the middle. The horse did the rest. Indie knew where to step, when and why, and that left Kenzie with less to do than fans might believe. Yet riding Indie always provided a thrill—almost as much as the man currently lingering in the doorway.
Every inch of Ty Covington’s six-three frame was delectable. She wanted to run her tongue through the hollow at the base of his throat...again. She wanted to taste the salt and sunshine on his skin...again. She wanted to nibble her way to the waistline of his jeans and dip her fingers below the band of his boxer briefs, tease the root of his arousal before taking him...again.
It dawned on Kenzie that she should probably spare them both the public humiliation and turn the hose on herself before she mentally stripped Ty naked. Face flushed, she pulled her hat off and ran Indie’s polishing rag over her head, wiping away the excess sweat. Not much she could do about the shortness of breath or the way her nipples pearled beneath her T-shirt. That was simply the way she responded to Ty. Each time. Every time.
Aware it wouldn’t take the man long to pick up on her interest, she focused on tasks that would keep the horse between them. But Ty, being Ty, managed to charm the female in Indie, moving her away from her hay net to accept the small pieces of apple Ty offered. The horse’s move left Kenzie with a head-to-toe view of the cowboy.
She was torn between thanking the gods for his perfection and cursing the same deities for the distraction the man created by simply being. Broad shoulders, a muscular build, dirty-blond hair that was a good four weeks past the point of trimming, brown eyes richer than the most expensive chocolate, large hands, strong jaw and lips made for kissing—all things that drew her. But what really flipped her switch was his confidence. True confidence, though, not arrogance.
For a man who looked the way he did and had so many notches in his bedpost it resembled a totem pole, that was saying something. And as if that weren’t attractive enough, she had to include his sense of humor, compassion, friendliness and easy compatibility—in public, but particularly in private. It was the recipe for the perfect man. Or would have been, save one thing.
Tyson Covington couldn’t stand postsex anything. No cuddling. No pillow talk. She’d never had the chance to wake up to his sleep-rumpled face the next morning because he’d never spent the night. He made a mad dash for the door before she could ask him to stay. It had started out as a relief. Now? Kenzie wasn’t as comfortable about his urgency to get out of her room once they were both satisfied. And it was always her room.
She turned away from him, worrying her bottom lip with such ferocity it hurt.
“It’s not like you to turn your back on me, Malone.” From her peripheral vision, she watched the man step closer and tip the brim of his hat up to better reveal those dark brown eyes. “What’s bothering you?”
The simple question, so softly worded, totally caught her off guard. He’d always been playful. This quiet concern was new, and it threw her off her game. It was the only reason she had for answering, “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“You.” Heat rushed across her cheeks. This wasn’t how they worked, and she doubted he’d take the change well.
She didn’t see him move, but suddenly he’d spun her around and pressed the front of her body against the darkest corner of the stall wall. Running his hands up her arms, he stretched her out, her wrists captured in one hand.
Kenzie yanked on her wrists and arched her back.
Ty kicked her feet wide and, bending at the knees, rubbed the ridge of his impressive erection up and down the seam of her ass. Bending forward to cover her, his lips brushed the edge of her ear as he spoke. “Ground rules stay the same as those we set at regionals. Winner gets his—or her—fantasy night. Or do you want to modify the game for the big show?”
His hot breath tickled her ear and made her shiver.
Her body responded of its own accord, her back arching again to better present her ass, her arms pulling against his hands, her head canting farther to the side so he might have better access to her neck. His actions fed a primal need in her to be taken, claimed, while her mind screamed that they were in public, could be caught. And wasn’t that the crux of being with Ty? There was always a risk, always that touch of spontaneity that was his calling card, that thing that always made sex as fun as it was pleasurable.
Ty let her neck go without warning. Then he stretched her arms higher, forcing her to move to follow them up the wall. “When did little Kenzie Malone decide she liked a little exhibitionism?” he whispered, moist lips barely brushing the top of her ear.
“When did the cowboy who established love ’em and leave ’em decide to stick around long enough to do it right?” she countered.
Ty grabbed her hip and spun her to face him. Wedging a thigh between her legs, he rubbed against her sex with firm strokes. Not once did he tear his gaze from hers. “Where’s this coming from, Kenzie?”
“If you’d park your boots beside the bed instead of being so damn afraid to take them off at all, I would imagine there would be a lot you’d learn about the women you call ‘lover,’ Covington. Including me.” The brazen statement held within it a poorly disguised challenge, one he clearly heard.
He hauled his body back, eyes wide, and let go of her arms before spinning for the door and stalking out.
She never had the chance to ask him to stay.
THE NIGHT WAS passing slower than any Ty could remember. The second hand on the clock ticked and paused, ticked and paused, seemingly searching for the energy to tick again. He tossed and turned, went down to check on Gizmo, then went back up to his hotel room to toss and turn again. He needed to blow off a little steam, and sex was his preferred method.
And his mind was locked on one particular redhead, a woman he’d had numerous times but never could get out of his system.
It wasn’t as though Ty was actually into exhibitionism. He’d just wanted to push the fringes of experience and try something new, and she’d always been safe—as well as seriously fun—to play with. And bless the powers that be, darling Kenzie hadn’t balked. His pulse quickened. Hell, if anything, she’d asked him for more. But he hadn’t been certain how much “more” was wise in the barn.
He’d also had a fleeting moment of insecurity, wondering if she’d want more of what he’d offered just then or more of him in general. The former he could provide, and gladly. He’d always liked women, had always been insistent that everyone left satisfied. But him offering more than what the moment afforded all parties? No. That type of “more” had never been on the table. Ever.
His rolled over and punched his pillow.
Earlier, the competitors had drawn for their bracket positions, and he’d drawn third out of fifty riders. It was a crappy pick. He’d have much preferred to ride somewhere between thirtieth and thirty-fifth so he knew how hard to push Gizmo and how much showmanship was required to keep his horse in the top ten while still preserving enough energy to really clean up if he was called to a tiebreaker.
Flopping onto his back, he stared at the shadowed ceiling. Insomnia sucked. Bad. Insomnia alone sucked worse. He really needed some feminine company to get his mind off all the people who’d be watching him and Gizmo, both live and on TV. The pressure of those anticipated stares grew heavy in the silence,
