Page 65 of Saddle Storm

I catch my breath and look out across the pasture, jaw set. Then she comes into view.

Storm reins in her horse, dust settling around them both. She’s staring right at me. Jaw slack like she’s given up trying to close it. Her gaze drags over me, slow and unguarded. Something dark and satisfying coils in my chest.

Guess I’m not the only one distracted.

The small barn I saw Storm disappear into is warm and dim. Light peeks through the open doors, dust floating lazily through the air. That same familiar scent mixed with something new. Maybe her? Maybe me and what I’m about to do.

There are no animals in here. Probably too small for them, but it’s stacked with hay, saddles, tools, and there are coiled ropes neatly hung along the wall.

I find her absently moving stuff around like she’s making room for something.

She’s in a plain white T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, and a dark suede, tasseled cowgirl skirt that dips lower in the back and moves easy in the saddle.

She doesn’t hear me at first—clearly still lost in some image in her head. I’m tempted to take the moment to drink her in like this, unguarded—but it’ll only throw me off.

And I’m here to settle a score.

I’m still shirtless, sweat drying on my skin. The burn still fresh on my bicep. The bands are looped in my hand like an afterthought. And I can assure you, it’s not. I loosen the grip slightly, letting one end fall to the floor and drag. Storm’s head snaps up in my direction.

Her eyes drop. Then lift. Then drop again.

Good.

I let the moment stretch as I walk farther in, aware of everything—the way her movement slows, the hitch in her breath. I drag my gaze over the layout of the small barn. The sturdy post near the tack wall, the height, the space. The endless options.

It’ll do.

I stop near the post and casually hook one band around it, testing the tension with a slow pull. The snap cuts through the quiet as it settles back into place. Dust particles flinging into the space between us. Storm’s breathing changes. It’s subtle, but I don’t miss it.

“It’s going well, by the way,” I say, easy, not bothering turning to her.

“What is?”

“PT,” I mutter dryly like I’m not measuring every beat of her curiosity, heat following close behind as I add a second band about four feet away, improvising with an overhead beam.

I don’t have to look to feel her attention on me—the way the air tightens, the way her breathing sharpens. When I finally glance over, her eyes are dark, mouth parted.

I smirk—taking too much pleasure in her responsiveness.

To me.

My dick getting hard at the fucking possibilities. And that unknown territory of how far I can take her.

“So you thought you’d show me up close how well you’re doing?” Her voice wavers, despite how hard she’s trying to keep cool and fuck it’s hot.

I give the band one last test tug, slow and controlled, then let it snap. The sound makes her flinch.

I meet her gaze and hold it, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

Storm glances at the open barn door. One I’d intentionally left open. “Silas, I’m working. But if you need to be alone with your . . . set-up,” she clears her throat, “I can go.”

“You can,” I offer, glancing at the exit myself. “Or you can close that door, get your ass back over here, and let me set the record straight.”

She swallows. Her eyes dropping to my biceps, pecs, abs. Her tongue slipping briefly past her lips before continuing the movement inside.

I don’t move. I barely breathe as I wait.

“Wh—what would I do if I come back there?”