Archive of Our Own

The rodeo smells like dirt and beer and bad decisions.

You’re wedged between Tara and some guy in an absurdly oversized cowboy hat who keeps whooping like he’s personally invested in watching men get concussed by livestock. The stands are packed, the sun is setting, and you are profoundly, deeply bored.

“Isn’t this AMAZING?” Tara shouts over the announcer’s voice.

“It’s definitely something,” you say, taking another sip of overpriced beer.

“Come on! Live a little!” Tara hits your arm playfully. “You said you wanted adventure, didn’t you?”

What you actually said three days ago was that you needed a weekend away from your suffocating corporate job and your mother’s passive-aggressive texts about your biological clock. Tara—your chaotic, impulsive, rodeo-obsessed friend and coworker—interpreted that as “drive three hours into the middle of nowhere to watch men cosplay as cowboys.”

“I said I wanted a spa weekend. With wine. And no animals.”

“This is way better than a spa!”

“Tara, I’m watching a man get thrown off of a bull into a literal pile of shit.”

“That’s the best part!”

You’re starting to regret every choice you made that led you here, mentally drafting escape strategies: sudden vague illness, a family emergency of unclear nature, alien abduction—

“Next up,” the announcer booms, “give it up for Sylus Qin, folks! Undefeated this season, riding Wild Cherry—”

The crowd absolutely loses their minds. Apparently this guy is famous. Or infamous. It’s hard to tell.

Tara is suddenly sitting up straighter. “Oh my god, it’s him.”

“Him who?”

“SYLUS. The Sylus Qin. He’s only the best bull rider in the circuit right now. Undefeated. Gorgeous. Thighs that could crush your skull and you’d say thank you.” She’s practically vibrating. “This is why we came.”

“We came all the way out here for one specific cowboy?”

“We came for THE cowboy.” She looks at you like you have brain damage. “He has entire fan accounts dedicated to him, y’know. Sychos, we call ourselves. Get it, like psych—”

“Yeah, I got it,” you cut in. “Naming yourselves after men who sit on angry animals for prize money. Very adult behavior.”

“Adult behavior is overrated.” Tara waves you off. “And just you wait, babe. You’ll be calling yourself one by the end of the night.”

You snort. “If that happens, I give you permission to euthanize me.”

“Fine, but I get your closet.” She bumps your hip with hers. “I’d grieve, obviously. But in designer.”

A group of girls in tight denim shorts and matching red bandanas suddenly flock to the rail below you, phones out, glitter letters spelling STAY ON, SYLUS across posterboard. One of them whispers something to the girl beside her that makes her giggle and bite her lip.

“Those are the Sychos, huh?” you say, like you’re confirming a wildlife sighting. “You count yourself among the faithful?”

“Please. Me? I’m not here to worship him.” She tips her chin toward the girls, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “I’m here for his disciples.”

You shoot her a look. To Tara, men sit in the same category as traffic cones—loud and in the way, only tolerable when directing her somewhere else.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably efficient, you mean.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and checks her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. “They convert easily.”

Before you can respond, the PA system crackles in a sharp burst of static that jolts the arena to attention. Everyone shifts at once, boots scraping against metal as the crowd angles to catch a glimpse of the rider. Someone whistles. Dust stirs around the chute like it’s coming alive.

The girls below you erupt first, phones snapping up, posterboards rattling against the rail.

The announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers—a slow country drawl that buzzes through the bleachers, through your ribs, through the stupid can of beer in your hand:

“Competitor twenty-two…Sylus Qin.”

Tara exhales like she’s been waiting hours for this exact moment. “Showtime.”

“—ain’t nobody lasted more than six seconds on this beast all year—”

“That’s what she said,” you mutter into your drink.

Tara doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy screaming with the rest of the crowd as the gate slams open.

The bull explodes into the ring—twisting, bucking, trying to murder its rider with pure muscle and chaos. The man on top is already locked in, one hand high, the other on the rope, body rolling with each violent buck like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he probably has.

You’ll admit—objectively, technically, it’s impressive. In the same way watching someone juggle chainsaws is impressive. Impressive and dangerous and stupid.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t even seem winded. Just rides the beast like it was born to be beneath him.

Six seconds. Seven. Eight.

The buzzer sounds. He dismounts smoothly, landing on his feet while the bull handlers rush in. The girls below you are shrieking like someone won the lottery.

You finish off your beer.

“...That’s it?” you mutter.

“That’s it?” Tara whips her head toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly fly. “He just survived a demon with horns and you’re bored?”

“Looked like…balance,” you say with a shrug. “Core strength. Decent stance.”

Tara opens her mouth, ready to annihilate you, but the crowd erupts again as the rider approaches the bleachers—a frenzy of camera flashes, dads slapping shoulders, girls crying. 

You glance up just in time to see him.

Sylus Qin. Helmet off, silver hair tousled, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. A handler says something to him, but he barely responds. His red eyes scan the bleachers, not searching the crowd—hunting through it.

And then they find you.

Not the screaming girls pressed against the rail. Not the sign glittering under the fluorescent floodlights. 

You.

His gaze flicks over you once, slow, like he’s taking note of every inch. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, just assesses you in a way that makes your pulse jump.

Tara gasps like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god,” she hisses, shaking your arm. “He’s looking at you!”

“He’s looking in this general direction,” you correct, throat suddenly dry.

“General direction, my ass.” Tara’s voice is wild with victory. “He’s staring at you like you just spit in his drink. And he liked it.”

You’re about to argue when Sylus drags the back of his glove across his mouth—still looking up at you, the stranger with crossed arms and a steady, blank stare. His eyes narrow, heat flicking to life behind them. Interest. Curiosity. Challenge.

You tilt your head, like you’re still trying to figure out what the fuss is about. 

The gesture lands like an insult.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, tips his hat directly at you with what can only be described as spite, and saunters out of the arena.

Tara explodes beside you the second he disappears through the gate.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Tara is practically screaming in your ear. “What just happened? Did you see that? He looked at you like—like—”

“Like nothing.”

“Like EVERYTHING.” She grabs your face, turning it toward hers. “Do you understand what just happened? Sylus Qin just acknowledged you. Personally. In front of everyone.”

“He probably does that for lots of people—”

“He doesn’t.” A girl in front of you turns around, and she looks furious. “He literally never does that.”

She’s wearing a crop top with “Qin” bedazzled across the chest and more makeup than seems practical for an outdoor event. Her friends beside her look equally angry.

“Excuse me?” you say.

“You heard me.” She looks you up and down with obvious disdain. “We’ve been coming to his rides for months. Months. And you—you didn’t even cheer! You just sat there like you were bored!”

“I mean...I was?”

Tara makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh.

“This is bullshit.” Bedazzled stands up, and her whole group follows. “Come on. We’re going to the back. Maybe if we’re there when he comes out—”

They file out of the row, shooting you looks that range from annoyed to homicidal.

The moment they’re gone, Tara turns to you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

“You made enemies in under eight seconds. I’m so proud.” She’s bouncing on her heels now. “Did you see their faces? They looked like you personally victimized them.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“You existed while looking unimpressed. Apparently that’s a crime here.” She glances toward where the group disappeared, then back at you with a gleam in her eye. “God, they’re going to be so upset when they find out he—”

“When they find out he what? Looked at me for two seconds?”

“That man tipped his hat at you like a declaration of war. That’s not nothing.” Tara is still grinning. “Anyway, I need to pee. Come with?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You both head toward the bathrooms, navigating through the crowd. The line is mercifully short.

“I’m calling it now,” Tara says as you wait. “Something’s going to happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen. He probably tips his hat at people all the time.”

