She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, one that said he’d better hurry his ass up before she burst into tears.
He heaved himself up behind her and grabbed the reins and she automatically slid backward. A grunt erupted between his clenched teeth at the soft contact of her ass.
He was going to murder his brother.
This was a horrible idea.
Not because he wasn’t enjoying himself, but because he was enjoying himself too much, outside; where anyone could see them, and now he was paranoid. Especially after Bentley’s warning.
She moved, just slightly.
Terrible idea.
All he wanted to do was take her back to the house and kiss her—everywhere. Because her mouth, as tempting as it was, wouldn’t be enough. Already he’d tasted and wanted more. Her neck, her fingers, her thighs—he wanted his mouth everywhere.
Another slight movement had him inwardly groaning.
His body burned as she thrust back against him. It was all he could do not to take her right here on this horse. Cameras be damned.
“Comfortable?” His teeth were still clenched; he gripped the reins as if his life depended on it.
“Yes.” Her voice was wobbly, unsure.
“Shall we see how fast Buttercup can gallop?” he teased.
“S-sure.”
“Relax,” he whispered in her ear. The temptation to lick her neck was utterly ridiculous, but there it was. “We’re going to walk nice and slow.”
“I like walking.”
“Good.” He pulled on the reins and whistled. Buttercup ambled out of the barn, and past the cock who’d suddenly gone silent as the horse went by.
“Oh, oh, wow.” Jane dug her nails into his arm, which she’d had in a death grip since he’d gotten on behind her. “This is, this is—”
“Nice?”
She laughed. “Yeah, really nice.”
“Do you want to go faster?”
“Maybe…”
“Come on, live a little.”
“Where has Boring Brock disappeared to?”
“Eh, I left him back in the barn with the cock.”
Jane let her head fall back against his chest as she laughed. “The poor cock is going to commit roostercide. Poor guy will be so bored, what will he do?”
“Did you just call me boring?”
She shrugged and then glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve just noticed a certain lack of color.”
“I wear color,” he said defensively, looking down at his black T-shirt. “I just didn’t bring anything like that with me.”
“Mmm, I see.”
“All right, you’ve asked for it.”
“Oh?”
“I hate to do this, but you better hold on. Clearly I have something to prove.”
“Brock—”
“Hold tight, Jane,” he whispered in her ear, just as he dug his heels into Buttercup’s sides. The horse took off at a gallop. Thankfully, riding a horse was like riding a bike: you didn’t forget.
Jane let out a loud gasp. Earlier Brock hadn’t thought she could grip him any harder—he was wrong. He’d have nail prints in his arms for days. But she was safe with him; he wouldn’t let her fall.
Jane’s hair was blowing in his face and it smelled like raspberries. He inhaled deeply.
Trouble. He was in so much trouble.
Because for a moment, the temptation to look beyond the next two weeks was almost too much to resist. There might be a life where he was able to have Jane in his arms like this, where he wouldn’t be paranoid about his Grandfather dying over a simple word—or worried that a camera would catch him kissing a woman he actually had feelings for.
He had once loved this ranch.
And she was making him love it again, but she was part of it. The ranch without Jane would just be a house.
She made it feel like home.
Hell, he was so happy he’d even let the cock stay.
Outdoors, of course.
Eventually, he slowed Buttercup to a walk and Jane unclenched his arm.
“What do you think?”
She quickly wiped at her cheek.
He froze. “Damn it, are you crying? Did I scare you?”
“No.” She wiped her other cheek. “It’s just…” She leaned away from him and he pulled her back against his chest. Not a chance in hell she was going to get away from him. “I felt free.”
Brock’s stomach clenched.
He knew the feeling.
“Do you feel trapped?”
She nodded.
“Me too,” he admitted. She slid her hand into his.
They rode in silence down to the river that divided the pasture and the rest of the property, where they kept a few heads of cattle for beef.
“I blame myself for my parents’ death,” he said quietly.
Jane gripped his hand as he led Buttercup through the grass. The horse was still breathing heavy from the run.
“We argued. I said no to something my father asked me to do. Something stupid that wasn’t even important. And twenty-four hours later they were dead.” He stared into her big brown eyes. “I haven’t been able to say no again. And I’ve felt trapped ever since.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You were how old? Twelve?”
“I said no.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “I hate that word.”
She blinked down at their joined hands and then back up at him. “Do you still feel trapped?”