Ride 'Em (A Giddyup Novel) Page 5

  Oh.

  He was so stunned he stopped in the path halfway between the cabins and the trailhead, then whirled to look back through the gloom at the warm glow from the window he knew was hers.

  The way she’d offered her hand. The way her pupils had been blown the few times she’d lifted her gaze from the floor. The way she’d seemed to become more relaxed, not less, by the restraints and his manhandling.

  Sir.

  No. Nope. No way could he let himself think what he was thinking, not even for a second. Because it was just wishful, that was all, wishful thinking he had no call to be doing about Treacherous Mindy. No. The high school cheerleader crush-from-afar did not walk back into your life a decade later and turn out to be a kinkster.

  Much less a submissive. Bottom to his top. Yin to his kinky yang.

  Impossible.

  And even if she were, which she was not, it wouldn’t matter. Because treachery.

  His right hand ached, and he realized he’d been clenching it into a fist. He forced the fingers to relax and turned resolutely back toward the main house. With every step away from her cabin, though, he felt a stronger and stronger pull to turn around.

  Allison had been about compromise; she’d fit so neatly into his day-to-day life in so many ways, been so perfect on paper. The right background, the right job schedule and career goals, similar tastes in movies and games, friends he got along with . . . But their kinks had never quite matched up. There’d always been tension, that little something off. It had never been effortless, and that was the gold standard, wasn’t it? Wanting that—the possibility of that—drew his mind back again and again to the feel of Mindy’s body against his, the way she’d offered herself, the sounds she’d made that seemed perfectly attuned to his libido.

  Because he had willpower, he kept walking. But by the time he reached the front porch, he’d given up on giving it up. He grudgingly took a seat on the creaking swing to the left of the door, making the most of the cooling breeze as he let his mind pick things over. Mindy might stay the week, might not. If she did, he needed to have a plan for dealing with her, some kind of attitude he could adopt that would make the whole situation more manageable.

  Show her who’s boss.

  No, no, no . . . Okay, well, yes.

  Logan was no pickup artist. But he’d had enough management training in his old job to know something about dealing with people, and he knew that you often had to start with whatever dynamic was already there. Mindy might not be a sub, but she reacted like one. And he was a Dom. So what did that natural dynamic tell him to do?

  He clamped down on the first several lurid images that came to mind, and cranked his mind back to possibilities that wouldn’t shock the other guests. What flavor of not-a-sub was Mindy? In the barn she’d been anxious, penitent, and—annoyed as he’d been with her, suspicious though he still was, he had to give credit where it was due—not actually a brat. She never had been one of those. Thinking back, he recalled her in high school. Cheerleading, but also driving over to Kerrville to volunteer at the hospital. And part of the group that went to the elementary schools to read to the little kids. Even now, the thing with her stepfather—she was spirited, enthusiastic, but almost ridiculously eager to please.

  Service sub. Or rather . . . a person who liked service. Liked to have a job to do, to feel she was helping somebody. Maybe even liked to lose herself in that a little. He could use that. Put her to work—using the fact that she was an old high school friend to excuse his presumption to the other guests, if necessary. She would feel useful, he would get some free work out of it, and if it wasn’t entirely ethical on his part . . . well, she would never know he was kind of getting off on it, would she? And if she didn’t like it, she could always leave. Nothing skeezy about that. As a bonus, sending her on little errands around the place would also get her out of his sight for chunks of time. Depending, of course, on the errands.

  If circumstances were different, he would send her out to cut her own switch. Then have her bring it to him, present it, present herself. He could almost see the brilliant ladder of marks he would leave with a slender wand of oak, almost feel the resistance of her creamy skin as he slapped the wood in a careful, symmetrical pattern. It was tricky not to break the skin with a switch, and splinters were a concern, so he’d have to resist the follow-through. Although maybe, just at the end, right across the sweetest curve of her beautiful ass, he’d let it fly. Make her fly. Cut through the surface and let her know she’d paid in full for whatever she’d done. And then he’d fuck her until he couldn’t see straight.