“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your eyes and head into a stall. When you come out to wash your hands, Tara is leaning against the sink, scrolling her phone.

“You go ahead,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the seats.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m going to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been at a rodeo.”

“You have been at a rodeo,” she confirms, already heading out. “Don’t take too long! Next round starts in ten!”

You’re willing your last few flyaways into place when your phone buzzes in your back pocket. 

Unknown Number: Tell me. 

Unknown Number: Did I disappoint you, or are you always like that?

Your stomach drops.

You: who is this?

Unknown Number: Take a wild guess, sweetie.

Unknown Number: Here’s a hint: silver hair, red eyes, just gave the performance of the night to the most unimpressed audience member in rodeo history.

Fuck. 

You: how did you get my number?

Sylus: Your friend. The enthusiastic one in the seat next to you.

Sylus: I asked one of the staff to track down “the girl in section B who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal.” She was very helpful.

You’re going to murder Tara.

You: that’s borderline stalking

Sylus: It’s resourceful.

Sylus: Also, your friend gave me your number with the promise that I would “show you a good time.” Her words, not mine.

Sylus: Though I’m not opposed to the prospect.

You: you’re insane

Sylus: You’re texting back awfully quickly for someone who thinks I’m insane. 

Sylus: So. What’s your damage?

You: excuse me?

Sylus: I just rode 2000 pounds of rage that hospitalized four people this season. People are losing their minds. There are women in this crowd who would commit felonies for my autograph. 

Sylus: And you looked like you were waiting for a bus.

Sylus: I need to know what your problem is.

The audacity of this man…

You: maybe i’m just not impressed by men showing off

Sylus: Showing off implies I did it for attention. I did it because it’s my job and I’m good at it.

You: i don’t cheer for men who do their jobs. sets a bad precedent

Sylus: You’re cruel. 

Sylus: I like you.

Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes.

You stare at your phone. This cannot be happening.

You: why would i do that?

Sylus: Because you’re curious. Because I’m curious. Because you clearly have opinions about my performance that you’re dying to share.

Sylus: Or are you scared?

You: of what? you?

Sylus: Of admitting I was more impressive than you’re letting on.

You: you’re delusional

Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes. Prove me wrong.

You should block this number. Should go back to Tara. Should absolutely not go to Gate 7.

You: ...i’ll think about it

Sylus: Clock’s ticking, sweetie. Gate 7. Don’t make me come find you.

You pocket your phone and find your seat beside Tara in the stands, heart racing.

“Your cowboy texted me,” you inform her flatly.

“HE DID?!”

You wave your phone in her face as evidence. 

“When were you planning on telling me you gave out my phone number to the man who looked ready to challenge me to a duel?!”

“He was asking around for it! What was I supposed to do, say no?” She looks absolutely delighted with herself. “Shit, what did he say? Is he asking you out? Please tell me he’s asking you out.”

“He wants me to meet him at Gate 7.”

Tara screams. Actually screams as she rips your phone out of your hand. Several people turn to look.

“YOU HAVE TO GO.” She’s reading the messages, scrolling rapidly. “He’s obsessed. He’s one hundred percent obsessed with you.”

“He’s not—”

“‘Don’t make me come find you’?” She looks at you with her jaw dropped. “That’s obsessed behavior. When are you going?”

“I’m not going—”

“You ARE going. This is Sylus Qin. Do you understand how many people would kill for this opportunity?” She’s already pointing you to the aisle. “Those girls down there are going to lose their minds. This is the best night of my life.”

“You’re a little too excited about this.”

“Are you kidding? You’re about to go meet the hottest bull rider in the circuit, and his entire fan club is going to implode when they find out. This is peak hurt-comfort material.” She pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. “I’m gonna try to console them afterward. The blonde one is kind of cute when she’s angry.”

“Tara.”

“What? You get the hot cowboy, I get to make the heartbroken rodeo girls feel better. Everybody wins.” She grins. “Especially me.”

You roll your eyes. She physically shoves you toward the exit.

“Now go. Before he changes his mind.” Tara looks down toward the rail where Bedazzled and her friends are still trying to get Sylus’s attention. “I’m going to go offer emotional support. Wish me luck.”

You’re going to strangle her. After you maybe, possibly go to Gate 7.

Just to tell off the cowboy.

Obviously.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Gate 7 leads to a restricted area—trailers, practice equipment, and cowboys in various states of undress. You’re about to turn back when you see Sylus.

He’s leaning against a fence, hat tilted back, stripped down to a white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame in ways that should be illegal. There’s dirt on his jeans, and a dark bruise blooming on his pale forearm that he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by.

He’s taller up close. Broader. And those eyes are definitely, unnaturally red.

“You came.” He sounds genuinely pleased.

You nod, keeping a careful distance. “You’re very pushy for a stranger.”

“Sylus.” He pushes off the fence, extending a hand toward you. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

You take his hand, large and calloused and scarred along the knuckles. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary.

“And you are?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels.

“Pretty. Doesn’t match the attitude, though.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You looked miserable up there. Bored. Like you were mentally filing your taxes.” He tilts his head, studying you. “City girl?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Sweetie, everything about you screams ‘I don’t belong here.’” His eyes drag over you slowly—your designer boots, your expensive jeans, the way you’re standing like you’re afraid of getting dirty. “Your boots cost more than most people make in a month. You’re holding yourself like someone might brush against you the wrong way. And you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one people get when they’re critiquing something they’ve never done themselves.”

“I don’t need to ride a bull to recognize—”

“Recognize what?” He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Go on. Tell me, princess. What did I do wrong?”

Princess. 

He says it like he’s daring you to get offended. You want to hate it. But your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo.

“Second buck,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You held center. But you should’ve leaned into it.”

His eyebrows raise slightly. “Should I?”

“The bull was digging left. You stayed neutral. If you’d shifted your weight—”

“Show me.”

You blink. “What?”

“Show me.” He gestures to the fence rail beside him. “Up. Show me what I should’ve done.”

“I’m not getting on a fence—”

“Ah.” He crosses his arms, stance relaxed like he’s already won. “All that mouth was just for show. My mistake.”

Your jaw tightens. You step forward and grab the top rail.

His hand closes around your wrist before you’ve even set your weight. 

“You’ll slip like that.” He adjusts your grip, thumb dragging across your palm. “Fingers here. Wrist locked. Unless you want to fall.”

“I wasn’t going to fall—”

“Show me, then.” He steps back, waiting.

You haul yourself up onto the rail, boots wedging between the crossbars, steadying your weight to keep your balance. You settle there, stable, and you know you’ve done it well because he pauses in that particular way men do when they realize you’re more capable than they assumed.

He moves closer slowly, until he’s standing right there, palm coming to rest lightly on your ankle.

“Your eyes weren’t on the rider,” he says.

“They were on the bull," you tell him. “The rider’s posture only matters relative to momentum. The animal is the variable. You were just—compensating.”

His thumb shifts against your ankle bone, pressure increasing the slightest fraction.

“Compensating for a thousand pounds of rage isn't ‘just’ anything.”

You meet his eyes. “It is when you’re supposed to be good at it.”

He doesn’t smile. He steps between your legs, looking up at you with that unreadable expression.

“Show me,” he says, unhurried. “Show me where you think I should’ve shifted.”

You swallow. “I’m not a professional—”

“That didn’t stop you from having an opinion, did it?” He tilts his head. “You’ve been judging me since I got off that bull. So judge. Show me what I did wrong.”

You lift your hand, pointing to where you’d seen the bull dig in. “Second buck. Right there. If you’d leaned into it instead of holding straight—”

His hand comes to your knee. Not grabbing, just setting the angle.

