SIERRA WANTED TO hate that he’d used her words against her, but irritation couldn’t stand in the face of the heat that radiated from the center of her chest at hearing how he had taken them in and respected them enough to find the deeper meaning in them.
It was...romantic.
Like the night in the hotel room had been, and their walk in New Orleans had been, and the late-night sandwich and beer that she should never have stopped by and refused to stop knocking for had been. The way he listened to the things she said, heard what was on the surface of them as well as listening for what lay beneath, was romantic.
And just like she’d known from the beginning, that made it dangerous.
She had no business being in his RV.
But just like her academic dreams, it was too late to do anything about it.
She was here, and worse, she was happy about it.
Her belly was full, her mind at ease and her companion both gorgeous and intelligent.
It was no wonder that she had stayed longer than she was supposed to.
And now they were sitting too close together, both of them dressed too casually.
The beer pleasantly buzzed in her veins and he had just called her pretty and powerful and she realized she wanted to kiss him.
She had soothed the knots out of his muscles, in the process affirming to herself that she was both proud of his ride and concerned for his suffering, and now, as if they were something to each other, she wanted him to soothe and reassure her with his lips.
But in reality, they were nothing to each other.
Or, if not nothing, at best barely friends—certainly not a man and woman with the right and freedom to press their lips together and close their eyes.
She needed to get the hell out of here.
“I should get going,” she said with a swallow.
Disappointment flashed across his eyes, before being chased away by shrewdness. “You should never have come by in the first place. Now that the shoulds are out of the way, what are you going to do?” he challenged.
He was a challenger and pusher. He was the kind of man who drew out either the best or the worst from everything and everyone around him, and she suspected he knew no other way to be.
But what did it mean that she didn’t want him to be any different? What did it mean that she liked him just the way he was?
She appreciated that he was bold enough to just say what he really thought, and that he respected those he loved enough to trust they could handle whatever unvarnished truth he had to dish out at any given moment.
She liked it as much as she liked that his sarcasm and wit hid a spirit that was attentive to the most minute detail and nurturing enough to speak up when necessary.
She liked his integrity, and that he drew and demanded the same quality from her.
“I’m going to kiss you,” she said, reveling in the fact that his eyes widened in surprise.
“Is that a good idea?” he asked after a beat, and because the blood was high and rushing in her veins, she could appreciate his unwillingness to have her with anything less than absolute honesty.
“No,” she said, leaning closer, “but neither is riding upside down on a horse.”
And then she pressed her lips against his.
His full lips were soft, warm and firm—an irresistible erotic combination that lured her to go deeper.
As if he could read the trail of her thoughts, he opened for her, allowing her to explore his mouth according to her desire, all the time beautifully responsive to her lead.
He tasted like Cuba at sixteen—salty but also sweet, intoxicating, like drinking on the beach with her cousins, a world away from everything ordinary but somehow home nonetheless.
She brought her hands to his face, her fingers tracing his jaw, rejoicing in the texture of his neatly trimmed facial hair, even as she basked in the sensation of touching him this way.
They were irrefutably in the realm of desire and attraction with the danger of taking things too far clear and present.
He let her have her way with him like that for a time, following her lead with the same easy self-satisfaction that both infuriated and intrigued her, kissing deeply when she went deep, teasing and flirting with her lips when she pulled back, catching her bottom lip between his teeth tantalizingly, his mouth following hers according to her desire.
His lips were soft and sensual but steel beneath. His hands, coming to her body to roam like rough silk, branded her through her clothing like delectable irons.
His scent—leather and pine and cocoa—threatened to overwhelm her, nearly carrying her away on a dangerous sensual wave.
And when she could handle it no more, he took over the reins.
One hand reached around her head to clasp the back of her skull, pulling her into his kiss, while the other came around to support the small of her back, as she arched her breasts up to press against his chest.
The grip of those rough hands, a grip that’d only hours earlier been the only thing standing between him and being thrown by a thousand-plus-pound beast, was gentle, butterfly light, as it traveled down the back of her head and neck and along her jaw to tilt her face upward and deepen their kiss.
He captivated her with his lips, no longer content to follow but demanding her full surrender, daring her tongue into a dance with his.
He was masterful with his mouth, directing her where he wanted them to go, leading her down avenues that left her blood rushing and body pulsing to a rhythm that didn’t originate in her heart—until she found herself straining toward him, arms clinging to his upper body, fingers twisting and tugging at his shirt.