  The disgruntled ache in his groin reminded him this train of thought was going nowhere helpful. Well, maybe he wasn’t ten kinds of fool after all. He was mostly only one: the kind who thought with his dick.

  Sighing, he pushed off with his feet, setting the swing in motion again, and tried to think about the ranch’s profit-and-loss statements instead of Mindy Valek’s ass.

  * * *

  “You and me, Moose. You and me.”

  The spider didn’t answer. He seemed content to hang in his web, scarcely moving. There were already some rips and suspiciously lumpy spots in the gossamer, so she assumed Moose had fed for the evening. She really didn’t want to sleep with him in the cabin, but since the alternative seemed to be heading to the main house for assistance . . .

  “You just stay on your side, dude. Invisible wall, right here.” She gestured, knowing it was pointless, but still too much a child of the media to completely rule out that the spider might somehow understand. Moose might come to cartoon life in the night, to croon supportive lullabies. Or weave her a magical garment. Who was she, in her heart of hearts, to deny the power of these fantasies?

  On the other hand, it was a Texas spider—a big, fat, small-town good ol’ boy—so more likely it would come to life spouting misogyny and burping up a Shiner. She didn’t want to be in that cartoon. But she’d chance it rather than risk running into Logan again.

  Mindy’s stomach growled, reminding her of the dinner she’d skipped. Stupid. Stubborn, because she did plan to stay the week. But stupid, because she knew all it would lead to was hopeless fantasizing.

  Logan. Those stern, steely eyes. The leather around her wrist, his hands strong and irresistible as he secured her to the shelf bracket. Shivering, Mindy raised a hand to her face, touching the stubble burn by her lower lip and sighing—then covering her mouth as though silencing herself could somehow stifle the imagery in her brain. Or the memory of the smells—the leather, the saddle soap, the hay and sweet oats, the eau de Logan she could still detect on her own T-shirt.

  Possibly that part was in her own head. There was no way his scent could linger longer than horse. But wasn’t the mindfuck the most powerful kind?

  Her own imagination lent Logan powers she knew he probably didn’t have. Even better bondage skills, for instance. She’d already mentally revised the barn scenario, tossing out the mismatched restraints to feature leather ties on both wrists, and halter ropes securing her ankles to . . . something. Didn’t matter. It was going in the spank bank, ranking right up there with the impersonal-Dominant-stranger-in-the-motel-room-with-the-businesssman-friend fantasy. She wasn’t proud of that, but she wasn’t going to apologize or lie to herself, either. That ten minutes or so in the barn with Logan Hill had been so hot she was still reeling from it.

  Or maybe that was the hunger. Her stomach roared audibly, and Mindy growled back at it. There was no way she’d make it through the night. And she didn’t have so much as a granola bar in her purse.

  “Shit.”

  In theory, guests were welcome in the main kitchen between meals—it had been part of the grand tour. There were chips and fruit to snack on, and cold cuts for sandwiches. A big cooler of soda and water bottles. All part of the down-home charm. Logan had never stated a closing time. Probably an oversight on his part, but still, it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Picking up the flashlight, she stepped out the front doo
r and glanced up the trail to the top of the hill. Lights were still on at the big house. They beckoned, whispering to her of warmth and food.

  Deciding to chance it, she locked the door behind her and flicked the flashlight on. A few yards away, a startled armadillo scuffled off the path into the scrub. It was unusual to see a live one, and she wondered if it was a good or bad omen.

  Bad, she decided retroactively as she hit the trailhead and scanned across the wide yard to the main house’s front porch. Even facing mostly away, obscured by the porch pillar and the back of the swing, Logan was clearly recognizable by his blue plaid shirt and his golden-blond hair. Ridiculous how it formed gentle waves wherever it was long enough, but didn’t seem to frizz. And his eyelashes, long and dark despite his blond coloring, while her own were so pale they were practically invisible without mascara. Unfair things. But life was full of those.

