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A cold breeze blew through the area, rustling up the red hued sand and flinging it past her face. “Sorry,” she muttered as she stepped closer to the horse.
“His name is Whisper,” Sally said as she proudly stroked the horse’s flank. His sleek black muscles shifted under her hand. His huge head swiveled around, and June came face to face with some seriously beautiful big brown eyes.
She extended a hand and slowly rubbed it down the horse’s face, stopping at the velvet of his nose, where little hairs sprouted up to tickle her palm. He stood patiently, like a good boy. He didn’t move or scare her or try and bite her.
“He might be big, but he’s a gentle giant.” Sally grinned. “Do you want help getting up?” She indicated the stairs that Jaz and Mandy used.
“No, I think I can do it.” June swallowed hard. She angled around the horse until the stirrup and saddle was in view. She reached up but wasn’t able to grip the same part sticking out that Brock had. She didn’t even know what that thing was called. She was able to rest her hand on the leather though. She kept it there while she fit one runner into the stirrup. She took a deep breath and swung up. As she did, her hand curled around the handle thing on the saddle and she pulled herself in. She let out a little gasp of triumph. When she looked up, she was dismayed, and oddly, a little proud, to find Brock’s blue eyes focused on her. He’d watched her, and she’d made it up by herself.
He didn’t tear his eyes away and slowly, his lips quirked up at the corners. He assessed her openly and frankly, which caused heat to erupt in her stomach like someone had just thrown a container of gas on the embers of a fire that shouldn’t still be burning. It should never have been lit in the first place.
June was relieved when Sally mounted her own horse and rode to the front of the pack. Brock’s eyes changed. The heat in them was unmistakable and he smirked at her, like he knew she’d rather be riding something that wasn’t a horse at all.
Not unless over six feet of muscle counted.
Damn it! I do not want to taste him and I sure as hell don’t want to ride him.
Even after Brock turned and guided her horse out, even after she led Whisper behind him, she was annoyingly turned on. Over nothing! If all it took was one look, she was in serious trouble. It wasn’t just the cold breeze that kicked dust into her eyes and stung her cheeks that caused her nipples to harden against her bra. She certainly couldn’t blame the hard chafe of the saddle for the burn between her legs. It didn’t help that for half the ride, she had to focus on trying not to notice how incredible Brock looked in that saddle, muscles ripping, shoulders flexing, his ass bouncing up and down in those evil, sinful, wicked, horrible jeans. It should be illegal for jeans to look that good. Or for that matter, for any man riding a horse to be that incredible.
Man, I’m screwed up.
A gust of wind kicked up again, driving sand into the very pores of her face. June grimaced and put her head down. The trail, which was just a long stretch of desert, a few hills, neat desert looking plants, and a hell of a lot of sand, seemed to go on forever.
She’d worn a sweater and a jacket, but seeing as it was November, it was rather cold in Vegas. Not at all like the sweltering picture she was promised on the internet. She’d thought her vacay would be spent relaxing by the pool side and was disappointed, and a little embarrassed, to find out that most pools were closed unless they were indoors.
Even with her extra layers of clothes, the wind bit right into her skin. It was so cold her teeth chattered. She couldn’t help it. She lived in San Diego. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually been freezing. Then again, she also lived in the city. It wasn’t wide open like the trail they walked at a snail’s pace.
It was laughable that she’d feared falling off the horse or it going wild. The pace was far too slow for that. She wished they could kick it up on a notch and get the hell back to where it was warm.
She raised her head and glanced at Brock’s back. He was tucked down low, one hand on the horse, the other shielding his eyes.
It gave her a perverse amount of satisfaction that he was blinded by the grit just like the rest of them. She cursed him for making her come on this horrible ride. The horse was fine, but the cold and the wind and the sand was unbearable. Who needs dinner when we’ve feasted on the delicious desert dirt all afternoon?