If she’d been carried away by the sensation and power of kissing him before, now she was submerged in the flood of being kissed by him.
His body was large and warm, but he could have been rangy and slight and it wouldn’t have lessened the energy he exuded now. This was expertise, utterly assured and confident—a thrumming aura of power that clung to him in the arena and, she imagined, in the courtroom.
It struck her that there likely wasn’t a force on earth that was truly a match for Diablo Sosa.
It crossed her mind that straddling all that power would not be unlike riding a bull and she adjusted her position, rearranging her body ever closer to the reality of it, testing and pushing the boundaries in eagerness for what would be an entirely private performance.
He was a hurricane, and like the good Florida girl she was, she was well aware of the fact that the only thing to do in the face of a hurricane was to batten the hatches, buckle down and hang on.
Not throwing caution to the wind so much as ripping it to shreds with gale-force winds, she pressed into his kiss, surprising herself with a moan.
Caution was no longer any match for what blazed between them.
No one had seen her creeping to his place, and they wouldn’t have recognized her anyway if they had. The risk was taken, so why hold back on the reward?
He smiled into her mouth and it knocked the wind out of her.
Tasting his joy, wicked and playful, was easily one of the most erotic experiences of her life.
Finally, she gave in to the urge to rest her weight on him, her body not collapsing so much as melting into his, with a sigh.
He held her close, arms wrapping around to squeeze her in an embrace that was equal parts comforting and arousing, enveloping her even more in everything that was him—a tidal wave she was eager to be lost to.
And then he stopped.
Abruptly set adrift, it took her mind precious minutes to reset, minutes he spent gently rearranging their bodies, so they once again sat separately on the bench.
He’d come to his senses in the nick of time. The bastard.
Heat and irritation warred with embarrassment throughout her system. Here, at least, was a sensory experience she was familiar with. As a middle sister, she was well practiced with the experience of irritation and anger mingling with shame and embarrassment.
Narrowing her eyes, she opened her mouth, but he beat her to speaking.
“As good as you taste, queenie, I don’t think now is a good time to take this any further,” he said, his expression serious. “Now, don’t get me wrong,” he said, “after today I’m tempted enough myself that if you want to revisit this after some thought by the light of day, I’m your man. But let’s not let it be said that the sandwiches carried us away. If we’re going to do this, it’s because we’ve thought it through.”
She was grateful he told a joke because it gave her a reason to force a laugh, releasing at least some of the tangled tension and pressure trapped inside her.
He was right, of course, and it was thoughtful and measured of him to even pump the brakes and point it out.
Honestly, she should have been the one to point it out.
But his being a gentleman didn’t seem to matter when it came to the mortifying sting in her eyes.
And if she should have never stopped by in the first place, then she most definitely should be on her way back to her own vehicle now.
“It’s way past my bedtime, that’s for sure. I’m going to sneak on back,” she said once she’d gotten a better handle on things. She didn’t use the word should. She had learned her lesson on that already tonight, and though she couldn’t seem to stop herself from playing with fire with him, she was normally pretty quick on the uptick.
“Thanks again for the sandwich,” she added, standing and adjusting her clothes.
Shaking his head, he said, “No problem. It was my pleasure.”
The words hit the air rather bluntly, but Sierra suspected that had been his intention. It wasn’t her, he was saying, it was her job.
She’d heard that one before.
And, really, she appreciated his attentiveness to that. She did.
Or maybe she would. Tomorrow.
Right now she wished she were already back in her own RV.
As it was, at least her walk of shame to his front door was only going to be a few steps. Turning once she got there, she gave an odd little side wave and said, “See you around.”
Eyeing her, his eyebrows drawn low and slightly together above, he gave a single nod. “See you around, Sierra.”
And then she hurried outside, shutting the door quietly behind her.
A glance at her phone told her it was past three-thirty in the morning now, and all of a sudden she could feel it—along with the rest of her overcrowded day.
She’d toured New Orleans, ridden her heart out, MC’d a great opening night and enjoyed a late-night clandestine sandwich with a cowboy.
She’d also come on to a coworker in violation of her contract. And she’d thought she’d grown too old for firsts.
Closing her eyes as she crossed the last of the distance between the competitors’ parking area and hers, she sighed and unlocked her door.
It wasn’t only well past her bedtime, it was well past her time overall.
