Page 66 of Danger

“Don’t outsmart the teacher,” he murmurs against my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse.

I should probably remember this is supposed to be practice. Instead, all I can think about is him. How good he feels. I rock into him, needy, reckless. The feeling of turning on Danger Stetson is intoxicating, the only air I want to breathe in.

A sound slips from him—half laugh, half groan—as his grip tightens, holding me firmly in his lap. Like if he lets go, he’ll dieright here. My pulse is everywhere. In my throat. My lips. The place where he’s holding me steady. I let a soft moan slip.

He answers in a kiss—deeper, slower, like he’s choosing me instead of the fight burning under his skin. Instead of leaving to go straight for blood.

“Boss! Cattle’s back in. Fence is fixed—for now.” A voice yells out, shattering this bubble we’re in.

I jolt, scrambling off his lap just as boots crunch around the corner of the barn. My cheeks are on fire, lips swollen, heart still pounding like I just ran a mile.

Danger stays seated, an arm dropping along the back of the bench. Calm. Collected. All sharp edges and control again.

“Good,” he says evenly. “Pull in a few more hands. I want extra eyes on the ranch the next few nights.”

“On it.”

The man disappears as quickly as he came, leaving the night ringing with what almost could have happened.

When we’re alone again, Danger looks at me, and something dark and amused flickers through his eyes.

“You realize,” he says quietly, “you saved a man's life tonight.”

My lips are still buzzing. My knees feel weak.

“That was the plan,” I say, grinning like it might calm my nerves.

It doesn’t.

“This deal of ours,” he says, his mouth curves, slow and dangerous.

“What about it?”

“We have rules,” he says. “Don’t forget them.”

Right. His rules. No feelings. No fucking.

I swallow, counting every way I’m going to make him break them.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

winnie

One big handcatches my wrist, and I halt mid-step. He doesn’t say a word at first—just tugs me closer, eyes scanning the stands.

I didn’t expect to see him before warm-ups. Then he drops a shirt in my hand.

It’s too big, it’s black and soft. STETSON is stamped across the back in white letters.

“Wear that,” he demands. “And stand where I can see you when I’m up.”

I laugh. “You boss all your fake girlfriends around like this?”

He grins. “Only the ones I ride for.”

Then—like it’s nothing—he tips the brim of his hat toward the dirt before turning for the arena, climbing the rail with that easy, annoying confidence that makes the crowd lose its damn mind.

And god help me, I let myself believe it means something.