After what felt like forever but was really only a matter of minutes, the gate swung open, and I headed up the long, winding driveway that led to the main resort building, where I wouldn’t be staying. A cabin awaited me, with a kitchen that I’d be able to cook in and two men I’d be able to serve.
It was almost like going home, well, would be if I still had a home to go back to. For a moment, I was hit with a pang of longing for the apartment I’d grown up sharing with my old man. Missing him was a constant, but missing that place had only started to hit after I’d lost my job and the constant rolling of Sterling’s RV.
The wide, covered porch was stunning, as was the bright multitude of colors in the receptionist’s hair.
“Welcome to Rawhide Ranch, I’m Luna. Moses will take care of your car and luggage. Let’s get you checked in.”
“Thank you. I love your hair; that’s an awesome array of colors.”
She smiled and preened for a second. “Thanks, I love it this way.”
“It’s easy to see why.”
Signing in made it all feel real, but what made my heart hammer the hardest was when she looked up from the computer screen with a cheery smile.
“You’re all set. I’ll let Master Thorin and Master Wylde know you’ve arrived, and they’ll be right up to get you.”
It took two gulps before I nodded and managed to reply. “Thanks.”
“You can have a seat if you’d like; it shouldn’t be too long.”
I was really doing this.
Wow.
Master Thorin and Master Wylde. My mind conjured up images of fierce, bearded men who resembled Vikings… or bikers. Vikings better suited the visage of the gate that had taken up residence in my imagination, while the mountains in the distance, heavily peppered with evergreens, made me think about lumberjacks.
Buff, plaid-wearing, burly Dom-bears with sawdust-covered floors for me to sweep and polish and hands like steel when they swatted my behind for messing up. Would it set the wrong tone to greet them needy and half-desperate to assume the duties that awaited me?
Even as a kid I’d loved doing chores. Having tasks to focus on had been a much-needed break from my overactive imagination. Creating, even for an audience of one, could sometimes be exhausting. Pressuring myself to get the images just right and being hypercritical of the stories I made up, those were all part of the artistic makeup, but they could have a hella draining aspect as well, especially now that I was doing it professionally.
Sterling had helped get the ball rolling for me, taught me how to navigate social media and how to build a platform and a brand, along with a website from which to launch my creations, and now I had a following. A demanding, slightly pushy following that sometimes sent my stress levels through the roof.
The thing was, I had a hard time stepping away from my drawing tablets and notepads unless I had something else to focus on. Something that needed to get done. Somethingwith consequences for a task left unfinished. Otherwise, my mind raced from one idea to the other, dissecting, tweaking, discarding, and restarting the process until I worked myself into a meltdown over every empty page.
“He’s right over here.”
Legs came into view first, encased in faded denim. One wore dusty leather boots splattered with something, the other scuffed cowboy boots. My fingers itched to take hold of one of the cleaning cloths in my bootblack kit and get to work cleaning them.
Eager to see their faces. I raised my head, imagination shifting the images around to remove plaid from the equation.
One wore a gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up tanned, muscular forearms; a black t-shirt with a bull riding a motorcycle emblazoned across it hugged the chest of the other.
A cowboy and a biker?
#score!
“Hi, I’m Payne; it’s nice to meet you both,” I said as I met their gazes, one a deep green hue, the other a stunning gray with flecks of blue.
“First off, wicked name, and secondly, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the one with the t-shirt said.
The way he saidpleasuremade my stomach clench, especially when he gripped my hand. Firm. Calloused. My rear end gave a needy twinge at the thought of him cracking me one with it.
“I’m Master Wylde,” he continued.
Which meant my cowboy was Master Thorin. I wondered if anyone called him Thor and even tried to picture him spinning a hammer, ready to dive into battle, but my traitorous brain conjured up an image of a clear Lexan paddle with holes in it, and my ass throbbed again.
New question. What tone would it set to be needy, eager to get to work, and horny as hell right from the jump?