“Who cares about my footwear; hurry up.”

Was Lainie impatient to f**k him because it was so good between them? Or in a hurry to get off and get it over with before Hank came back?

Does it really matter?

No. Not really. Sometimes a quick f**k was a quick f**k and nothing else.

Kyle pushed her against the ladder hanging from the bed platform. “Grab the top rung,” he urged between kisses.

When Lainie grabbed the bars, the arch of her spine lifted her br**sts exactly to his mouth level. He groaned and suckled the tips until she writhed, undulating her hips closer to his.

“Condom,” she said, panting.

“Got one right here.” Shit. No, he didn’t. “Do. Not. Move.” He dug through his duffel bag, found one, rolled it on, and was back between her thighs within thirty seconds. “Hold on.” Palming her soft ass cheeks, he canted her hips, impaling her in one fast, deep thrust.

She moaned. “Yes. Like that.”

Plunge and retreat. The creamy whiteness clinging to the latex was a f**king rush, proof that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Her br**sts bounced with his every thrust, ni**les hard and begging for his mouth. But he was beyond focusing attention on her beautiful tits. He needed to come so f**king bad it was like a fever.

“It’s . . . right . . . there.” She practically sobbed as she started to come.

The intimate internal kiss of her cunt muscles spasming around his dick drove him over the edge. His hips flexed of their own accord as his balls drained.

“Mmm.”

Kyle lifted his head from where he’d buried it in Lainie’s neck. “I’ll have to buy you flowers more often.”

Chapter Twelve

“Hank. Good to see you.”

Hank returned Lyle Barclay’s vigorous handshake. “Good to be here.”

“Have a seat.”

The Barclay Investment Group had been Hank’s biggest sponsor for the past five years. The group kept their fingers in quite a few rodeo pies, including fronting the money for stock contractors, sponsoring rodeo PA systems and electronic scoreboards, as well as supplying big-screen TVs and live entertainment.

Hank usually met with a rep from Barclay informally under their signature white tent. But this time he was meeting the big boss. Out of the blue. Their annual discussion about sponsorship dollars normally took place at the corporate offices in Cheyenne. Not in a tent with kids hollering and rock music blaring from the Coors party tent.

“Am I in trouble or something?” Hank said lightly.

“No, son, not at all.”

It amused Hank that Lyle always called him son, even when the man was barely ten years older.

“I’ll admit I was surprised to see your name on the request sheets for various events over the next couple weeks.”

Hank remained mum. Banker types loved to hear the sound of their own voices. Lyle would get to the point in his own sweet time. It wouldn’t do Hank a lick of good to try to press the issue.

“Looks to me like you’re wanting to fill the bullfighter spots across the upper Western circuits. A different one every night, with a few exceptions of two-day events. Plus, you requested afternoon and evening performances at a couple of unrelated events back-to-back.” Lyle pushed his glasses back up his nose and set the sheaf of papers on the picnic table. “You develop itchy feet all of a sudden?”

“Not me so much as my buddy Kyle Gilchrist.”

Lyle frowned. “The bull rider? Isn’t he in the EBS?”

“Formerly.” Hank gave him a brief rundown. “Since we’ve been buddies for years, I offered to travel with him. I’ve heard a lot about Cowboy Christmas, but never participated, so I figured now was as good a time as any to get the lowdown.”

“So does Gilchrist plan on going back to the EBS?”

Hank shrugged. “This is only his second event in the CRA, so I don’t think he knows. Why?”

“Just wondered if he planned to return the favor. Getting you an introduction into the EBS.”

“Well, Lyle, with all due respect, I don’t need Kyle Gilchrist to get me an introduction to the EBS. My reputation as a bullfighter speaks for itself.”

“I take it you’ve been approached by the EBS staff?”

It never crossed Hank’s mind to lie. “Yes. I talked to Bryson Westfield last weekend. He’s interested in me.”

Lyle’s fingers did a rolling tap across the papers. “How interested?”

“Interested enough to offer me a second audition in Tulsa.”

Silence.

“I appreciate your candor, Hank. I hope you’ll appreciate mine. If it’s only about the money, well, we can work on that part.” Lyle leaned across the table. “The EBS has their own way of doing things.”

“Some say the same about the CRA,” Hank volleyed back.

“True. But the difference is they’re trying to build an empire. We’re trying to sustain a way of life. A life you lead on your family ranch when you’re not facing off with a bull.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to audition for them, Lyle?”

Lyle shook his head. “I encourage you to audition for them. I’m glad they see the talent in you we’ve always seen. But before you take their offer, will you give us a chance to counter?”

How bizarre. Hank never imagined his services were worth a price war. “You speaking for the CRA now?”