Page 101 of Haunted Spurs

"That sounds like a kickass challenge," Ron murmurs.

I turn to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the fake branding iron that an assistant is placing into the brazier. Then, he slowly turns his face toward me. His gaze slides down from my face to my legs, covered in dark denim.

"Maybe..." he picks back up, "I can bribe someone on the crew at the end of the episode and get my hands on one of those branding irons."

He looks at me with an intensity that pierces right through to my soul, and shoots me a slow, shameless wink.

My brain completely shuts down.

My God. Picturing Ron sliding a hot iron over me, branding my skin, claiming me in the dark... Dammit, yes. I sincerely hope he manages to get his hands on one. My mouth goes instantly dry, while a heavy, liquid pulse comes to life between my thighs.

"I'm starting to like your ideas, new-cowboy," I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady.

That lethal dimple pops on his cheek. He leans toward me. He closes the distance, bringing his lips a millimeter from the shell of my ear.

"If you like the idea... I'll get it, Selly," he murmurs.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I'm already covered in goosebumps. A violent shiver runs down my spine. He pulls back just a fraction, noticing the effect he had on me, and smiles, deeply satisfied with himself.

Meanwhile, down in the clearing, the action is heating up.

Two stagehands lead Susan toward one of the wooden posts and loosely tie her wrists around the beam.

Right after, Emerson makes his entrance.

He stops at the starting line of the course, lit up by the floodlights. He scratches the back of his neck, adjusting the glasses slipping down his nose, scanning the maze of chains and smoke with the expression of someone trying to mentally calculate a quantum physics formula for survival.

Then, the lights on the opposite side of the field flicker, and the fog machines start spewing a thick black cloud.

The mystery cowboy makes his entrance.

He strides through the fog with the swagger of an apex predator. He's shirtless. The red lights slide over the muscular ridges of a massive, ruthlessly defined chest and taut abs, gleaming with fake sweat and dirt. His dark jeans sit low, dangerously low, held up by a heavy silver buckle. His face is completely obscured by a black bandana tied tight across his nose and a wide-brimmed Stetson pulled low over his eyes.

"Oh, mama," Indya comments in a breathy whisper, her eyes wide as she leans forward.

Carolina lets out a strangled gasp. She stares at the chiseled figure in the shadows, her lips parted.

"Holy. Shit."

The air horn blasts with a harsh, piercing sound, officially starting the race.

Under the red lights, the fog machine spits a dense cloud over the course, but I barely even notice.

In the exact same second the challengers sprint forward, Ron shifts his position on the wooden bleachers. As he does, his leg rests against mine. The rough denim of his jeans rubs against mine, and that simple, mundane point of contact becomes the epicenter of a blazing fire. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric, radiating into my thigh.

My mind, now hopelessly corrupted by him, flashes to an instant memory: that exact same thigh, muscular and heavy, pressed between my legs just a few hours ago. The memory of his hips driving against me, the desperate friction, the feeling of being filled until I couldn't breathe.

I bite the inside of my cheek, squeezing my knees together. I have a desperate urge to grind against his leg right here, right now, in front of everyone.

"And... what's your favorite flavor of chips?"

Ron's voice, low and incredibly close to my ear, cleanly slices through my X-rated thoughts.

I blink, turning toward him.

"I have a whole ranking system," I answer. "I love chips. Number one is tomato or spicy, tied for first, they're equally good. Then paprika. Cheese. And lastly, BBQ."