Cowboy Casanova (Rough Riders #12)(11)

parties, we host a guest night. In the last two years we’ve gained thirty new members.

”


“No problems with Jim Bob blabbing at the town diner that he saw Betty Sue getting

screwed silly by a man who wasn’t her husband?”


Layla laughed. “Not in the six years we’ve been here. But there are stringent rules,

because a place like this is so hard to find, especially in rural America. The members

are very protective of this place and the people they’ve connected with here. I know

several female members who trust a Dom with a flogger or a whip, but they haven’t

exchanged last names. First names only. No sharing of personal information unless it’s

mutually agreed upon. And then only if Murphy is aware they’ll be meeting outside the

club. There isn’t a lot of bullshit because all the members are here for the same

thing.”


“Which is?”


“Sex with varying levels of kink. Sex without strings.”


Ainsley met Layla’s curious stare. “What?”


“Nice job distracting me and stalling for time. I bet I sounded like a tour guide,

breaking down every single thing and providing historical footnotes.” Layla struck a

pose. “And here we have a spanking bench covered in the softest cowhide. Look at the

manacles, lined with rich Cordovian leather. Only the best at the Rawhide Club.”


“Did you notice the words to that TV ditty are kinda dirty?” Ainsley belted out,

“Head ’em up, move ’em in, move ’em out…Rawhide!”


Layla groaned. “I am so glad there’s no karaoke at this place.”


She smirked. “Let’s mosey on in and find us a cowboy to ride until our hides are raw.

”


Chapter Three


Ben was contemplating sub choices when a flash of red caught his eye. He swiveled on

his barstool to watch the siren in the silk kimono saunter through the room.


Oh hell yeah, his night had just improved tenfold.


She perched on the edge of her barstool, every inch of her so prim and proper Ben’s

fingers itched to muss her up.


After he watched her for a few minutes, he asked Murphy, “Who is the hot number in red

with Layla?”


“Her name is Angel.”


“Angel,” rolled off his tongue. Perfect name for her. Sipping his beer, he focused

entirely on her. Lush body, lush mouth. Great smile. Expressive eyes. She was off-the-

scale sexy in his opinion. So why the hell was the woman wearing a wig? Not a subtle

one, but a sleekly styled black wig, the last inch of hair dyed candy-apple red. Was

she trying to look dangerous? Hip? Naughty?


Be interesting to coax the truth from her. Some very interesting extraction techniques

popped into Ben’s head.


She must’ve sensed him staring at her because she turned and met his gaze head on.

Their eyes remained locked for several long moments as Ben waited for her to lower her

gaze—as he was accustomed. But she returned his intense eye-f*ck full bore until Layla

demanded her attention.


Holy shit. Dismissive wasn’t a reaction Ben usually got, especially not in here. And

that intrigued the hell out of him. Casually, he said to Murphy, “Introduce me to her.