Serving Trouble(74)

“Yeah,” he said, withdrawing the key from his jeans and slipping it into the locked side door. But he wasn’t sure they were talking about the bull anymore.

He led the way inside and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent strips overhead illuminated a dusty dirt floor. His grandfather had talked about pouring concrete one day, but they’d never had the money. A collection of boxes and old furniture stood at the far end. The black bull stood in the center of a padded section that filled one corner of the barn. At one point in time, the pads had been red, white, and blue, but they’d faded, losing their all-­American look.

“It has horns.” Josie moved past him and stepped up onto a firm greyish-­white cushion. “And a face.”

“That’s real cowhide,” he said, keeping his boots planted in the dirt. If he joined her up there, he’d reach for her. And he wanted to see her ride first. His dick was hard at the thought. Having a hard-­on around Josie should have sent him running toward a cold shower. But not tonight.

One more night. . .

He watched as she ran her hand over the black hide, down the bull’s neck to the leather strap that ran down the machine’s side. At the base of the bull’s neck, the strap connected to a handle. Some of the fancy models included a mock saddle. But Big Buck’s bull looked like the real deal. His dad used to brag that this was what cowboys used for training.

She placed one hand on the handle and the other on the smooth surface covering the machine’s back. Glancing over her shoulder, she raised an eyebrow. “Can I take it for a ride now?”

Oh hell yeah.

“Sure.” He headed for the controls, keeping an eye on Josie. She gripped the handle and pulled herself up. It wasn’t a graceful mounting, not even close. But the way her sundress rode up her legs, flashing her white cotton panties beneath—­he was eight seconds away from pulling her off the damn thing before he hit go.

Turning away, he focused on the controls. He set the speed to slow and then called, “Ready?”

“Think so,” she said. “Does this look like a good position?”

He looked up and let out a low groan. Her bare legs held tight to the cowhide, leaving her dress bunched around her hips. And she gripped the handle with both hands. “Yeah,” he managed as he hit the big green button. “You’re good.”

The machine hummed to life, sounding nothing like the animals the real cowboys risked life and limb to ride. Slowly, it began to pitch forward and back, all the while spinning in a gentle circle. It looked like a bull on tranquilizers—­or a machine designed to seduce.

Josie slid down to the neck. She took one hand off the handle and reached for the horns. Her upper body pitched forward. The machine tipped back and her panty-­covered bottom glided a few inches in the other direction.

“Hold on tight with your legs,” he called. “And move your upper body against the movement.”

“Huh?” She pitched forward again, but this time, she fought to lean back. A few more turns and her body would find the motion.

But helping her wouldn’t hurt . . .

Noah climbed up onto the padding. “Would you like a lesson?”

“You’re going to climb on while this thing is moving?” she said without looking at him. She was focused on her grip and the bull.

He laughed. “It’s not going that fast, sweetheart.” The pet name slipped out and he saw her eyes widen. But that could have been due to the bull’s motion. “And I’ve had a lot of practice on this thing,” he added.

“Show me,” she demanded. There was a breathless quality to her usually defiant tone.

He waited until the side of the bull faced him. Then, he reached for the handle, covering her hand with his, and scrambled on. She fell forward and he probably looked like an ass while he worked to get his leg around the moving machine, but a few seconds later he was settled. His hips pressed up against her backside as the bull’s head reared into the air.

“Lean back,” he said, wrapping one arm around her waist. His other hand maintained a hold on the handle beside her white-­knuckled grip. “And relax. I’ve got you. The worst that can happen is you fall on your ass.”

“I’d rather keep my ass and my pride off the ground,” she murmured, letting her back rest against his chest.

Holding her close, he guided their bodies, pitching them toward the bull’s head when the rear end lowered. He leaned back when it kicked up as if lifting its nonexistent hind legs in the air.

“You would be one helluva of a sight at a rodeo,” he murmured.

“Because I didn’t think to wear jeans?” she teased, sounding a lot more relaxed now that they’d found a rhythm.