Read an Excerpt
If there was one fact Jake Goodall was certain of, it was that there was nothing like having 1800 pounds of muscle and fury bucking between his thighs to get his blood boiling and his prick ready to ride more than just a bull.
Providing that his head or his balls weren't flattened like his mother's Sunday morning hotcakes, of course. Eight seconds didn't sound like much time, but when you spent them on the back of a snot-snorting, ass-busting, ball-banging bull as ornery as Wrecking Ball, they could stretch out for years. There was an old saying among bull riders--it wasn't a matter of if you got hurt, it was a matter of when and how badly.
He cleared his mind of everything but the animal beneath him, trying to 'cowboy up' as he strapped his riding hand down under the bull rope and found his seat on the broad back of Wrecking Ball. The bull heaved and banged against the steel side of the bucking chute, seemingly as anxious as Jake to get the show on the road.
Jake's left hand raised high in the air, his right tucked down tightly under the bull rope, his legs clenching Wrecking Ball's sides with the grip of a virgin's ass on prom night, and gave a nod. The gateman flung the chute open and the ride began.
Bucking, jumping, and twisting, the bull came alive under Jake's ass as it burst into the arena. It was like trying to ride a tornado but he managed to stay over his hand, keeping his seat for the full time. The whistle blew and he vaulted off the bull's back, landing squarely on his rump in the dark brown sawdust of the arena.
Jake was up and running before Wrecking Ball even realized he was gone, and the rodeo clowns ran interference asJake sprinted to the fence, getting away with his hide slightly dented, but still intact. Swatting the dust from the seat of his jeans with his hat, he grinned as his score was announced. Thirty-seven points for him and another forty for the bull meant that he'd made the finals, and he was still smiling as he worked his way out of the arena after collecting his bull rope and black Stetson, heading toward the back pens. He stopped only long enough to pick up his gray duffle bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He'd be back tomorrow afternoon for the short-go, and a shot at the prize money and the buckle.