So this was what he was preparing for yesterday, not to blindfold me.
He’d made it sound like foreplay. Like a game just for us.
I wanted to kill him and straddle him at the same time.
Heat flooded my face and between my thighs. I’d been so blissfully distracted by his mouth and that low, rough drawl that I’d begged him to tie me up last night. I never imagined he’d use the same silk on himself in front of thousands of people.
A smirk flashed across his mouth, like he somehow knew exactly what I was thinking.
He gave the gateman a nod.
The metal gate cracked open. Cursed Crow exploded out in a blur of black muscle, mane whipping wildly.
Brock stayed glued to the horse's back, one arm held high. The silk knotted tightly over his eyes turned every violent spin into something almost graceful.
The blindfold should have made him helpless. It didn’t. He just looked fearless, like he and that horse understood something the rest of us couldn’t.
A rush of heat flooded my cheeks despite the fear. I pressed my thighs together hard and gripped the armrests, nails digging into the plastic. Please don’t let him get hurt.
Hold on. Just hold on.
The eight-second buzzer screamed. I could finally breathe.
He reached up to rip the silk from his face, but the horse dropped its shoulder into one last violent plunge. Brock was launched into the air and slammed hard into the packed dirt.
“No!” I gasped.
The sound was swallowed by the roaring crowd.
He lay motionless in the dust for two agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he planted a hand in the ground and pushed himself up onto his boots. I sagged against Wren, my knees turning to liquid.
Brock scooped his cowboy hat off the ground. He pressed his forearm tight against his ribs, chest heaving, and hoisted the hat high.
“Eighty-eight point five!” the announcer bellowed.
I didn’t wait for anything else. I shoved past Colt and flew down the concrete stairs, boots slipping on spilled beer. The air down in the arena was thick with the smell of wet dirt and horse.
A security guard in a yellow polo stepped in front of the tunnel entrance.
“Miss, you can’t?—”
“I’m his manager!” I lied, heart hammering. “Please, I need to get back there.”
The guard hesitated. In that split second, I spotted Brock leaning heavily against the panels behind the chutes. I slipped past the guard and rushed toward him.
Brock was trying to brush dust off his jeans, favoring his right side and gripping his ribs. The wild rag was now tied around his neck, the fabric hanging loose against his chest.
I marched straight up to him and slammed both hands into his chest. He grunted, stumbling back a half-step.
“You absolute idiot!” My fists bunched in the dusty fabric of his shirt as I hit his chest again. “You could have broken your neck! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
He didn’t flinch. He just stood there and took it, looking down at me with those infuriatingly calm eyes.
“I know.” His voice was low and rough. “And I’m sorry.”
My rant died in my throat. For a second, I just stared at the dirt smeared across his jaw and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The anger drained out of me, leaving me dizzy.
I grabbed the ends of the blue silk and yanked his head down, kissing him hard.