“Like this?”

Your breath catches.

His other hand settles light on your hip—the kind of touch that’s functional, yet makes your skin burn through your jeans.

“Or here,” he asks, voice dropping lower, “if you want to keep your spine neutral?”

The air shifts between you.

“You’re—” You have to clear your throat. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m learning.” His thumb brushes a slow circle against your knee. “You sat above me for eight seconds looking unimpressed. Now you’re above me again.” His eyes hold yours. “So teach me. What should I have done differently?”

It’s not about the bull anymore. You both know it.

“You should’ve—” Your voice is unsteady. “Weight forward. Hips angled—”

“Show me.” His hands are still on you, patient and sure. “Don’t tell me. Show me where.”

You shift your hips forward slightly to demonstrate and his grip tightens, subtle yet unmistakable.

“Like that?” His words are rougher now. “That’s what you wanted to see?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He steps back finally, hands dropping away, and you hate that you immediately miss the contact. “Get down.”

“What—”

“Get off the rail. I’m going to teach you something.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do.” He’s already walking toward the practice area. “You know the theory. Now let’s see if you can execute. Come on, city girl. Time to back up all that criticism.”

You should refuse. Should go back to the stands. Instead, you climb down from the fence and follow him.

Because he’s right. You’ve been judging from a distance. And something about the challenge in his voice makes you want to prove him wrong.

Or maybe prove him right.

You’re not sure which would be more satisfying.

The mechanical bull sits in the empty practice area like a challenge.

“Absolutely not.”

“You just spent ten minutes telling me what I did wrong.” Sylus is already at the control panel, adjusting settings with casual confidence. “Now you get to prove you understand what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t need to ride it to understand—”

“Talk is easy. Execution’s different.” He doesn’t look up. “You can critique all you want, but until you feel it, you don’t actually know anything.”

The dismissiveness in his tone makes you tense. “Fine. Start it up.”

“Not yet.” Now he looks at you. “Get on first.”

You approach the bull, eyeing it skeptically. It’s wider than it looked from a distance.

“Problem?” 

“No.”

“Then stop stalling.”

You grab the rail and try to pull yourself up. Your boots slip on the metal and you barely catch yourself.

“Easy, princess.” He’s beside you instantly, hands on your waist. “Step on the platform. I’ll lift.”

“I can do it myself—”

“I know you can.” His grip is firm. “But this is faster. Up.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you're straddling the barrel, thighs spread wide, hands scrambling for the rope.

“Don’t.” His voice stops you cold. “Hands off.”

“Then how—”

“You were very confident about hip positioning a minute ago.” He walks around you slowly, assessing your form. “So use your hips. Thighs tight. Core engaged. That’s all you need.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.” He stops in front of you. “You’re trying to hold on because you don’t trust your body. But I watched you on that fence. You’ve got the strength. You just don’t know how to use it yet.”

His hand slides up your outer thigh—not suggestive, testing muscle tension. Your body doesn’t seem to know the difference. 

“Squeeze.”

You do, and his hand presses back, checking your stance.

“Harder. You’re holding back.” His thumb digs into your quad. “I can feel it. You’re stronger than this. Show me.”

You squeeze harder, and he makes an approving sound.

“There. That’s what I want to feel.” His hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding. “When this starts moving, that tension doesn’t drop. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see.” He moves behind you, his hands settling on your hips. “Lean forward. Hips first.”

He guides your position—forward, tilted, adjusted until you’re perched in a way that feels both vulnerable and powerful.

“This feel unstable?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. It should.” His hands don’t leave your hips. “That instability is what you work with, not against. The bull moves, you move. Simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple—”

“It is when you stop overthinking.” His breath is warm against your ear now. “I’m starting it slow. Just feel it. Don’t try to predict or control. Just respond.”

The bull lurches to life.

Your instinct is to grab, to tense, to fight it.

“Breathe.” His voice cuts through your panic. “Hips loose. Let them move.”

You try to focus on your hips, on moving with the gentle rocking.

“Better. But you’re still thinking too much.” The bull bucks slightly harder, and you gasp. “Stop planning your next move. There is no next move. There’s only now.”

“That’s not helpful—”

"No?" He kills the power suddenly. “You want helpful?”

Before you can process, he’s swinging up behind you.

The barrel was already small. With him on it, there’s no space left. His chest is solid against your back, his thighs bracketing yours, his presence overwhelming every sense.

“What are you—”

“Teaching you the difference between knowing and understanding,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this was inevitable. “You can tell me what I should’ve done. Now I’m going to show you why it works.”

His hands settle on your hips again—firmer this time, fingers splayed wide.

“This is your center.” His fingers press into your hip bones. “Everything starts here. When I move, you’ll feel it here first. Pay attention.”

You can’t do anything besides pay attention. Can’t think about anything except the heat of him, the firm weight pressed against you, the way his voice seems to resonate through your entire body.

“Ready?”

You nod because words are impossible.

The bull starts again, and this time it’s completely different. You feel how his body moves—the subtle shift of his hips, the roll of his spine, the way he absorbs each movement and redirects it. His hands guide you through it, showing you without words how to respond.

“Feel that?” His voice is low against your ear. “That’s what you were trying to describe. The lean, the shift, the weight distribution. It’s not about thinking. It's about feeling.”

His hips roll against yours, demonstrating, and your brain short-circuits.

“Breathe.” His hand spreads across your lower stomach, steadying you. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t. Breathe with the movement.”

You try to breathe, but it’s difficult when you’re this aware of every point of contact.

“Now you.” His hands loosen slightly. “Match my rhythm. Show me you understand.”

You focus on his movement, on the way his body guides yours, and you start to match it. Your hips roll with his, following his lead, and suddenly the movement makes sense.

“There she is.” The satisfaction in his voice goes straight to your core. “Knew you could do it. You just needed to stop thinking you knew better than your body.”

The bull bucks harder and you move with it, your hips rolling, your thighs squeezing, and his hands tighten on you.

“Atta girl.” The words come out rougher. “That’s exactly right. Keep it up.”

You do, and you feel the moment something shifts—the moment it clicks, the moment you stop fighting and start responding.

“You feel that, sweetie?” His voice is strained now. “That’s what eight seconds feels like. That’s what I feel when I ride.”

“Sylus—”

“I know.” His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as the bull spins. “You’re feeling it now.”

The intimacy of the statement, combined with the movement, the heat, the way his body fits against yours—it’s overwhelming.

“This is—”

“Intense.” He finishes for you. “That’s the point. That's what you were watching from the stands and didn’t understand. The rush. The focus. The way everything else disappears and it’s just you and the movement and eight seconds of pure instinct.”

The bull bucks hard and you gasp, but his grip keeps you stable.

“I’ve got you, princess. You’re not falling. Just stay with me.”

And you do. You stay with him through every twist and buck, your body learning the rhythm, responding to his guidance, until you're not sure where your movement ends and his begins.

When he finally kills the power, you’re both breathing heavily.

“You got it. Eight seconds,” he announces after glancing at his watch. “Not bad for someone who’d never done it before.”

“You were helping—”

“I was teaching. You were learning.” His hands are still on your waist, and he hasn’t moved away. “Big difference. That was all you at the end.”

You’re painfully aware that you don’t want him to let go.

“So.” His thumbs stroke once across your sides. “Still think a city girl knows better than a cowboy?”

Your mouth is dry. “Maybe we’re even.”

His laugh is low and pleased. “Maybe.” He dismounts finally, fluid and controlled, then reaches up for you. “Come here.”

He lifts you down and your legs immediately betray you, shaking and unstable.

