Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Because I’m on a real first date. With Dom. And damn does he look good. Holy hell.
When this date began, seeing him behind the wheel in those perfectly fitted jeans and that white T-shirt, hugging his chest like a second skin, sent my nerves into overdrive.
But now, here I am, laughing in a crowded bar, feeling giddy in a way I haven’t since I was a teenager. Because that’s what Dom does—he has this effortless way of putting me at ease. He makes me feel alive.
For the first time in forever, I feel comfortable. I feel free. I feel like . . . me. And boy is my true, inner self excited.
Because Dominic Dunn is always handsome, but Dominic Dunn in boots, jeans, a white T-shirt, and a flipping cowboy hat? Bless my little heart, he is illegally hot. Seriously. The amount of female attention I’ve seen this man garner since we walked down Broadway and headed into the Whiskey River Saloon is criminal.
He is sex on legs, and tonight I’m the lucky lady who gets to be on his arm. Fingers crossed this turns into more nights.
“Hannah?” Dom singsongs my name when I don’t respond to his question. “Are you chickening out on me?”
“Nope.” I giggle and shake my head. “I’m just admiring how nice you look tonight.”
“It’s the hat, isn’t it?” He waggles his brows. “Or is it the muscles?” He makes a show of flexing his biceps as he lifts his beer. “Or maybe it’s how juicy my ass looks in these jeans . . . ?”
When he starts to stand up from his barstool, I balance on the rings of mine and place two strong hands on his shoulders and force him back down into his seat on a laugh.
“For the love of everything, keep your juicy ass in your seat, please,” I retort. “The last thing I need is a flock of women trying to tear your clothes off and knocking over my beer.” I punctuate that statement by lifting my glass to my lips and taking a drink.
Dom eyes me closely with a little smirk as he does, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion as I lick a few speckles of foam from my lips.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have chicken wings in my teeth or something?”
He grins, shakes his head, and reaches out with his big hand so he can drag my barstool closer to his. So close, in fact, the wooden edges bump against each other and one of my thighs slides perfectly between his.
“Hannah, sweetheart, I’ve spent the whole night watching every schmuck in this place stare at my girl, so you’re going to have to excuse me for refuting your flock-of-women comment,” he says, his voice quiet and raspy. His face is so close to mine that our noses just barely brush. “Honestly, I’m not even sure if I want you on that bull. Fuck knows, the stupid pricks in this bar will be lining up to watch you ride it.”
The possessive warmth in his words wraps around me like a blanket, and I feel myself melt into it. He makes me feel safe. Like I can let go, like I can trust him with the most vulnerable parts of myself. And God, do I want to.
I’m high off his complimentary words. But I’m also a little tipsy and ready to see this man ride a damn bull.
“Dom?”
“Yeah, Hannah?”
“I think it’s time to put your money where your mouth is and ride the bull,” I tell him and lean forward to press a soft kiss to his lips.
“And what about you?” he asks, before lightly brushing my tongue with his own in an even deeper kiss.
“Oh, baby, I’m riding that bull,” I answer without hesitation. “For all eight seconds.”
Frankly, I’ve never ridden a bull before, and I don’t have a clue where my confidence is coming from, but with the way Dom is smiling at my words, I can’t be anything but all in for whatever is about to go down.
I stand up and take his hat off his head, placing it directly over my hair. “Let’s go, cowboy.”
Dom laughs. “Fuck, you’re a handful.”
“Are you chickening out on me?” I ask, quirking a brow in his direction and holding out my hand toward him.
“Fuck no,” he retorts and takes my outstretched hand. He reaches out with his free hand to tip the rim of his hat, which still sits on my head. “Let’s do this, cowgirl.”
We head straight over to the gated area where the mechanical bull sits. Since it’s a weeknight, there’s not a lot of action in this corner of the bar, and it doesn’t take long for both of us to get signed up with the bearded man running the bull.