The tack room of Willow Creek Stables was a sanctuary of shadows and scents, a dimly lit haven where the rich, earthy aroma of leather mingled with the sweet musk of hay. Bridles hung like dark promises on the walls, and the faint creak of saddles settling into their racks was the only sound breaking the pre-tournament hush. Linda Carver, a force of nature at forty, stood at the center of it all, her hands deftly tightening the girth on her chestnut mare, Artemis. Her riding breeches clung to her powerful thighs, and her black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense braid that swung with every purposeful move. She was a woman who commanded arenas and men alike, her sharp tongue as legendary as her precision in the saddle.
She didn’t hear him at first—Jake, her husband of fifteen years, had a knack for slinking in like a damn cat burglar. It wasn’t until his hands, warm and brazen, slid around her waist from behind that she jolted, nearly dropping the saddle pad.
“Jesus, Jake, you trying to get kicked like a stallion?” she snapped, her voice a low growl, though a smirk tugged at her lips. She didn’t turn around, not yet. Let him stew in her irritation.
His chuckle was a rumble against her back as he pressed himself closer, the hard line of his body unmistakable through her thin shirt. “Thought I’d give my champion a proper send-off before you go out there and show those prissy riders who’s boss,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. His hands roamed lower, fingers splaying over her hips with a boldness that made her breath hitch, despite herself.
Linda twisted her head just enough to shoot him a withering glare, her hazel eyes flashing. “You’ve got the timing of a drunk toddler, you know that? I’ve got ten minutes before I’m up, and you’re out here trying to start a rodeo of your own.”
Jake grinned, unrepentant, his stubble grazing her jaw as he nipped at her earlobe. “Ten minutes is plenty, sweetheart. I’ve broken records in less.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, though her voice wavered as his hands dipped to the waistband of her breeches, tugging at the button with infuriating confidence. “You’re more likely to break your back than a record. I’m not some barn bunny you can tumble in the hay, Jake Carver.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, popping the button free with a flick of his thumb. “You’re already half-saddled up for me, darlin’.”
She should’ve shoved him off. Should’ve told him to take his wandering hands and his cocky grin straight to hell. But there was something in the way he pressed against her, the raw hunger in his touch, that sparked a fire she couldn’t douse. Her protest died on her lips as he yanked her breeches down just enough, the cool air of the tack room kissing her bare skin before his hands did.
“Damn you,” she muttered, her voice thick with a mix of exasperation and need. She gripped the edge of the saddle rack for balance, her knuckles whitening as he took her right there, with the urgency of a man who knew exactly how to unravel her. It was quick, rough, and unapologetically raw—a collision of heat and friction that had her biting her lip to keep from crying out. The scent of leather and sweat wrapped around them, and the distant whinny of horses was a reminder of just how close they were to being caught.
When it hit her, that blinding wave of release, it was like a hoof to the chest. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed to her knees on the straw-dusted floor, chest heaving, a string of curses spilling from her lips. “You’re a bastard, Jake. A goddamn menace.”
He laughed, low and wicked, already kneeling behind her, his hands gripping her hips to pull her back up. “Oh, we’re not done, champ. I’ve got a double header in mind.”
“Are you kidding me?” she barked, though her voice trembled with lingering aftershocks as his fingers teased her still-sensitive skin. “I’ve got a tournament to win, not a bedroom marathon to run.”
“Just a quick encore,” he purred, his touch relentless, stoking embers she didn’t think could reignite so fast. “You’ll ride better with a little extra fire in you.”
She was halfway to snapping another insult when the loudspeaker crackled to life, a tinny voice slicing through the haze of their illicit tryst. “Linda Carver, to the main arena. Linda Carver, you’re up in five.”
“Shit!” Linda hissed, shoving Jake back with an elbow as she scrambled to her feet. Her breeches were still half-down, her shirt askew, and she could feel the damp heat between her thighs like a neon sign screaming *guilty*. She yanked her pants up, fumbling with the zipper, her face flushed a damning shade of crimson. “You absolute idiot! Look at me! I look like I’ve been rolling in the hay with a damn farmhand!”
Jake leaned back on his heels, grinning like the devil himself, utterly unbothered by her fury. “You look like a winner, babe. Little tousled, sure, but hell, that’s just proof you’ve got grit.”
“Grit?” she spat, smoothing her hair with frantic hands as she grabbed her riding helmet from a hook. “I’ve got your ‘grit’ all over me, you jackass. If anyone notices, I swear I’ll geld you faster than I can geld a colt.”
“Promises, promises,” he drawled, standing and dusting off his jeans with infuriating calm. “Go knock ‘em dead, sweetheart. I’ll be in the stands, cheering for my favorite filly.”
She shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel, snatching her crop from the wall with a snap. “Keep talking, Jake, and I’ll use this on you instead of Artemis. Now get out of my sight before I make good on that threat.”
He tipped an imaginary hat, still smirking, and sauntered out of the tack room, leaving her to her chaos. Linda took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself as she led Artemis out of the stable, every step reminding her of the reckless heat still simmering under her skin. Her breeches chafed against the evidence of their romp, and she could feel the flush on her cheeks burning brighter than a beacon. As she mounted her mare and rode toward the arena, the crowd’s murmur growing louder, she muttered under her breath, “If anyone so much as sniffs in my direction, I’m done for.”
But there was no time for shame now. She squared her shoulders, her jaw set like iron, and urged Artemis forward. Tournament or not, Linda Carver wasn’t about to let a little barn-side indiscretion—or a smug bastard of a husband—throw her off her game. Let them stare. Let them whisper. She’d ride through hell itself if it meant coming out on top.
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