His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall. “Easy. Adrenaline drop. Give it a minute.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” His hand finds your pulse at your neck, pressing lightly. “Heart rate’s still elevated. You’re shaking. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Lunch. Around noon, I think.”

“Hours ago.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “You need food. There’s a diner close by. Best pie in the state.”

“I don’t need you to feed me—”

“Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyway.” He pockets his phone, arm still around your waist. “You just burned through all your energy, and I’m not letting you back out there until I know you’re steady. So. Diner. My treat.”

“This feels like a scheme to keep me around longer.”

“Is it working?” He holds you tighter against him, almost automatically—like his body recognized you before his mind caught up. “Because if it is, I’ve got a whole list of other places I could take you. Hardware store. Feed supply. This town is full of exciting places I could take my time with you.”

Something in the way he says it sends heat down your spine.

“You’re not subtle, you know.”

“Never claimed to be, sweetie.”

Before you can respond, your phone vibrates.

Tara: where ARE u???

Tara: DID SYLUS THE STALLION KIDNAP U???

Tara: if u are in danger pls respond

Tara: if u are having a good time ignore this

You swipe the notifications away.

Sylus watches your thumb move, red eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Emergency?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” You slide the phone into your pocket. “But if you murder me, my friend knows your name. And your face.”

His laugh echoes across the arena. “Noted.”

You try to step out of his hold, but your legs have other ideas—immediately crumpling under you like two pieces of wet spaghetti.

Before you can hit the dirt, his hand flashes out, hooking a finger through your belt loop and yanking you back against him. 

“Careful, city girl. Told you. Adrenaline crash.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just scoops you up with one arm and settles you against his side.

“Sylus, I can walk—”

“Clearly not,” he counters, but he’s grinning as he starts toward the parking lot, carrying you with ease. “Stop squirming. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

You’re acutely aware of several things at once: his arm banded around you, the heat of him, the way his shoulder is right there. And—

Oh god.

The group of girls from earlier. Bedazzled and her friends—minus the blonde. All staring as Sylus walks right past them, carrying you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance their way, completely oblivious. But they notice. Oh, they notice. If the looks they shot you were bullets, you'd already be bleeding out on the dirt.

You bury your face against his shoulder, trying to make yourself smaller.

“Cold, sweetie?” His voice rumbles through his chest.

“No,” you mutter into his shirt. “I’m trying not to get shanked.”

He pauses mid-step. “What?”

“Your fan club. They look like they want to murder me.”

He glances back, finally noticing the group of glaring fans, and laughs like you told him a bad joke.

“Oh, them.” He adjusts his grip on you, hauling you higher. In one smooth motion, he tosses you over his shoulder.

You shriek. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”

He dips you, slow, like he’s genuinely about to release you. “If you insist."

Your legs are dangling, the Sychos are staring, and you’re suddenly very aware of the distance between your boots and the ground.

“No—no, I don’t insist—!” You clutch at his shirt, holding onto him for dear life. “Don’t you dare put me down—”

“Thought so.” He straightens, one arm locking securely against you as he keeps walking. “See? Now they can’t reach you. Problem solved.”

“Sylus!”

“You’re the one who said they looked dangerous. I’m just being practical.” His hand settles firmly on the back of your thigh, patting it gently. “Now stop wiggling before you fall.”

“I’m going to fall because you just—you can’t just throw people over your shoulder—”

“Just did.” He heads straight for a massive black pickup, tall enough you’d need a running start to climb in. He pops the door open with one hand and deposits you in the passenger seat. “And you’re still in one piece. I’d say it all worked out.”

Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, arms locked around his shoulders. He notices immediately.

“You can let go now, sweetie,” he says, amused.

Your brain registers that you’re sitting. That you’re safe. That there’s no reason to still be holding on.

Your hands don’t get the message.

“I—” You look down at where your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “My hands aren't listening.”

“I can see that.” He’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”

“Shut up.” You force your fingers to uncurl, releasing him. You sink into the leather, groaning into your hands. “My dignity is destroyed.”

“Your dignity was already questionable after that bull ride.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief. “Besides, it could've been worse.”

“How could that have possibly been worse?”

 “I could’ve set you down and let them watch you try to stand on your own.” He’s smirking now. “Would’ve made my point even clearer.”

Your cheeks burn at the implication. “You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that.” He closes your door and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in with easy grace. “But you’re still here.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment to escape.”

“Good luck with that. Your legs still work about as well as a newborn calf’s.” He starts the engine, eyes flicking to you with amusement. “Give it another ten minutes. Then you can make your dramatic exit.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m enjoying you. The entertainment is just a bonus.” He shifts into drive. “Seatbelt. Then you're going to tell me what possessed a city girl to spend her hard-earned money watching idiots wrestle with livestock for sport.”

The diner is exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, jukebox blasting something twangy, and a waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the dawn of time. 

“Sylus, honey!” She’s got a thick drawl and a smile that crinkles her whole face. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be celebratin’ with the boys.”

“Had better plans, Dolores.” He gestures to you. 

“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you both with obvious interest. “The usual for you, sugar?”

“Please. And whatever she wants.”

You order coffee and pie because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow strange cowboys to diners and eat pie at ten PM.

“I’ll get that right out.” Dolores pats Sylus on the shoulder as she leaves, but not before giving you a very obvious once-over that feels almost approving. 

“So,” Sylus says once the waitress leaves. “Eight seconds.”

“Are we really doing this?”

“We’re absolutely doing this.” He leans back in the booth, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. With my help, admittedly, but still. Eight seconds.”

“And?”

“And I’m wondering if you can last longer.”

The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.

“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.

His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”

Dolores brings pie—massive slices that look homemade. You take a bite and it’s unfairly delicious.

“Okay,” you admit. “This is really good pie.”

“Told you. Dolores doesn’t mess around.” He takes a bite of his own, watching you. “So. What do you do? When you’re not being dragged to rodeos, that is.”

“Marketing. Corporate.” You make a sour face. “It’s as boring as it sounds.”

“Can’t be that boring if it pays for those boots.”

“The boots are the only good thing about it.” You take another bite. “What about you? Is bull riding actually lucrative, or do you just like getting thrown around for fun?”

“I don’t get thrown, sweetie. That’s the whole point,” he corrects you with a grin. “And yeah, it pays well. If you’re good at it.”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am.” There’s no false modesty to it, just fact. “Been doing it since I was seventeen. Worked my way up. Now I’m ranked second in the country.”

“Second?”

“For now. I’ll be first by the end of the season.” He says it with absolute certainty.

“Confident.”

“Realistic. I know what I’m capable of.” His eyes meet yours. “And I know what I want.”

The weight of that statement sits between you.

“And what do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Right now? To figure out what it takes to actually impress you.” He leans forward slightly. “Because I don’t think anyone’s managed it in a while.”

You open your mouth to respond when Sylus’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs.

“Give me a minute. I need to take this.” He slides out of the booth. “Stay put.”

You blink up at him, chin tilted just a little. “Yes, sir.”

He stops, eyebrows lifting, then gives a soft, incredulous shake of his head.

“Cute.” He’s walking backward toward the bathroom, phone angled away from his mouth, still looking at you. “But if you’re trying to draw blood, sweetie, you’re going to have to put your jaw into it.”

You’re left alone with your pie, trying very hard to pretend your heartbeat isn’t pounding in places it has no business reaching. 

“Can I top off that coffee, sugar?” Dolores appears almost immediately, like she was waiting for him to leave.

“Sure. Thanks.”

She pours slowly, then glances toward the bathroom. “He’s a good one, that Sylus.”

“I just met him like, two hours ago.”

“I know.” She’s smiling. “That’s what makes this excitin'.”

“What do you mean?”

