Page 22 of Ridin’ Dirty

Long.

Hard.

And, holy hell, was it perfect.

Happy birthday to me.

Two Days Later

It was Sunday night, and the diner was sparsely occupied, closing time not long in coming. In an effort to get a jump on nightly tasks, I was restocking napkins and swapping out condiment bottles in vacant booths while I waited for my last table to finish up and clear out. As I worked, my thoughts drifted, wandering toward the same memories I’d been revisiting all weekend.

My night with Pistol.

If I was a woman prone to blushing, my cheeks would have likely given away my thoughts a hundred times over as I replayed my favorite parts from our wild night. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t exactly meek or mild—something Pistol now knew—which meant I was free to get lost in my head without the worry of my body betraying me to the room.

At least, so far as anyone else could tell.

It would have been a lie to say thinking of our night together didn’t turn me on a little.

No one—absolutely no one—had ever made me come so many times in one night.

Pistol didn’t just have stamina, he had determination. It was like he was on a mission to make up for lost time in a single night. After my fifth orgasm, which brought about his third, I was worn out and blissfully sated, convinced as soon as my eyes drifted closed I might sleep for days.

Turned out, an hour later, Pistol wanted more. He woke me with his fingers between my legs and his lips around one of my nipples. Stunned as I was that we weren’t finished, he certainly made it worth my while.

I walked into the clubhouse Friday night intent on celebrating my birthday the way I wanted, consequences be damned, and Pistol was the perfect present to myself.

Now, two days later, I was dealing with the consequences.

Namely my longing to have the Stallion again.

A longing I knew I couldn’t entertain for a variety of reasons.

As per usual, Carmine was a top contender on the list. While he was currently ignorant about who I invited between my legs the other night, I knew if it became a habit, he’d eventually find out. He always did. Without fail.

It came down to the fact that when I chose a man to make a habit, he inevitably came around, and Carmy was always lurking. Watching. Waiting.

Whatever fight would ensue after he found out I was hooking up with a Wild Stallion on the regular was not one I wished to court. He might have been an annoying asshole, but he was all the family I had left, and I hated fighting with him. Even after the rift that tore us apart six years ago, going to battle with Carmy opened old wounds and left new scars every time.

But while my brother was certainly a reason why I knew better than to entertain a repeat performance with Pistol, he wasn’t the only one.

I may not have been the most educated woman in the world, but I wasn’t dumb. The past taught me a few things—namely that while I had a rebel trapped inside of my body, that piece of me was only a shield which existed to protect my tender heart.

Twenty-five-year-old me would never have admitted it.

Thirty-year-old me couldn’t ignore it.

Twenty-five-year-old me might have tricked herself into believing six orgasms in one night wasn’t just wild, it was an occurrence so rare it held a special significance which went beyond the physical.

But thirty-year-old me knew one night—hell, a hundred nights of record-breaking sex—didn’t mean shit unless both people wanted it to.

And as much as I wanted another night with Pistol, I didn’t want to open that door and lose myself, giving him the chance to break my heart.

Good as he was in bed, I was sure he took what he wanted—what we both wanted—and left the rest.

When I woke up late Saturday morning, I was tangled in his sheets alone.

He didn’t wake me.