She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mother.”
Those words strike at the sensitive sliver she created in me. “Not funny. You shouldn’t use that name as if I’m nagging you.”
“Can I call you Mom to be nice?” That hopeful lilt in her voice will be my undoing.
Shit. I hang my head, once again stepping into a big pile of manure. Metaphorically or not, I’m really stinking it up this morning.
“Frannie is better. Stick to that,” I murmur.
Her shoulders slump. “Fine.”
We find a rhythm after that. It doesn’t take long for me to realize riding is rather relaxing. I’m just going with the flow, rocking gently in the saddle. Ronnie seems happy to let silence rest between us. Greta’s fuzzy ears are forward, which I take as a good sign. That allows me to sit and enjoy the rustic scenery.
But then there’s a tingle across the nape of my neck, alerting me that we’re no longer alone. A sideways glance reveals Byron darkening one of the many doorways. His arms are stretched overhead in an incredibly sexy, masculine pose that makes me thirsty. I swear he’s standing like that on purpose. Even throughthe thick layer of his flannel jacket, I can envision the definition of muscle and control.
“Daddy!” Ronnie makes wild gestures with her arms when she should be focused on holding a horse. “Look, look! Frannie is riding.”
A gruff chuckle rumbles from the cowboy. “I can’t believe my eyes.”
“What? You don’t see her? She’s right here.” The little girl points at where I’m purposely avoiding Byron’s stare.
I haven’t been able to look at him since he double fucked me. My vagina was down to pound, but I didn’t anticipate him screwing my mind too. After Byron shattered my orgasmic sexpectations, a familiar sense of panic rushed in and I needed to escape.
Sex isn’t supposed to mean anything. It serves a purpose, such as giving a quick endorphin boost or dragging out secrets from an enemy. Byron made me feel too much and I’m not referring to the persistent ache between my legs.
That urgency to flee still pulses through me. My heart thunders like a herd of hoofbeats as his presence appears beside me and I’m no longer able to ignore him. A cloud of his crisp winter forest scent assaults me. He must’ve showered recently. Images of him drenched under the hot spray attempt to crack my composure. I keep my gaze firmly fixed ahead, trying not to breathe.
“Mornin’, menace,” he drawls.
Gosh, even his voice sounds like the best sex I’ve ever had. I barely suppress a shudder. My toes curl in my boots.
“Hey,” I reply curtly.
Anything more than that might betray the calm I’m feigning. His exhale is disappointed. Serves him right after mounting me like a stallion while demanding commitment.
But Byron doesn’t relent. I fight not to squirm as he remains rooted next to me. His determination to get a reaction rolls up the sleeves of his flannel as if it’s that warm in the arena. My deprived eyeballs definitely notice every delicious inch of toned forearm he reveals.
Ronnie’s loud yelp snaps me out of it. “You’re hurt too! Just like Frannie.”
I twist in the saddle to finally acknowledge him and see what the fuss is about. It’s a mistake. His molten stare is burning into me, blazing a scorching path all over my face. Damn, the man can smolder. Sweat tickles my hairline while I choke on a staggered exhale.
“Where’re you hurt?” Byron’s gruff tone scrapes over me.
My throat is too dry. “Uhhh…”
“She’s got spots on her neck,” Ronnie announces.
His eyes lower to the mentioned area and heat like melted chocolate. “Not bad.”
I scoff. “Admiring your work?”
“Can you blame me?”
My shrug is dismissive. “I didn’t even notice. Ronnie had to point them out.”
His expression hardens. “Looks serious to me. Like someone wanted to get a message across.”
“Whatever you gotta tell yourself.”