Dolores leans in conspiratorially. “Honey, I’ve been workin’ here for fifteen years. This is the spot all them rodeo fellas flock to after. I’ve seen Sylus in ‘ere dozens of times—always with the boys, always alone. Never once brought a girl here. Not one time.”

Your heart flips. “Maybe he just—”

“Trust me, them buckle bunnies try. Lord, do they try. That boy has more women throwin’ themselves at him than I have napkins in this diner.” She shakes her head. “He’s always polite about it, that sweetheart. But he never takes ‘em up on it. Too focused on riding, he always says.”

“Then why—”

“That’s what I’m wonderin’, honey.” Dolores sets the coffee pot back on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “But whatever you did, you got his attention. Really got it. I can tell.”

You notice his hat sitting on the seat beside you—the black cowboy hat he’d tossed there when he sat down. On impulse, you pick it up and settle it on your head. It’s too big, sliding down slightly, and you have to tilt it back to see properly.

Dolores notices and her eyes go wide. Then she grins. “Oh, honey. Do y’know what that means?”

“What?”

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” She’s trying not to laugh. “That’s the rule ‘round here.”

Your face heats. “That’s not a real—”

“Realer than them nails on your hand.” She eyes your manicure with a shake of her head, still grinning. “Cowboys don’t play pretend.”

She walks away, leaving you sitting there in his hat, suddenly very aware of what you’ve just done. You consider taking it off. Handing it back when he returns. Playing it safe. But something stubborn and reckless in you keeps it on.

You take a sip of coffee, trying to look casual, when the bathroom door opens.

Sylus walks back toward the booth, phone in his hand, looking slightly annoyed. “Sponsors. Kept going on about—”

He sees you and stops dead in his tracks.

His eyes go dark—pupils blown wide, that red almost glowing in the diner lighting. His jaw tightens, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.

“What do you think you’re doing, city girl?” His voice has dropped at least half an octave.

“Drinking coffee.” You take another sip, holding his gaze, heart hammering. “Why?”

“You know why.” He slides back into the booth, but there’s tension in every line of his body now. “Take it off.”

“Why?” You rest your chin on your hand and blink up at him. “Does it not look good on me?”

He goes quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, almost laughing. “It looks perfect on you. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t see a problem.”

“Of course you don’t, princess.” He leans back, arms spreading across the back of the booth. “You put on a man’s hat and think it’s just a fashion statement.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He’s studying you now, that intense focus that makes you feel pinned in place. “It’s a claim. One I don’t think you intended to make.”

You adjust the hat on your head, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better.

“That depends on what I’m claiming.”

His gaze traces your mouth, your throat, the line of brim shading your eyes. When his attention finally returns to yours, he drops the word between you like a coin:

“Me.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing actually comes out. He smiles like he knew that would happen.

“You publicly claimed a cowboy. Impressively reckless move, by the way.” He leans back, legs stretching under the table like he’s getting comfortable. “So now I have two choices: ignore you, or teach you what you started.”

“And which are you choosing?”

“What do you think?”

Your eyes narrow. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I am. You’ve been pushing me all night. Looking unimpressed, critiquing my ride, now stealing my hat.” His eyes scan your face. “Now you’re sitting there wearing it like you’re innocent." 

“Maybe I just like the style.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted to see what I’d do. How I’d react. Whether I’d actually follow through.” He cocks his head. “So. How am I doing? Meeting expectations?”

Your mouth is dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice drops lower. “You’ve been testing me since the moment I met you. Before that, even. Every word, every look.” He leans forward slightly. “This is just you pushing harder. Seeing if I’ll push back.”

“And will you?”

“Absolutely.” He doesn’t waste a breath. “Question is whether you’re ready for it.”

“I can handle it.”

His laugh is quiet. “Can you, sweetie? Because that hat says you want something specific from me. Something I’ve been holding back on all night.” His red eyes are dark now. “And once I stop holding back, I don’t do things halfway.”

The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“You’re very confident.”

“I know what I'm looking at. Someone who’s been playing it safe. Someone who wants to stop overthinking.” He pauses. “Someone who put on my hat because she wanted me to do something about it.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“Then take it off.” He gestures to the hat. “Right now. Prove me wrong.”

You reply with a single shake of your head—no.

His smile is absolutely feral.

“We’re leaving.”

You blink up at him. “Maybe I’m not finished.”

He tosses way too much cash onto the table—enough to pay for the coffee, the pie, Dolores’s retirement, and the entire county fair.

“Yes, you are.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on, city girl. Time to see if you can back up what that hat is promising."

You look at his hand. At the challenge in his eyes. At the way he’s smiling like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.

And you take it.

His palm is warm against yours as he guides you to the door. As you pass the counter, Dolores calls out: “You take good care of her now, y’hear?”

Sylus doesn’t break stride. “Oh, I intend to.”

Outside, the night air hits you, cool and dusty. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you approach his pickup parked at the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door, but before you can climb in, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in. One is pressed beside your head against the metal, the other settling on the open door, his body a wall of heat that’s too close to ignore.

“Last chance,” he says, like a warning. His fingers toy lazily with the hat. “You take this off, I drive you back to your hotel. Wish you good night like a gentleman.” His thumb pauses at the curve of the brim. “And the next time we see each other, we’re back to being strangers.”

It’s a terrible idea. You know it’s a terrible idea. But he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining you in his lap, and you’re looking at him like you want to see how good he is without the bull.

You reach up and adjust the hat, making sure it’s secure.

“I don’t want to be strangers.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands settle on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, taking his time settling you into the passenger seat. He reaches for your seatbelt, pulling it across your body slowly. The click echoes in the quiet of the cab.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I couldn’t forget this—” 

Only then does he lean in, forearm braced against the doorframe, his face inches from yours. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with an affection so unexpected you forget how to breathe. For a second, you think he might kiss you.

Instead, he flicks the spot he cleared on your forehead.

“—if I tried.”

Sylus doesn’t drive back toward town. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction—away from the arena, away from the lights, into the dark stretch of highway that leads to nothing but open land.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“You’ll see.”

His hand rests on the gear shift, close enough to your thigh that you’re acutely aware of it. The radio plays something slow and country that you don’t recognize, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. Waiting. 

You watch the landscape change outside your window, buildings giving way to fields, streetlights disappearing until there’s nothing but darkness.

“This is very serial killer of you,” you say finally.

He glances over, amused. “Having second thoughts?”

“Just making an observation.”

“For the record, if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take you somewhere this obvious.” He’s smiling now, thumb tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Besides, you're still wearing my hat. That implies a certain level of trust.”

Your hand goes to the brim automatically. You’d almost forgotten it was there.

“Or a certain level of stupidity.”

“Maybe both.” He turns off the highway onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing slightly over the uneven ground. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Patience.”

The road winds upward, climbing steadily. Trees give way to open sky, and then suddenly you’re at the top of a hill and he's pulling over, killing the engine. The entire valley spreads out below—a sea of twinkling lights in the distance, small towns and scattered ranches creating constellations on the dark earth. Above, the sky is filled with stars, more than you’ve ever been able to see in the city.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” He’s watching you instead of the view. “I like to come up here after a ride. Bulls fight back, fans scream—up here, no one asks anything of you.”

You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he agrees. But he’s still looking at you, not the landscape. 

“Pretty stars,” you say, but there's a challenge in the words. “Shame you haven’t looked at them once.”

“If you want to talk constellations, sweetie, I’ll play along.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward you. “Or you can admit you didn’t climb in my truck because you're fond of astronomy.”

“First of all, I didn’t climb in your truck.” You manage to find your voice. “You picked me up and put me in it.”

