Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(33)

Did he intend to showcase her frailties and failings as part of his art? What would she do if he did? Although Carter claimed to know her, how much did she really know of him? She shoved the paranoid thoughts in the back of her mind.


Macie exited the trailer. The air was muggy and humid, heavy with the promise of rain. A light mist created banks of fog, hiding the beautiful landscape and the enormous sky. She’d forgotten her shoes, so she picked her way to the barn across the pea-sized gravel, one barefooted step at a time. She stopped when she saw the barn door was ajar and she heard a strange noise from inside.


Déjà vu.


Or a repeat of the sexy dream she’d had of a trio of hot cowboys?


Dammit. The blurry line between reality and fantasy was making her nuts. To ensure she was fully awake, she pinched the inside of her forearm. Hard.


Damn that hurt. But at least she knew she wasn’t dreaming. Macie took a deep breath and quietly slipped inside.


Artificial light shone in the main room from a large metal cone-shaped fixture. Soft, twangy music drifted from an unseen boom box. An explosion of art supplies—jars, paints, brushes, jumbo rolls of paper, machinery, long pieces of wood, sticks—covered every available flat surface. Carter might keep his living area immaculate, but his workspace resembled a pigsty. The irony wasn’t lost on her, as the man had set up shop in a barn.


She allowed her gaze to focus on him. Good God. The man was nearly naked. A ratty cowboy hat on his head was about the extent of his attire. He’d changed out of jeans and wore a stained pair of sweatpants hacked off above the knee. Few men looked better out of clothes than in them, and Carter McKay was one of those lucky men.


Lucky her. She swallowed the puddle of drool forming in her mouth.


Carter hadn’t noticed her. He was working an enormous chunk of greenish clay, adding smaller blobs. She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear him singing along with the radio. She smiled. Who would’ve thought he could carry a tune? Keith Urban had nothing to worry about, but Velma might have a new contender for the open mic contest next Friday night.


Macie was strangely content just to watch Carter, fascinated by his controlled body movements. The muscles in his shoulders bunched as he lifted his arms. As he pushed and pulled the clay, corded muscles popped up on his forearms. A thin line of sweat trickled down his spine and disappeared into his low-slung sweatpants. She wished she could see his hands. Those long, clever fingers smoothing and shaping, plunging deep.


Outside the mist morphed into a steady, soft rainfall. The clean scent of rain wafted through the open door, but did nothing to cool her off. Seemed nothing could make her take her eyes off him, either.


She’d thought Carter was sexy when they’d first met, but it was nothing compared to the way she felt when she looked at him now. Despite his overwhelming intensity, he was sweet and thoughtful and had a body made for pure sin. She wanted him. Wanted his clay-covered hands on her. Molding her breasts. Leaving a muddy trail down her belly.


Leaving moon-shaped clay marks from his fingernails digging into her hips. Seeing his big handprints on the inside of her thighs.


Tasting clay and passion on his lips. Scraping her nails down his sweat-coated back.


Clutching his ass. Watching lust fire in his eyes as he took everything she offered him.


Right then she knew she wouldn’t deny him a damn thing.


Thunder cracked outside.


Macie gasped at the intrusion of reality into her little fantasy world.


Carter spun to glare at her. “Jesus, Macie, what are you doin’ in here?”


“I-I woke up a little while ago—”


“And you just snuck in to spy on me in my private studio?”


His angry look doused her steamy thoughts. “No!”


“Then what the hell—” He paced toward her, then back. “Fuck.” Angrily he wiped his hands on a towel. “Never mind. My own damn fault. Shoulda put a lock on that goddamn door.”


“I-I’m sorry. I’ll go.”


The gentle rain changed to a torrential downpour. More thunder boomed. The wind howled and the door smacked shut.


“No. That’s okay. Hang on. Just let me—”


The last thing she saw before she fled was Carter flinging a sheet over the globs of clay and mysterious shape on the table.


Macie couldn’t blame the way she trembled solely on the change in the weather. The change in Carter had a lot to do with it.


Stupid girl. Stupid to hope he’d be different. When would she learn nothing ever changed for her when it came to her relationships with men?


Water splashed up to her ankles, as she couldn’t avoid mud puddles. Had she left her keys in her car?


He’d glared at her like a disobedient child.


A sharp rock tore at the skin on the bottom of her foot and she stumbled. She righted herself and kept limping along in the downpour. Why in the hell had she parked so far away?


Maybe it was a cosmic sign she should drive far away and never look back. Good plan.


“Macie!”


Don’t look back. He’ll convince you to stay—only temporarily—and you need to keep running.