Page 78 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

For later.

For . . . I don’t know why.

I told myself it was because I wanted to understand the sport better. Because I was working in this world, and watching someone I knew compete at this level would be helpful.

But as I watched him settle onto the bull, shifting his weight, rolling his broad shoulders back as his fingers flexed around the bull rope, I knew that was a lie.

The bull beneath him was massive—thick, dark brown with a streak of white down its side. It stomped at the ground, nostrils flaring, already itching to buck. When the camera panned to his face—what little I could see beneath the golden helmet—my stomach clenched.

He was focused. Still. Like he’d done this a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again. His thighs gripped tight against the bull’s sides, his free hand lifted, his entire body taut and ready.

The gate flew open, and the bull exploded out of the chute, twisting midair. My breath hitched, and I felt the power, the raw, untamed force of it, even from the other side of the screen.

One.

Beau’s movements were controlled. Every shift of muscle, every flex of his fingers was precise, like he was made for this.

Two.

His thighs clenched tighter, keeping himself centered as the bull twisted left, jerking back hard to the right. The muscles in his forearm flexed against the bull rope, veins straining as he held on.

Three.

I swallowed hard. My throat was dry, and my entire body was suddenly too warm beneath the blankets.

Four.

It was dangerous, completely insane—and so fucking hot.

Five.

I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t ignore the way my thighs pressed together, my skin too sensitive, my chest rising and falling as heat curled low in my stomach.

Six.

He rocked with the movement, grinding, rolling, his entire body working in rhythm with the beast beneath him.

Seven.

I was gripping my phone as I pulled it close to my face. One. More. Second.

Eight.

The buzzer blared, but Beau didn’t jump off—he rode the momentum, letting the bull launch him forward before releasing, landing so fucking effortlessly on his feet.

The bullfighters rushed in to corral the bull away, but I was still staring at him. Watching as he tossed his helmet to the ground, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his chest rising and falling hard beneath his tight shirt, his mouth curved in that cocky, knowing smirk.

I hated that smirk.

I loved that smirk.

My thighs clenched tighter, but I was glued to the screen.

The announcer’s voice carried over the roaring crowd.

“And your event winner, taking home a forty-thousand-dollar bonus check—Beaudreau ‘Beau’ Banks!”

The camera panned to him as he pulled off his gloves, his face streaked with dirt. His shirt clung to his chest, his mustache was too long, his whole body was disgustingly filthy . . . and somehow, he still looked unreasonably attractive.