“Correct.” His mouth curves slow. “And then you latched onto me like a kitten falling out of a tree and said, and I quote, ‘don’t you dare put me down.’”

Your face heats. “My legs weren’t working—”

“Your legs were working just fine once we got to the truck.” His eyes hold yours. “You just didn’t want me to stop touching you.”

The tension in the truck is suffocating.

“Get in the back,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

“The backseat.” He says it simply, nodding toward the leather bench seat behind you. “Go on. I’ll give you a head start.”

“A head start for what—”

“For getting comfortable before I join you.” His eyes are dark now, heated. “Unless you’d rather stay up here and stare out the windshield?”

You should probably ask more questions. Should probably think this through. 

Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward the back.

The console is in the way, making you climb over the seat awkwardly. You brace one hand on the seat back, getting one knee up on the console—

“Keep it moving, sweetie.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Make me.”

The crack of his palm against your ass is immediate, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then his hand is rubbing the spot gently, soothing. 

“Consider it done."

“You just—”

“Helped you along. You asked for it.” He sounds completely unrepentant. “Would’ve been inconsiderate of me not to oblige.”

Your face is burning as you scramble the rest of the way into the backseat. You turn to glare at him through the gap between the seats.

“Comfortable back there?” he asks smugly.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you like it.” 

You settle into the backseat, heart pounding, very aware of how spacious it is. How the tinted windows make it feel private despite being parked on a hilltop. How he’s still in the front seat, just watching you squirm.

“Are you coming back here or not?”

“Depends.” He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard. “Are you going to keep that attitude when I do?”

“Probably.”

“Excellent.” He shifts, and you hear the driver’s door open. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He gets out and you hear his boots on the ground, coming around to the back door. It opens and suddenly he’s there—too big for the space, filling the entire doorway as he climbs in with easy confidence.

The door closes behind him, and suddenly the truck feels very small.

He takes a seat, legs spread, one arm along the back of the headrest, and just looks at you.

“Come here.”

You move toward him and he guides you with hands on your waist until you’re straddling his lap exactly like you straddled the bull earlier. The position is familiar now, but infinitely more intimate. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Still wearing my hat, I see.”

“You told me to keep it on.”

“I did.” His hands slide up your waist, then back down. “Looks good on you. Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?”

“From the second you put it on.” His eyes hold yours. “Imagined you exactly like this. In my lap, in my hat, in the back of my truck. Reality’s better, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand comes up to adjust the hat again, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better. “Because now I get to see if you can follow through on what you started.”

You swallow. “And what did I start?”

“Everything.” His hand moves to cup your face, turning it toward his. “You sat up in those stands looking at me like eight seconds was nothing. Critiqued my form to my face. Then had the goddamn nerve to put on my hat in front of witnesses.” His other hand presses against your ribs, palm warm and steady through the thin cotton. “And for someone so unimpressed, your heart’s about to beat right through your shirt.”

You glance down at his hand on your ribs, then back up at him, tilting your head with mock innocence. “If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked nicely.”

“Is that right? Then allow me to ask you nicely.” His fingers curve around your jaw, thumb skimming your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you? Can I put my hands on you? Can I make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea?”

The directness of it steals your breath.

“That's a lot of questions.”

“One word answers all of them.” His eyes search yours, glowing a deep red that’s almost otherworldly even in the dark. “So what's it going to be, sweetie? Yes or no?”

You want to make him work for it more. Tease him, push back, see how far you can take this.

Instead, you hear yourself say: “Yes.”

His smile is devastating. “Say it again.”

"Yes."

Then his mouth is on yours, and every thought evaporates.

The kiss isn’t tentative or testing—it’s all-consuming. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in your hair to angle you exactly how he wants you. You make a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate and feel his mouth curve against your lips.

“There it is,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Knew you’d make those pretty sounds.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him harder, fisting your hands in his shirt, and his laugh vibrates through you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race under his palm.

“You taste even better than I thought you would,” he says against your mouth, kissing you again before you can respond. “Been thinking about this since you looked at me like I was wasting your time in those stands.”

“That was barely three hours ago—”

“Three hours too long.” His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently. “Could’ve done this in the parking lot. In the diner. Hell, I thought about it on the practice bull when you were sitting in my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You roll your hips like you did on the bull, teasing, feeling exactly how hard he is through the denim. 

He hisses through his teeth.

“That's how we’re doing this, hm?” His hand slides from your throat to your hip, holding you still with effortless strength. “You want to play, princess? Fine. Let’s play.”

His mouth finds your neck and you gasp at the heat of it, at the scrape of teeth followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue. He’s marking you, and you both know it—intentional, claiming, leaving evidence that you were here, that you let him do this.

“Sylus—”

“I know. I can feel you shaking. You want more.” His hand slips under your shirt, settling at your low back. “You’ve been worked up since the bull, haven’t you?”

Heat runs up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I felt how you were shaking. Saw how flushed you got. And I’d bet my prize money that if I touched you right now, I’d find you soaked.”

Heat floods through you at the accusation. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

“Thought so. You want something? Then ask nicely.” His smile presses against your throat. “You made such a point of it earlier. So ask.”

Your pride wars with your need. “I don’t beg—”

“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to ask.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s heat in his eyes, but something patient, too. “What do you want?”

The way he’s looking at you—like he’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes, like he’ll give you anything you ask for as long as you just ask—makes something in you soften.

“Touch me, Sylus,” you say quietly. “Please.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His hand slides higher up your shirt, fingers tracing your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. “And since you asked so nicely…”

His thumb brushes across your nipple and you gasp, arching into the touch.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” His voice has gone dark, satisfied. “You, letting go. Not thinking so hard about your next smart comment. Just feeling.”

His thumb circles again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.

“Don’t.” His other hand finds your chin, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “I want to hear it. Every sound. Every breath. No one can hear you out here but me. So let me hear what I do to you.”

He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes.

“Perfect.” He sounds wrecked. “Do that again.”

“Sylus, please—”

“Please, what?” His mouth finds your jaw, kissing a path to your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

“More—I need more—”

“More of this?” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. “Or more of me?”

“Both—” Your hips rock forward on instinct, and this time he doesn’t stop you. Sylus lets you grind against him, his free hand at your hip guiding the movement.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take what you need.” His breathing has gone rough. “Show me how badly you want this.”

You rock against him again and feel him twitch beneath you, hard and hot even through all the layers of clothing.

“Fuck.” The curse slips out raw and unfiltered. “You feel what you do to me? How hard you make me when you move like that?”

“Yes—”

“Good. Because I’d like to return the favor.” His hand slides from your breast down your stomach, fingers playing at the button of your jeans. “Say yes.”

“Yes—god, yes—”

Your yes barely lands before his mouth is back on yours, hot and wet and relentless as he flicks the button open and slides the zipper down with ease. “Lift up for me.”

You do, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and underwear. They get stuck on your boots, and you both fumble with them, laughing breathlessly until you’re finally naked from the waist down.

“Leave them. Boots and hat stay on,” he decides, eyes dragging over you. “I like the look.”

“Of course you do.”

“City girl spread out like a cowgirl in the back of my truck?” His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. “That’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had until right now.”

He’s still fully clothed, and there’s something obscene about it that makes you squirm—you half-naked in his lap while he’s still in his jeans and t-shirt.

“Don’t get shy on me now.” His thumb brushes your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. “You’ve been pushing me all night. Testing me. And you’ve been so damn good at it, too.” 

He glides a single finger through your center and you gasp at the contact, your body curving into his touch involuntarily.

“Christ,” he groans. “All this for me?”

You can’t form words.

