Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)

by Elsie Silver

Rhett stepped up on a fence, glancing back over his shoulder at the camera. Open land behind him, a warm setting sun. A flirty smirk on his lips, eyes partially obscured by a worn cowboy hat, and the pièce de résistance . . . Wrangler jeans that hugged all the best parts.

“And Eaton, that girl is my daughter. My princess. So, mind your goddamn manners, keep your hands to yourself, and stay the hell out of trouble, yeah?” The snarky princess is supposed to live at the ranch with me? Good God, this is so much worse than I imagined.

And also insanely beautiful. She’s changed into jeans, and I’m trying like hell not to eye the way they hug her pint-sized frame.

Cade’s jaw pops, and he shoots Summer a disapproving glare. Some women would shrink under that scowl, but not this one. She shrugs and mouths, “Sorry,” looking a little chagrined as they turn toward their house to leave. But when she glances over her shoulder at me, that smug smirk touches her mouth.

“Cade is going to hate you for that.” Her lips press together, and she shrugs, seeming truly unaffected by the prospect. “I guess I’ll have to hope Brother Number Three likes me. Or maybe I’ll go for the trifecta? Get you all to hate me? That might be nice for me.” The balls on this girl.

“Because that’s not my job. Keep up, we need to go over some things.” I hang back for a few minutes, because when Summer Hamilton tells me to jump, I refuse to respond with, How high?

His broad shoulders, his unruly hair, and dark scruff. You’d have to be dead to not appreciate a man like Rhett Eaton. He’s not pretty and polished. He’s rugged and a little rough around the edges. He’s all man. One hundred percent different from any man I’ve met. Girls like me don’t usually mix with men like him. We don’t even mix in the same circles, but that doesn’t stop me from appreciating him. The way a pair of Wranglers fit him hasn’t changed since his early days on the circuit.

Little Rhett needs to stay in his pants. Because having to dictate a man’s sexual activities is just way beyond my pay grade.

“Your dad made it seem like you were going to put me on a leash.” “Only if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Willa: Your cowboy. I looked him up. He looks like the hot guy from Hell on Wheels. You know, the one with the long hair? Did you know they filmed that show out there? Willa: You should bang him.

We don’t look at each other as we walk, but he touches my shoulder gently and gestures me across his body. He moves me to the opposite side of him before taking up position by the road.

It’s an obvious hint that he’d rather not associate with me right now, so I trail past him, catching a whiff of whatever cologne he’s wearing. There’s a liquorice note to it I’ve never noticed before now, followed by leather. I don’t know if it’s his boots, or his belt, or just that a man that rugged is destined to smell like something equally masculine.

“Give the rest of us a turn.” “You? No. Me. I don’t just want a turn though. I’d lock that shit down forever. Those Eaton boys take after their dad. And Harvey Eaton is a total DILF. GILF?”

He’s smiling, talking with his hands, and my eyes trail along them, the veined tops of them, catching on the glint of silver on his finger. The ring that matches the silver cuff bracelet around his wrist. Only Rhett Eaton could make jewelry look so goddamn manly.

She’s talking, and those fuckers are hanging on every word like she’s the most interesting person in the world. And truth be told, if I wasn’t so miffed about this whole thing, I might be interested in talking to her more. She does seem interesting. There’s something intriguing about her. The way she looks, the way she talks, her confidence and spunk.

Somehow, my brain has connected them to the lipstick Summer wears, and the color isn’t even that similar. But it’s going there anyway. It’s going other places too. Like how that mouth would look wrapped around my dick.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I like her eyes on me.

I pour a glass of water and then march back over to the table, not missing the way her eyes trail over my body. I’m only wearing boxers, not really accustomed to having to cover up for a woman in the house.

But I’m supposed to keep Little Rhett in your pants. And that one girl was ready to pack him up and take him home.” “Pardon me?” “Your dick.” She points at my lap. “No coming out to play until this is all dealt with. Kip’s orders.

And with that, she storms out. Ass barely concealed by her silky shorts. Leaving me wondering if those are the new “team” uniform. Because if so, I just might be in.

walked away like the bigger person, even though what I wanted to do was kick him in the shins. Which would have hurt like hell because everything about Rhett Eaton is hard, and toned, and cut. He’s not bulky, but he’s fit. A swimmer’s build. Strong enough to stay on, but not cumbersome.

I march down the hallway, ponytail swinging behind me as I strut into the kitchen with my head held high, trying not to remember the way the light played off every ridge on Rhett’s body last night—the shadows between every defined ab, the dip at the hollow of his throat, that perfect v heading toward the other head.

So, I drop my hand onto his shoulder. First, I give a squeeze, but he flinches and sucks in a deep breath, like he’s in pain. I pull my hand away. But when his reaction ends there, and he doesn’t make any other moves to get away from me, I put my hand back, a little lower this time. Running it along the ridge of his shoulder blade through the fabric of his shirt.

