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“Seems like you weren’t interested in stopping anything.” I refuse to give in, holding on tight, wrenching the handle back my way. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I sure know how to pick ’em, it seems.”

“I … I just …” He’s stammering, and it looks like his brain has stalled on the spot. The same hint of something unsure and endearing that I remember even through all the tequila haze from that night is front and center now, filling those hazel eyes. That part of him I couldn’t quite put my finger on but seems almost … naive.

“Yeah. Too busy feeding me those little whimpers to put a stop to it, huh? I bet she hasn’t sucked you properly.”

“Screw you.” He yanks on the bag once more and I tug right back.

“No. I bet you’ve never had your dick taken care of like that.” As I lean forward, my voice stays low. “I bet you’re still thinking about how hard you came down my throat. How I made you see stars and blow your load in all of a matter of seconds.”

Color flushes high on his cheekbones, right below those sexy goddamn glasses framing his eyes. “Don’t.” His Adam’s apple bobs and goosebumps pepper his arms.

“It’s alright.” My smirk settles in place, satisfied that I’ve at least had some kind of effect on him. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re just like all the men who think they’re only interested in pussy but are sure eager as hell for a dude to suck them off.”

Something flares in his eyes, not a feistiness, but a softness I wasn’t quite expecting. “I promise, it’s nothing like that.”

Shaking my head, I let out a wry laugh and finally let go of the bag. Even though I don’t want to walk away from him, I damn well have to, or I’m gonna do something irreversible and plain stupid, like try to kiss him again. “Sure, man,” I call over my shoulder. “Keep your secrets. I’m outta here.”

CHAPTER 7

I don’t know what I’ve done wrong this year to earn a pre-Christmas punishment of sleeping on my sister’s couch while stalking her ex’s social media … but here I am.

What I can confirm is that he’s gorgeous, completely out of my league, and far too damn charming for his own good. It’s not like I’ve got a vast amount of experience to use as a frame of reference here, but our run-in this morning left me feeling some kind of way.

Not even spending the afternoon biting my tongue while driving Izzie all over town—her being irritating as all hell while insisting on doing her Christmas shopping—was enough to erase how it felt to see him again. I mean, I’d been holding out for maybe a glimpse, with a flicker of hope in my little gay heart that I’d at least see some evidence of him before leaving town.

Kinda wanted to prove to myself he was actually real. Not some figment of my imagination.

Well, Brad Rhodes is, in fact, a walking, talking cowboy of my fantasies. And yet, I’m tossing and turning uncomfortably on the same couch where he’s probably fucked my sister.

Oh my god. Just the thought of that makes my cheeks burn and my stomach clench.

On the phone screen in front of me is a whole intimate snapshot into his life. The tiniest crumbs of him that I’m inhaling as fast as possible, while being the most paranoid guy ever to lurk twelve months deep in an Instagram profile. For the love of rodeo, do not accidentally heart one of his posts from a year ago.

I’d have to change my name and flee the country.

Brad becomes more curious and captivating to me the more I scroll.

Art major. Rancher. Sushi lover.

When he’s at home, apparently in a place called Crimson Ridge, he posts about horses nonstop. When he’s at college, almost every second photo is of him and a petite ginger cat.

Other than all the animals he so obviously adores, there are a few taken with the same girl who sports pastel pink hair and tattoos. At first, I start to feel that curl of jealousy low in my stomach. Is she a hookup or another girlfriend? Then I scroll far enough to see that he captioned a selfie—two of them in his car pulling rockstar horns, with tongues sticking out—mentioning the fact that they’ve been besties for forever. Considering he’s been dating my sister, I can’t really be feeling any kind of way seeing photos of him with another girl.

One thing that becomes painfully clear to me is that I don’t get how the fuck he ended up with my sister in the first place? It makes no sense. He and I … we’ve got so much more in common than she could ever possibly have with him. Aside from the most obvious—that I live and breathe horses and that he, from the looks of it, comes from ranching stock—Izzie literally hates the outdoors. She freaks out if even a smudge of dirt gets on her clothes. What the hell has she been playing at to be with a guy like him?

Scrolling dangerously deep in his profile history, I discover yet more photos of Brad with horses, and he’s all smiles. Laughter and sun-kissed skin in abundant measure. His cowboy hat fixed in place while cuddling a glossy chestnut mare. God, he looks incredible. Wherever he is when he’s not at college obviously suits him.

I swallow hard when I only have to swipe another couple of photos more and spot him wearing a branded Rhodes Ranch T-shirt. Am I a stalker if I look it up straight away? Probably. Definitely.

Wait, holy shit. Rhodes … As the search field populates, I already know that I’ve heard that name somewhere before.

A bounty of images pops up featuring rodeo riders, horse trainers, and stables. Leaving me quickly realizing that both Brad and his father Lucas Rhodes are, in fact, well known in the rodeo scene.

As I return to his Instagram, the image is set to stop my scroll, and my heart. A picture of Brad, only wearing the tightest of swimming trunks. He’s deeply tanned—summer evidently loves his body—and I’m staring at his bare torso, the dusting of dark hair on his lower stomach and upper thighs, with mouth gone dry.

I glance furtively around the shadowy room, guilt filtering through my veins. As if I’m about to find either my sister or her roommate has crept up behind me and is snooping over my shoulder. Fortunately for my private moment of temptation, there’s only me and the glow of my phone illuminating my chest and forearms.

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I realize something else isn’t quite illuminated but is stirring to life. A very obvious physical response to seeing him dripping wet and practically naked on my phone screen and all those memories of his mouth and his eyes, and oh god, the inevitable happens. My dick leaps to attention.