“Since the bull?” His fingers trace through your wetness, maddeningly light. “Since I had my hands on your hips? Or before that—since you watched me ride?”

“All of it,” you manage.

“All of it.” He sounds way too satisfied with himself. “So you were impressed. You were just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Your ego—”

“Is about to get a lot bigger.” He finds your clit and circles it slowly. “Because I’m going to make you come for me at least twice before you even think about taking my cock. Understand?”

Your breath catches. “Twice?”

“Minimum.” His hand slides higher, cupping you fully now. “You’ve been wound up all night. I’m not rushing this on account of your impatience.” 

“Don’t—ah—” Your protest dies when his finger circles slowly. “Don’t be smug about it—”

“Too late.” He watches your face with wicked eyes as he touches you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down against his hand. “But I like that you’re still trying to tell me what to do. Keep it up. See where it gets you.”

His finger slides inside and you cry out, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.

“That’s it. Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He works you slowly, adding another finger when you’re ready, his thumb finding your clit with devastating pressure. And all the while he’s murmuring praise against your temple—telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel, how beautiful you look falling apart for him.

“Sylus—I’m gonna—”

“I know. I can feel it.” His fingers move faster. “There. Right there. Come on, princess. Let me see what happens when you finally stop fighting it. Make it count. I've got you.”

The command combined with his fingers and his voice and the heat of him beneath you—it’s all too much. Your orgasm hits with a cry, clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, and only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.

You’re still catching your breath when he brings his fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes go wide. “Sylus—”

“Shh.” 

His own eyes close as he tastes you, tongue dragging over the pads of his fingers. When his lashes lift again, he looks wrecked in a way you've never seen.

“That,” he murmurs, lips closing around his knuckle, “is going to be a problem.”

You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare at his mouth.

“A...problem?” 

“For me. And now for you,” he says, hand already sliding up your thigh once more. “That’s one. Now let’s get you the second one before I lose my mind.”

You shake your head. “I can’t—I’m too—”

“You can. You will.” His two fingers slip inside with little resistance, fucking you slowly but without mercy. “I need you ready for me. Need to make sure your body can handle what it’s begging for. Understand?”

Your hand flies to his wrist—not to stop him, just to hold on.

He looks down where you're holding him, lips brushing your cheek. "Oh? That bad already?" 

Your head falls to his shoulder. “This is torture—”

"Maybe." His thumb presses against your clit again and you jerk. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”

His fingers work you back up, and despite the oversensitivity, despite thinking you couldn’t possibly—

“That's it.” His forehead presses against yours, breath hot against your lips. “Feel that? Let it build. Don't rush. I want all of it.”

You’re climbing again impossibly, every nerve ending screaming, and when his fingers curl just right—

“Fuck—already?” He increases the pressure, and you cry out. “Greedy little thing. Go ahead. Give me another one.”

You do, less intense than the first but somehow deeper, clenching around his fingers while he murmurs approval.

“That’s two.” He slowly withdraws his hand, and your breath hitches at the loss. Before you can process the movement, his fingers are at your lips. “Open.”

You do, and he slides them into your mouth—the same fingers that were just inside you. The taste is foreign and intimate and when you automatically close your lips around them, his breathing goes ragged.

“Look at that.” His eyes are locked on your mouth. “So obedient when it suits you, hm?”

You swirl your tongue around his fingers deliberately, and his hips jerk beneath you. Then you bite down lightly and he laughs.

“There she is.” He pulls his hand away, already working his belt. “Now help me with this before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

Your fingers join his at the buckle. “Didn’t know you had any patience to begin with.”

“I’m a very patient man.” He gets his jeans open just enough to free himself. “Just not when it comes to you.”

There’s a moment where your brain can’t connect the visual to reality.

His cock sits in his palm, thick and heavy, already flushed and glistening with precum that's slowly swelling under his thumb. A single vein runs along the shaft, steady and pulsing with each heartbeat you can feel through your own. 

You felt him earlier—broad and unforgiving, even through denim, against the curve of your ass every time your hips rolled back into him on the practice bull. You’d convinced yourself it was just the momentum. Coincidence. Adrenaline. 

You look up at him. Then down. Then up again. 

“Show-off,” you scoff, but it comes out thinner than intended.

He huffs out a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Sweetie, if you're going to bluff to my face, at least don't drool while you do it."

You try for nonchalant, rolling your eyes and straightening your spine. It does nothing to hide the tremor in your knees.

“You’re shaking. Relax.” Before you can protest, he’s already cupping your jaw, kissing you slowly, deeply, thoroughly, in a way that says slow down, you’re okay, I’m right here. He pulls away only when he’s sure you’re not trembling anymore. “You can handle it.”

He positions you over him, hands on your hips, guiding you onto the blunt head of his cock.

“Slow,” he instructs. “Take your time. Let your body adjust.”

You sink down slowly and the stretch makes you gasp. He’s patient—letting you control the pace, hands steady on your waist.

“That’s it. Breathe. You’re taking me so well.” His voice is strained. “Almost there. Just a little more.”

When you're fully seated, you’re both breathless.

“There,” he says roughly. “That’s one.”

Understanding hits you through the haze.

“You’re counting,” you say.

“I’m counting.” His hands squeeze your hips. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. Let’s see if you can make it to nine on me.” 

“And if I can’t?”

“Then we keep trying until you do.” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “I’ve got all night.”

You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips the way he taught you earlier.

“There you go. Just like that. Find your rhythm.”

You do, and his hands help guide you, help you find the perfect angle.

“That’s two,” he says when you rock down particularly hard.

When you really start to ride him it’s not pretty, not practiced, but instinctive and desperate. The stretch, the fullness—it's almost too much, the way every shift of your hips makes him groan beneath you. His hands slide up your back, threading into your hair when your rhythm stutters.

“Three.”

You’re already nearing the edge of release again—oversensitized and overwhelmed but chasing that feeling anyway.

“Four.”

“Sylus, it’s—too—too much—”

“You can take it. I know you can.” His fingers circle your clit slowly, and you can't help the way you clench around him. His jaw flexes, eyes closing for half a second. “Not yet, sweetie. Give me five more. I know you’ve got it in you.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You’re tougher than you think.” You slam down hard, chasing that feeling, and his control visibly cracks. “Five—fuck—”

Your thighs are burning, your breath coming in gasps, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. You sink onto him once more, inch by inch.

“Six.”

“Sylus—”

“I know. I can feel it. The way you’re clenching around me.” His other hand tightens in your hair. “But you don’t get to come until we hit nine. Think you can hold it?”

It’s torture. Exquisite torture.

You ride him in one long stride, hips lifting until just the tip holds you, then sinking back down until he fills you to the base.

“Christ—Seven—”

Your thighs are shaking now, barely holding on, and he knows it.

“That's it. Take it.” The words are hot against your throat. Everything else fades. “Eight.”

“I can’t hold it—”

“Yes you can. Give me one more." His hands tighten around your hips, holding you steady. "One more, and it's all yours.” 

You slam down hard, and he groans your name into your mouth.

“Nine.”

You shatter, clenching around him, and suddenly he’s moving—flipping you both so you’re on your back across the seat, legs spread, boots planted on either side of him as he looms over you.

“My turn.” He pulls almost all the way out, your walls still fluttering around him as you chase the end of your third orgasm. "Unless you want me to stop?"

“Sylus—please—I need—”

He pushes back in, driving deep into you in one motion. You wait for the rhythm, the thrust, the relief. He doesn't give it to you. 

“I know what you need.” Your hips twitch once, and his fingers tighten around them in gentle warning. “But I need to hear you say it.”

You clutch at his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle. "Sylus—move—"

"Move how?" He stays infuriatingly still. "Faster? Harder? You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetie."

