He followed her out of the restaurant.
Ready as I’ll ever be.
Translation: When Ceci Rivers is involved? No, not ready at all.
Chapter Nineteen
Clarke and Ceci
Clarke
Clarke couldn’t figure out what was supposed to unsettle him. It was Texas’s version of a bar. All the same, it was a bar. There was the dim lighting, the wooden floors, the smell of bourbon and beer, and in this case country music. And line dancing, he noticed after turning a full circle. That must be it.
“You ready to ride?” she asked, grinning.
“You mean dance?”
“Uh-uh. Follow me.”
They walked the length of the bar, took a left turn, and then he saw it. A mechanical bull. So this was it.
He’d ridden a horse but not a bull.
I bet she has. Maybe she’s thinking I’ll refuse to do it. Of course that’s what she’s thinking—“Sir Stick would never ride a mechanical bull in a Texas bar.”
“Ever ridden?” she asked.
“A bull? No. You?”
She tilted her head, those reckless curls tumbling over her cheeks. “Once or twice.”
There it was again.
That twitch between his thighs.
That snap.
That flame.
That heat.
That burn.
“Would that be the four-legged or the two-legged variety?”
The question pushed her back on her heels. Her entire body jolted and her eyes opened wider than he’d ever seen them open.
It’s not the question that shocks her. It’s thatI’mthe one who asked it.
A quiver of pleasure coursed through his veins.
Not the kind of thing you expect from Sir Stick Up His Ass, is it?
He felt the rush of adrenaline that always flooded his body before the start of a race.
And he knew why.
I want to be that fearless driver she talked about. The one who scared the shit out of every other driver on the track.
