We made it halfway around the ring before my grip gave out. The horse jerked left; I went right, and the rest was physics.
I hit the dirt ass-first; the impact knocking the wind clean out of me. My right shoulder caught next, a dull, hot pain shooting up my hip and down my arm. I rolled onto my back, gasping, staring up at the bright Texas sky. Tears were already pouring down my face.
The horse skittered to a stop, shook itself, and trotted away like it hadn’t just tried to murder me. The ranch hands were already running over, but it was Gunner who reached me first.
He knelt down, grabbed my hand, and hauled me to sitting. “You okay, Maverick?” His face was unreadable, equal parts worry and fury.
I wheezed, still trying to breathe through my tears. “Did I look cool?”
He grumbled a laugh, then shook his head. “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”
Maddie arrived, pale and wild-eyed. “You almost died!” she shrieked.
I shrugged, then immediately regretted it but couldn’t speak.
Gunner put one hand under my upper back and the other under my knees as he picked me up.
I leaned into his chest with a sob. “Hurts.”
He looked over at Maddie and uttered three words that brooked no argument.
“Madison, go home.”
He didn’t say another word to me as he carried me across the yard, pulling me tight to his chest. His front door came into view in just minutes. The heat between us had an edge, the kind that could burn or cauterize depending on the day, and I had no idea which way today was going to break.
Inside, the place smelled like leather, old cologne, and something darker—maybe the weight of a life that didn’t leave much space for knick-knacks or sentimental crap. I noticed a bookshelf that sat along one wall in the great room that held tons of books. Gunner hauled me down the hallway, past the living room filled with leather-clad furniture and straight into a bedroom with a bed the size of a small country. I tried to memorize everything—the rough wood dresser, the muddy boots lined up by the wall, the single photograph of a smiling boy and a German Shepherd on the nightstand. I was so busy collecting details that I almost forgot the pain radiating up my side.
He sat me on the edge of the bed and crouched down, putting his face level with mine. “Where does it hurt, Maverick?”
I considered lying, but the concern in his eyes was like a cattle prod to my ego. “My butt. And my shoulder, I guess. Maybe my pride.”
He snorted. “Pride’ll heal. Lemme see the rest.”
He gripped my knee, warm and certain, then tugged on my boots. It was the least sexy undressing of my life—awkward, dusty, and over in seconds—but my skin burned with embarrassment, anyway. He yanked them off, tossing them aside, and then reached for the button on my jeans.
I slapped at his hands, half-hearted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He met my eyes, expression dead serious. He pushed my shoulders back, so I was lying across the bed. “You don’t get to ask questions rightnow. I’m in charge.” His fingers found the zipper and pulled it down, then gripped the ankles of my jeans and gave a sharp tug. The jeans peeled away, dragging a layer of dirt and dignity with them. Underneath, my ass was already bruising on the right side—a deep, red flush radiating out like a target. I winced just looking at it.
He rolled me slightly to my side and ran a hand over the bruise, testing for tenderness. “You landed hard.”
I tried to sound tough. “I’ve had worse.”
He pulled on my arms, sitting me up, then started on my top, deftly undoing the buttons one by one. The fabric hung open, stained with sweat and a streak of red clay. I was still in my bralette—purple lace, because I’d hoped for a different kind of undressing today—and the way his eyes lingered made my heart start sprinting again.
He peeled the shirt away, then gently pressed my shoulder. I hissed, more from surprise than pain.
“Not broken,” he said, relief softening his jaw. “But will likely leave a bruise.”
He lay me back, hands moving slow and careful. “Roll over, Maverick.”
I obeyed, face burning. The bedspread was soft against my cheek, and I tried to focus on the thread count instead of the fact that my ass was basically on parade.
He ran his fingers over the bruise, pressing at the edges, and I nearly jumped off the mattress. “Jesus, Finn—”
“Hold still,” he ordered. His voice was calm, but there was a roughness underneath it that made me shiver. He traced the bruise from the top of my hip down to where the skin was less angry, then worked his way up my thigh. Each touch was electric—half pain, half something else.
He leaned in close, his breath warm against my neck. “You could’ve broken your damn tailbone, Brie. What were you thinking?”