"Harder—I need you to—god, just fuck me, Sylus, please—"

"Finally."

It sounds like relief, like hunger, like he's been holding himself back as much as he's made you wait.

Then he moves—hard and fast and exactly what you asked for—and your back arches off the seat. His hands shift to your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open at an angle that hits deeper, more intense in all the places you’re already trembling from before.

"Is this what you needed? This what you've been trying to say?"

"Yes—ah—yes—"

One hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you nearly sob.

“Wanted this since I saw you—” His hips snap forward harder. “That bored look on your pretty face—wanted to fuck it right off you—”

He’s not counting anymore. Not teasing. Just taking what he needs, and something about the raw desperation in it makes you clench around him.

“Jesus—” he groans, head dropping forward. “—do that again.”

You do, and he’s on you, mouth on your shoulder, teeth catching skin—not to mark you this time, but to survive you. His hand leaves your thigh to brace against the window behind you, giving him more leverage. The truck rocks with the force of his thrusts and you don’t care, can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.

“Too much—”

“Not enough. One more,” he says, and it’s not a request. “Give me one more and I’ll give you everything.”

You’re wound up impossibly again, every inch of you too sensitive, his fingers and his cock and his voice still pushing you higher, higher, higher—

“That’s it. You feel that?” His thrusts get harder, more erratic, fingers circling your aching clit as he pounds into you. “You've got me. Fuck—I'm right there with you, okay? Right there—stay with me. Take me with you. Now.”

You clench around him helplessly, so tight that Sylus feels every pulse, every aftershock, every sensation of your orgasm wrapped around his cock. He follows immediately after, burying himself deep with a sound that’s almost pained, spilling the heat of his release inside you, holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear. His hand grips the leather seat like he might rip it out of the truck, and you feel the way his whole body goes taut before collapsing against yours.

For a moment he stays frozen like that, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince. His hands are immediately around you, pulling you up and gathering you against his chest as he shifts to sit back against the seat.

You end up curled in his lap, dazed and spent, his arms wrapped around you like he's not quite ready to let go yet.

His mouth finds your temple in a single, unhurried kiss. Another follows just under your jaw, then another on your shoulder. He doesn't speak, just holds you while your breathing slowly evens out.

“Holy shit," you finally manage.

“Yeah.” His laugh is breathless against your neck. “Holy shit.”

He shifts you carefully in his lap, pulling you tighter against his chest so you're tucked under his chin, legs draped over his thighs. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle completely melted, nerve endings still firing in aftershocks. His hands are gentle now—one rubbing slow circles on your back, the other reaching for tissues from the center console. He takes care of you with surprising tenderness, his touch soft where moments ago it was demanding.

“You with me, city girl?” He speaks quietly into your hair, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “How are you feeling?”

You lift your head to look at him. “Like I just got thrown off a bull. Except better.” 

“Mission accomplished.” His smile is relieved, then turns knowing. “You’re going to feel this tomorrow. Fair warning.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It’s supposed to prepare you.” He glances down at you, hand tracing patterns against your hip. “Every time you sit down in those bleachers tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what happened in this truck.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be in the bleachers.”

“You will be. Front row, sweetie.” His voice is confident but not cocky. “So I can see the moment you stop pretending I don’t impress you.”

You could play it cool. Noncomittal. Hedge your bets. But the way he’s looking at you—hopeful and honest and maybe a little uncertain underneath all that confidence—makes you want to be honest with him, too.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

He goes still for half a second, just long enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes. He looks at you for a long moment like he's trying to memorize something, then clears his throat.

“That's good. Really good,” he says it low, fighting a smile and losing. One hand squeezes your hip while the other reaches for your jeans. “Here. Lift up. Let's get you dressed before I say something that makes you reconsider.”

You do, and he helps you shimmy them back on. They get stuck on your boots—again—and you’re both laughing together like a shared secret by the time you finally get them past your ankles.

“These damn boots,” you mutter.

“Careful." His tone is almost protective. "Those boots are innocent. They stayed on like they were supposed to. That's what matters.” He helps work your jeans over them carefully. "In fact, they're the only thing that behaved." His eyes land on something near his feet as he's tucking his shirt back in. He picks up his hat, holding it between two fingers. "This one apparently couldn't handle the ride."

“When did that happen?”

“No idea. I was distracted.” He settles it back on your head like it belongs there, adjusting the brim. “There. That’s better. That’s the look I wanted.”

“What look?”

“City girl in a cowboy hat looking like she just got thoroughly ruined by a bull rider.” His smile is pure satisfaction. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Your ego is showing again.”

“Can you blame me?” He cups your face, eyes warm as he leans in to kiss you, softer now, but no less intense. “Now. Where are you staying? I should get you back before your friend calls the cavalry.”

While he’s focused on finding the location on his phone, you glance around the fogged interior. The windows are completely opaque—condensation covering every surface, hiding the world outside. On impulse, you reach back and trace your name in the moisture on the back window.

You’re halfway through when you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Hold on.” He sets his phone in the cupholder and twists around, reaching back to add his name right next to yours in the condensation, then draws a heart connecting them.

“There.” He settles back into his seat, looking pleased. “Now we match.”

Your heart does something complicated behind your ribs. Before you can respond, your phone erupts with buzzing from somewhere in the passenger seat.

Tara: GIRL WHERE ARE U

Tara: are u ALIVE

Tara: send proof of life IMMEDIATELY!!!

“Your friend thinks I've got you hogtied behind the barn,” Sylus says, reading the texts over your shoulder. “Funny. I haven't even gotten my rope out.”

"Yet?" The word slips out before you can stop it.

His laugh rumbles through his chest as he pulls you back against him, like the sound is something you're meant to feel, not hear. “You're unbelievable. Now give me the phone.”

“Why—”

“Proof of life. Come here.”

He pulls you against him with one arm, holding your phone up with the other. You’re both completely disheveled—his silver hair a mess, your face flushed, his hat crooked on your head—both grinning like idiots.

He takes the photo and hands your phone back.

“There. Send that. Should ease her concerns.”

You send it.

The response is instantaneous.

Tara: OH MY GOD

Tara: OH MY GOD

Tara: U LOOK SO HAPPY

Tara: IS THAT HIS TRUCK???

Tara: THATS MY GIRLLLLL

Then another message pops through. A photo.

It’s Tara—equally disheveled, equally pleased—with her arm around a blonde girl. The blonde girl, the one who'd been glaring daggers at you earlier. Both of them look extremely satisfied with themselves.

You stare at your phone. “Oh my god.”

Sylus leans over to look, and his laugh is genuine.

“Looks like you and your friend both got your money's worth out of the rodeo.” He starts the engine, hand immediately returning to rest on your thigh. “You ready, sweetie?”

“For what?”

“The twenty-minute drive where I try very hard not to think about pulling over and seeing if you can make it to ten.”

“Ten?” You blink at him. “That’s…ambitious.”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.” He says it with such certainty, like it's already decided. Like there's no question you'll both end up here again.

He shifts into drive, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your leg. The radio plays quiet jazz. The world outside is dark except for passing streetlights and the occasional glow of distant houses. You settle back into your seat, watching the open road unfold ahead of you.

Then you catch it in the side mirror—the back window of his truck, still fogged from the heat you created together. And there, illuminated by the moonlight, you can just make out the shapes: your name and his, connected by that careful heart he drew.

Your heart stumbles in that way that always means trouble.

His hand squeezes your thigh once, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

You look over at him—at his profile in the dim light, at the small smile playing at his lips, at the way he glances over at you like he can't help himself—and cover his hand with yours.

"Tomorrow."