She was too old to be sneaking around parking lots and cramped quarters late at night and for standing on top of horses. And she was too old to be scuttling away from a man she wanted because her job said she had to be a perpetual virgin.
She was grown and, at the moment, tired of it all.
She could do what she wanted.
But that wasn’t true.
And if tonight had proven anything, it proved that she needed to shape up and get a little more careful about Diablo Sosa if she didn’t want to see her long and illustrious career go up in flames.
She had no business getting involved with Diablo Sosa—not his rides, not his wit, not his suits, not his sandwiches and certainly not his kisses.
So she would keep her distance moving forward, and everything would settle down just fine. Decision made, she smiled. It was only a matter of time before things snapped back to normal and Diablo was nothing more than another Closed Circuit contestant to her.
THE NEXT MORNING the caravan hit the road at 9:00 a.m., which was painfully early to the opinion of Sierra’s still fuzzy and tired eyes but actually counted as sleeping in to the rodeo queen.
Hauling horses and ass around the country required a lot of early mornings.
Because of the late night, coupled with the wake-up time required if she wanted to hit the road looking like a rodeo queen and not a long-haul trucker, she had gone with her most low-maintenance look for the day.
Blue jeans, brown boots and belt, a red-and-white gingham Western shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps and red piping, a low and curled ponytail and her white hat with the Closed Circuit crown. She looked simple and sweet enough to take back home to mama.
Perfect for hiding the fact that her compression garments were holding in a bit more bloat than usual this morning because of her late-night sandwich and beer. Her concealer and Nude Attitude lipstick hid the dark circles under her eyes and the impressions of Diablo’s kiss.
They set out beneath an overcast Louisiana sky, on their way to Miami, another town, and another show.
By the light of day—hidden though it was behind hot, wet clouds—what Diablo’d said the night before now seemed at least equal in importance to the pulling back itself.
Unlike the night in the hotel, he hadn’t closed the door on the possibility. No, this time he’d said, If you want to... I’m your man.
I’m your man.
If she said go, Diablo could be her man. They’d have to sneak and hide and never let anyone know, but they could have each other.
The idea had never been appealing before. Why take on the risk and put in all the effort for a shadow of a relationship? No man had ever been worth endangering her career before.
A rodeo queen, particularly an active one, was to be a sexless maiden—utterly removed from the carnal pleasures of life in her dedication to horses and rodeo.
She’d followed that maxim to the T in her career, dating, and unsatisfyingly at that, only during the brief interim periods she’d had between crowns.
Yes, she’d seen countless queens balance and navigate their clandestine relationships and maintain their careers, but she’d seen just as many go down in shame.
And this wasn’t just any rodeo. It was The Closed Circuit, the rodeo unlike any other.
It was one thing to pull off a secret relationship when her rodeo duties were confined to individual events that were spaced apart by business days and seasons, rather than round-the-clock duty broken up by short blocks of time off and long stretches of road.
Meeting with Diablo would require a level of creativity and recklessness unlike anything she’d ever attempted.
Was she willing to deal with all that resistance and aggravation to have him? Was it worth it?
Having tossed and turned for a few hours in a poor impression of sleep, her mind returning again and again to the sensation of Diablo’s hands on her body, she acknowledged that she didn’t have much of a choice. Even now, halfway through the longest drive of the tour, she remained completely unable to get Diablo off her mind.
At this point it was a matter of either nurturing a real thing, or walking away completely. When it came to Diablo, she realized, she had neither the time nor the patience for a crush. It wasn’t enough to watch him from a safe distance while toeing the line of her job. She wanted the mess and the risk of going all the way with him or she wanted to leave him alone. And since her mind wasn’t willing to do the latter, it only left her with the former.
“Message Diablo,” she said out loud, and the RV smart dashboard came to bright, back-lit life.
“What message would you like me to send to Diablo?” the cheerful computerized voice asked in response.
Sierra hesitated, strangely shy and a little paranoid, to have a witness in her exchange with Diablo—even just an electronic witness. What if she accidentally messaged the wrong person?
It would be all too easy to make a mistake like that.
Second-guessing herself, she hesitated.
Was the reward worth the risk?
But Diablo understood rodeo. And he understood contracts, and the expectations of her job. He understood all of that, and he’d said he was her man, if she wanted.
Diablo was a grown-ass man.
