” I say. “As long as everything is sex positive.” I elbow him in the ribs, and he shifts underneath me, and I become deeply aware that his cock is getting hard again. I wiggle against him, and he wraps his arm tightly around my waist, keeping me from moving.
“Stop it,” he says. “You can’t be tempting all that again.”
“Why not?”
“Give your body a chance to recover.”
“Dallas, I’m never going to recover from that.”
I jump as I feel the sharp scrape of his teeth on my shoulder. “Good,” he says.
My stomach goes tight, my heart thundering hard. I feel marked. Branded. I’m good with that. I really am.
All I’ve ever wanted in my life is to belong to someone who actually wants to care for me.
If his teeth could leave marks that last longer than my trauma I’d be okay with that.
He reaches for a washcloth, gets it wet, soaps it up and rubs it over every inch of my body, taking extra time between my legs.
By the time we get out of the tub, I’m panting, and I’m annoyed at him, because he’s the one who said we couldn’t do it again.
“I think that we should watch the last part of The Hobbit.”
I frown. “I don’t want to watch The Hobbit.”
“Oh no,” he says, reaching up and planting his palm on my forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Stop,” I say, wiggling away from him, and he picks me up around the waist and carries me into the bedroom, my legs dangling as he sets me down, reaches into his dresser, and pulls out that pair of sweatpants that’s exactly like mine. He hands them over to me. “Wear these. I already know they’re your style.”
“I could go in the other room and get mine.”
There’s a possessive light in his blue eyes. “I want you to wear mine.”
I put them on, and they’re a lot roomier than mine, so much so that I have to cinch the waist almost all the way. I’m standing there in pants that are more like balloons, and he throws me a white T-shirt. I put it on, and I’m deeplyaware that my nipples are visible through the fabric. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that was the plan.
“So,” I say as he turns away from me and finds another pair of sweats in his drawer. Gray. And when he pulls them on, I still see the muscular, gloriously round shape of his ass through the fabric.
“Youwerejealous.”
He turns to face me. “When?”
“At my birthday party.”