  A ruthless landman would be standing there in the darkness, contemplating how to turn the whole situation into the ideal negotiation. Use the casual setting to disarm the other party. Find common ground. Learn what they needed, what they were lacking. But really, all Mindy could think about was the prospect of a sandwich. Probably the cutthroat businessperson should remember to pack emergency granola bars.

  She was halfway across the yard when he spotted her, and a thick blanket of awkwardness fell over the scene as he watched her approach. She expected him to stand—good manners and all that—but apparently he was done with cordiality for the night. At the bottom step she stopped, feeling like she was petitioning for entrance to the inner sanctum. If she’d made it across the side yard unseen she could have detoured toward the side of the house and gone in through the kitchen door with nobody the wiser, but probably this encounter was inevitable. It had that feeling.

  “Mindy. What do you need?”

  So. Definitely done with cordiality.

  “I wanted to know if I could still get a sandwich?” When he just lifted his eyebrows, looking mildly surprised, she reminded him, “I skipped dinner.”

  “Right.” Reluctantly, he stood and opened the door for her, gesturing her through.

  She couldn’t resist a sniff as she passed him, but only caught the faintest hint of the smell that had lingered so tantalizingly on her shirt earlier. It was all she could do to resist rubbing a hand across his chest, or leaning her forehead there the way she had earlier, when she’d cried like such an idiot.

  Logan seemed quieter now, more aloof than angry, and she felt his eyes on her as she led the way down the hall to the back of the house where the kitchen was located. She could hear movement elsewhere in the house, the sound of somebody typing, a television or something with the sound down low. But the kitchen was empty, only one industrial-style fixture over the giant farmhouse sink illuminating the space. The long butcher-block island was spotless, the stainless counters shone dully from the shadows, all the dishes were neatly stowed on shelves.

  “If the kitchen’s closed, I can—”

  “You need to eat.” He put a hand on her hip and gently nudged her from the doorway, then reached for the light switch, turning on the under-cabinet lights. “Ham, salami, or turkey?”

  He washed his hands before retrieving ingredients from the big commercial fridge, shooting options at her the whole time. Ham on rye, no cheese, no tomato. Mayo, mustard. Lettuce, sure, why not? Yes to onions, because they were kind of a statement that she didn’t expect any further kissing to happen.

  When all the components were out on the counter, he pulled down two plates and gestured to her, clearly expecting her to take over.

  “Oh, you want me to . . . um, sure. Just let me . . .” Late to the party, she washed her hands, then turned to the task of assembling both her own sandwich and a second one for Logan. She was nearly done by the time she realized she was actually making him a sandwich, not really what she’d planned for the evening. He’d already eaten dinner, presumably. But then he was a big guy—tall, rangy— and probably ripped through calories at a furious pace. Dude was probably hungry all the time.

  He watched her as she worked, and he looked hungry, to the extent she could bring herself to watch him back. Something about his face—the stern expression, probably—made her look down automatically, made her bow her head. If he hadn’t tied her up earlier, she might never have drawn the connection, but now she was thinking of him like a Dom, dammit, and she couldn’t get her body to stop responding accordingly.

  That didn’t mean she was okay with him tricking her into making him a sandwich, though. When she was done, she slid him the plate with a frown. “Mild coercion on rye, side of gender stereotype.”

  “My favorite.” He picked up the sandwich, not bothering to hide his grin. “Right outside that door is a whole world of consent, and nobody is stopping you.” He took a huge bite and munched, still smiling.

  She wished she could lose her appetite and stalk out, but it was far too late for that. She tucked into her own sandwich and suppressed a moan. It was really good ham, and the onions were the sweet kind. Heaven. As she chewed, she pondered what he’d said, the fact that he’d responded to the coercion charge by countering with consent. Interesting.

  It wouldn’t actually be so hard, would it, to find out whether he was kinky? Just drop a few key words and see if he picked up on it? If I say “safe,” you say . . .

  But did she really want to know? Would that make things better or infinitely worse?