When he turns his full attention on me, my heart skitters in my chest. No man has any business looking as good as he does. The dark lashes, the square jaw.

When I glance over my shoulder, I catch his eyes lower on my body than they should be, but they snap up to my face instantly. My cheeks heat all the same. After all, Rhett Eaton just checked out my ass in gym tights.

“Could have fooled me,” I mumble as I rotate the knob to loosen the post and drop it down. I raise an eyebrow at her to see if she plans on stepping closer so I can measure the seat for her, but she just continues to mean-mug me. So, I eyeball the height, shrug when it looks good enough, and then hop back onto my bike and start the warmup program. Eventually, she reaches out and readjusts the seat. Up. Down. And then settles on the exact same spot I had it in the first place. Stubborn.

And after twenty minutes, she hops off her bike, wipes it down, and walks away—giving me the most glorious view of her pert ass—without saying a goddamn word to me.

But then her hips thrust up, and she lifts the bar with the strength of her . . . I don’t even know. Her ass? The way it’s clenching, the way her lips part on a heavy breath. It’s all just confirmation that I’m a fucking pervert.

“Hip thrust. Want to try?” Do I ever. The way she’s staring up at me right now makes my dick twitch.

“I’m tapping out.” I flop back on the mat, absolutely brutalized by the petite powerhouse who just tried to murder me with her “specialized workout.” Specialized to kill me.

“You like to torture men for kicks. Got it.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Only the ones who deserve it.” I huff out a laugh. Because I probably do deserve it.

I think about how bad a chicken farm smells to keep from getting hard.

I’m not going to ride his ass unnecessarily.” She hums suggestively. “But would you let him ride yours?”

he smiles at me. And it stuns me. All masculine confidence and playful allure. I think it might be the sexiest smile anyone has ever given me.

Those parts have my eyes rolling, because even if Rhett and I are on friendly-ish terms, he would never be interested in someone like me. He’s made that abundantly clear. And that’s fine because I can’t take another heartbreak.

Rhett told me earlier that he drew a good bull, and when I asked what that means, a slightly psychotic expression came over his face as his lips stretched into a toothy grin. “It means he’s going to want to kill me, Princess.” Princess. The fifteen-year-old in me fainted on the spot, because this time it didn’t have the bite of an insult. But the twenty-five-year-old me lifted a finger at him and said, “Don’t princess me, Eaton.”

There’s something about a man who is damn good at what he does that holds an appeal for me. Every step is sure. Practiced. Full of confidence.

Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn.

Our eyes lock, and for one moment, we trace each other’s features. Then, almost like that moment never happened, he shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, and limps out of the ring, the fringes on his chaps swinging as he goes.

But not before I bend down to the woman beside me who just told me he thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport and say, “Maybe he is.”

Her encouragement shouldn’t feel this good. I shouldn’t like that she’s excited. So, I just say, “Welcome to the wild side, Princess.”

“Staring is rude, Summer.” She doesn’t smile. “Running yourself into the ground when you’re already injured is stupid. You need to take care of yourself.” “Don’t ride, don’t get paid,” I bite out.

When the doors slide open, I storm out, leaving her behind. And I feel like shit about not letting the lady go first the entire way to the door of my room and into the scalding hot shower.

“I don’t need your help.” She makes this adorable little growling noise that sounds like an angry kitten as she props her palms on the desk and drops her head down, staring at the glossy expanse between her hands. “Has anyone ever told you what a massive prick you can be?” I chuckle, kind of enjoying seeing her frustration bubble to the surface. I like our verbal sparring. Summer can keep up. She’s witty, and I like that about her. “Nope. You’re the first. Usually, it’s more about what a massive prick I have.” She huffs out a quiet laugh but doesn’t look up at me. “Nobody is going to care about your cock when you’re too broken to bang them, Eaton. Now put some clothes on.” Jesus. The things that come out of those cherry lips.

I must really annoy her. And I kind of get off on that. I also get off on the way the word cock sounds on her lips.

“You’re pure magic up there. Of course, you will. Now put your cream on and go to bed.” My chest warms as she reaches for the knob, and suddenly I don’t want her to leave at all. I want to hear all about how I look to her. It’s fucking lame.

Her fingers prod along the line of the blade, and I wince. “Careful. Your dad told me to keep my hands off you.” “Yeah, well, he didn’t tell me to keep my hands off you.”

“These muscles are hard as rocks,” she mutters with a thread of annoyance in her voice. Yeah, and so is something else.

Her responding laugh is quiet, but then her hands are on my neck, digits digging in at the base of my skull and pulling down, thumbs working hard. And when I groan this time, it’s in pleasure, not pain. I lean into her touch like a dog getting a scratch behind the ear.

My cock throbs between my legs, and I’m momentarily grateful for my loose sweatpants. At least she’ll never know.