And not just a grown-ass man but a gorgeous one with a razor-sharp mind who knew how to ride and didn’t seem to mind a powerful woman with her own interests.
When she put it that way, pursuing him didn’t seem so much like taking a complicated risk, as it did being pragmatic. Diablo knew the score and was willing anyway. Diablo was a safe bet.
“Say, ‘after some thought, I would like to revisit,’” Sierra instructed the RV smart assistant.
“Message ready. Shall I send?” the automated voice asked, flashing the text across the display screen in the center console.
Reading it, seeing her words reflected back at her in bold white typeface and large print, brought heat to Sierra’s cheeks, and her stomach did a somersault.
What would it do to him?
What would he think when he read it?
What if the light of day had not brought him renewed interest, but regret?
There was only one way to find out.
“Send,” she said, and the word had a period at the end.
Moments later the animated voice returned. “Diablo has sent you a message. Would you like to see it?”
Realizing her palms were clammy, Sierra laughed at herself. It wasn’t the first time in her life that she had expressed interest in someone, so why did she feel like she was thirteen years old all over again?
“Yes, please,” she said, making a token effort, at least, to sound normal and nonchalant about it—even if there was no one but an automated assistant around to hear her.
Where’re we meeting? his message said.
Sierra’s heart rate increased and she realized she was squeezing the wheel a little too hard and grinning maniacally.
Unwinding her fingers, grateful for the cushioned grip of the wheel, she pursed her lips, exhaling through them to steady herself.
Then she said, “Reply, ‘Crandon Park, carousel. I planned a hike for the day off.’”
“Reply ready. Shall I send?” the RV asked.
Nodding, Sierra said, “Send.”
The tour was headed to Miami, where the first challenge show would take place.
After the fiasco that had been the final teams coming in from the first overnight challenge last season, the showrunners had reconceptualized the challenges into events that could be presented in a single night like regular shows on the tour. This season the challenge shows were scheduled to take place between each rough-stock presentation, and the whole thing was a lot more streamlined.
“Message received from Diablo,” the RV chimed.
“Display it,” Sierra said quickly.
It read: I assume this hike is well reviewed?
Laughing out loud, Sierra said, “Reply, ‘in fact, it is. Remember what I told you about wasting my time,’” and the RV did just that.
His next message came back quickly after hers went out, and she snorted reading it.
My hourly rates are exorbitant, but rest assured, I have the customer satisfaction ratings to back them up.
If his kiss from the night before had been any indication, she was willing to bet that he did.
She wondered if there was anything that Diablo wasn’t good at. Her sneaking suspicion was that the answer was no.
As if the proverbial seal had been broken, accepting that something between them was going to happen unleashed her mental floodgates, and the cascade of impressions and thoughts about Diablo, which she had been repressing and denying, washed over her in full force.
The way he’d looked the first night he’d sauntered over to her, cocky and confident at the first season finale.
His one-sided grins, his unflinching integrity, his over-the-top physical perfection.
The way he made her feel beautiful in contexts in which she had only ever felt underdressed and plain before.
It stood out, she realized as she drove, that things with Diablo tended to be flipped.
Being in his presence in rodeo-queen attire had a way of making her conscious of the costume-like nature of it all.
Without ever saying as much, he drew her attention to the notion that regardless of the fact that it was all planned and intentional, and that she looked damn good, it was also true that she was, when it came down to it, overdressed and promoting, among other things, a few ideas that she didn’t agree with.
He reminded her of the kinds of things that she had done a good job of ignoring and pushing to the back of her mind, or out of it entirely, because they didn’t match with her idea of what she saw as an evolving rodeo world. Without trying to, he reminded her that her rodeo experience hadn’t been all crowns and congratulations, but that it had also included smiling and conforming in the face of sexism and colorism, as well as retreating over and over again to the idea that—without effort or discussion—the prejudice and problems of rodeo were always “getting better.”
Diablo made her see how naive that was.
For years she had said, with complete honesty, that she felt more like herself dressed up as a rodeo queen than she did at home on the couch, but when she was with Diablo, it was in her couch clothes that she felt most legitimate.
But if he flipped the world on its head, he also presented a backward picture himself.
He was a cowboy beneath his suits and dry swagger—through and through.
She might have missed it initially, but she knew cowboys well enough to know that he was not merely a weekend dabbler, but grit personified, encased and hardened into pearl.