  There he stood, leaning on the island, sexy even while taking a far-too-large bite from his rapidly dwindling sandwich. The only safe part about him was her assumption that he was as vanilla as a cream soda. Without that . . .

  A gentle throat-clearing broke the silence; Robert was leaning into the kitchen from the hallway, his feet still beyond the door frame.

  “May I come in, sir?”

  “Robert.”

  “Boss.”

  “Yes. Come on in.”

  Robert floated past, clearing the plate from in front of Logan and then swinging by to pick up hers before carrying both to the sink. Startled, she realized she’d finished her sandwich. She glanced at Logan, who was biting the side of his cheek and studiously staring up at the central light fixture.

  And . . . that was that, then. Sir. And permission. And if she hadn’t been there, she’d be willing to lay odds Robert would’ve engaged in a lot more protocol than that. Logan might be a subtle Dom, if he was one, but Robert was far from a subtle bottom. He had a rainbow key fob latched to his right-hand belt loop, and wore a thick metal choker-length necklace she’d assumed from the start was a street collar.

  That in itself hadn’t meant much, because it wouldn’t have flagged him to anyone not already kinky. But the fact that Logan had corrected his “sir,” that he had tied her up for what should have been a business conversation, had been so quick with an assurance about consent . . . too much smoke for there not to be a fire.

  And Lord, was there ever fire. She would probably regret confirming his status, because she would out herself in the process, and it would give him a certain amount of power over her if he was unscrupulous. On the other hand . . . so far, she’d been the unscrupulous one. So maybe by doing this, she would right the balance. Gripping the edge of the island, she exhaled, centering herself, then spoke softly.

  “If I say ‘safe,’ you say . . . ?”

  At the sink, Robert started whistling. The bridge from a certain Rihanna song. Of course. Had she just been willfully blind this whole time?

  Logan sighed, shooting a glare over his shoulder at his employee before leveling his gaze at Mindy. She made herself return it without flinching. She wasn’t his sub.

  Finally, after sighing again in clear exasperation, Logan answered. “I say, ‘risk-aware.’ And I also say it’s time for you to go back to your cabin. You’ll want to rest up for tomorrow.”

  Fair enough. She was trembling so hard she was afraid she’d lose the sandwich if she stayed, anyway. “Can I have a Coke to go?” />
  Little muscles all over Logan’s jawline tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “No. You may have a water bottle to go. The cooler’s right behind you.”

  She’d known that. What she didn’t know was why she’d asked permission for a Coke.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  She pulled up the lid, knowing she could take whatever she wanted out of the cooler. Knowing, too, that she would only take a water bottle.

  Retrieving her flashlight from the island, she headed for the back door this time. Logan moved behind her, picking up condiments to return to the fridge. Clearing all evidence of their bizarre, revelatory sandwich feast.

  Maybe he’d just wanted to be fueled up for the big day tomorrow, whatever that entailed. Funny, she didn’t recall anything particular on the schedule. Why should she need to rest up?

  With one hand on the knob, she turned to ask him about it. He was stopped next to the fridge, his eyes trained where her ass had been a moment before. Not just looking at it like he appreciated it—looking at it like he owned it.

  It should have been awkward. In any normal social context, it would have been. Except he made eye contact, with that stern look back on his face, and made a little pirouette gesture with his hand. Then dropped his eyes again, clearly waiting for her to turn around for him to ogle some more.

  The real decision point hadn’t been the Coke after all. It was this. Her blood rang in her ears, and she was barely aware of Robert’s whistling as he flipped the damp dish towel over his shoulder and sauntered out of the kitchen.

  Should she turn around, yank the door open, stalk off in a huff like she undoubtedly should? Or . . .

  She pivoted slowly on one foot, placed her free hand on the doorknob. . . and stopped.

  Logan took a step closer, and she could almost feel the heat of his body, his gaze. Long seconds ticked by. Sweat from the water bottle dripped down Mindy’s wrist, dampening the flashlight, as well, making it hard to keep a grip on both. Would he touch her?