Prologue
Pony - Ginuwine
Wilder
Six months earlier
Tally Brown was shin-deep in mud that clung to her boots like regret, swearing at Dream Maker like he owed her money from a lost bet. And damn if I didn’t want her right then and there. The way she moved wasn’t just confident, she moved like she belonged to the land in a way the rest of us were still trying to figure out. The ranch had claimed her, and she’d claimed it right back.
Dream Maker bolted across the paddock for the third time, scatteringhay and splintering patience. She stood in the middle of it, one boot stuck fast, her dark auburn hair escaping its braid like wildfire. Her cheeks flushed the color of sunset over the peaks. She squared her shoulders and glared at the million-dollar drama queen like she could bend him to her will through sheer stubbornness. Watching her made me want to surrender.
It would be an honor to give in to her.
In the weeks she’d worked for my brother, I’d figured out two things: Tally Brown worked harder than anyone else on this ranch, and she loved that fucking horse to distraction.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she muttered. “Or you’d be glue.”
Then she laughed, low, throaty, rough from the cold, and it wrapped around me like smoke, like a song you can’t shake once it’s in your head. I wanted to bottle that sound and loop it until the edges wore smooth. Her scent tangled with hay, leather, and the musk of sweat, a dangerous mix that branded itself into me.
I watched her work, quiet, competent, sharp as hell. But right now, she was fierce, wild and dirty in all the right ways. I pretended I wasn’t watching, but I always was. I watched like she might slip through my fingers if I didn’t pay close enough attention. She worked for my brother, though. That line I wouldn't cross. So, I kept my distance, told myself it was just looking. Nothing more.
And my main thought while I looked?
God, I could wreck you.
Not with sweet nothings or candlelight. Not gently. Not slowly. No soft kisses or eye contact. I’d take her raw and greedy. My hands wouldn’t get the memo. They’d hold on a fraction longer, anchored into her skin like I was afraid of what would happen if I had to let go. It would be the kind of fucking that left fingerprints and bite marks in places no one else would see.
I wasn’t looking for soft. That was for my brothers, the ones who thought promises meant something. I wanted the storm that broke the drought. Not pillow talk. Not quicksand disguised as solid ground. Just her. In my bed. Her breath hitching in my ear while she begged me not to stop. Sheets tangled. Skin damp, tasting like honey and want.
So, I stayed. Leaned on the fence and watched her wrangle a highly-strung, million-dollar horse like it was her God-given right. She didn’t glance at me. Probably didn’t even know I was there.
But I knew.
I knew from the second she blew a strand of hair out of her face and muttered, “Stupid animal,” like she didn’t mean a word of it.
No feelings. No mess. Just fucking.
And I hoped like hell she was that girl.
The one who thought she could ruin me as much as I could ruin her.
I had a feeling, though, that even if she wasn't, if the universe ever stopped cock-blocking me and gave me a shot, I'd happily persuade her to try. Even if it took me forever to get that chance.
Chapter 1
Blurred Lines – Robin Thicke ft. T.I., Pharrell
Wilder
Feelings are subjective, what makes one person happy can make another one miserable. They can range from the positive to the negative and vary in their intensity, which is great when you know what to do with them. When you’re aware of what it is and why you’re having them.
There’s nothing like a woman to make you wonder what the fuck is going on with them, your feelings that is. Whether you should be feeling the thing you were feeling or not. My brothers? Absolute hypocrites.
Nash spent years sulking over Lily, now you can hear them making up for lost timethrough the damn walls. Gunner swore Cassidy was a manipulative pain in the ass, now he’s building her a house with reclaimed wood and practically quoting poetry about her.
Me? I’m smarter than that.
Tally and I have an arrangement. Simple. Clean. Three hours of “mutually beneficial recreation,” no sleepovers, no pillow talk, no accidentally catching feelings.
