imagine #10
character: Phillip Graves words: 5705 cw: 18+, drinking, smoking description: AU in which Phillip Graves is a bull rider and you’re the pretty young thing he’s got his eye on. (requested by the lovely @xkthrnx!!) a/n: if only you guys knew about the rabbit holes I went down on for this fic lol
The air that afternoon was thick with the smell of livestock and sunbaked asphalt, overripe warmth that clung to your skin the moment you arrived. Even from the parking lot of the grounds, the Stock Show & Rodeo unfurled like a small, bustling city within itself — flags snapping in the breeze above the gates, the echo of country music bleeding from tinny speakers posted along every walkway, and the hum of generators and families and farmhands all bleeding into one.
You weren’t exactly thrilled to be there, but you were alone, and the freedom that came with that was something you could savour. Your father had offered — no, insisted — you take one of the executive passes, a badge clipped to your belt that gave you access to all areas, from the barns to the back corridors of the Frost Bank Center. He was proud of the whole thing, called it his legacy, and though you’d gone to college out of state and prided yourself on not being one of those Texans, the ones who wore boots to weddings and debated brisket like it was a religion, you’d said yes anyway. Maybe guilt. Maybe curiosity. Maybe just for the experience.
By the time you’d gotten yourself sorted and actually wandered into the expo centre, the sun was starting to slant low, casting golden light through the tall glass panels above. Inside, the air was just barely cooler but still heavy with hay and sweat and roasted peanuts. Vendors lined every available stretch of wall and aisle, booths draped in flags and plaid, every table stacked with tooled leather, hand-stitched saddles, turquoise jewellery, antler-handled knives, belt buckles the size of saucers, hand-dyed bandanas, and racks of denim shirts in more shades of blue than you thought possible. The smell shifted every few feet — barbecue smoke, kettle corn, cinnamon churros, the faint chemical sting of livestock shampoo.
You moved slowly through the crowd, your jeans stiff against your thighs, the festival t-shirt you’d bought earlier clinging slightly to your back with the heat. The shirt had a screen-printed steer skull and some dusty lettering, the closest you could get to playing the part. You felt eyes occasionally glance your way; locals could always spot someone not from around there. Still, you kept your pace easy, unbothered, pausing to thumb through some handmade soaps, their scents labelled with names like Prairie Morning and Cowgirl Clean. Somewhere nearby, a fiddle sang out in harmony with a banjo, laughter rippling under the music like a current. A toddler shrieked as a goat at the petting zoo nibbled her shirt.
You stood off to one side near a stall overflowing with tooled leather goods, a paper-wrapped hot dog in one hand, your mouth slick with a mess of ketchup and mustard. It was dripping down your fingers, staining the napkin you kept trying to fold just right between bites, each wipe of your lips more futile than the last. There was nowhere decent to sit unless you wanted to risk the edge of a planter digging into your back or a bench already occupied by someone’s uncle in cowboy boots and a sweat-damp hat. So you ate standing, half-leaning against the booth’s wooden frame, chewing slowly while your eyes wandered over the glint of belt buckles hanging in neat rows along the side wall.
They were gaudy things. Heavy silver-plated ovals and rectangles, all inscribed with cursive flourishes and bronzed filigree, some bearing scenes of rodeo riders frozen mid-buck, others etched with longhorns or American flags. A few had gemstones the size of dimes inset like prizes, like they’d been dug out of the side of a hill and polished until they gleamed beneath the overhead fluorescents. You licked your fingers absently, wiping them against the crumpled napkin again before sighing. You didn’t know a damn thing about any of this. Ranch life, livestock, bucking bulls — it all might as well have been an alien world. You were just some out-of-place transplant in a tourist shirt, feigning interest because you figured it was better than waiting in your father’s empty VIP box while he schmoozed with sponsors and old rodeo men.
You leaned closer to examine a buckle shaped like the state of Texas, so large it probably weighed more than your phone, when someone brushed against you from the side, just enough to jolt your elbow and send a streak of mustard across your knuckles.
“Shit — sorry,” you muttered, instinctively stepping back and glancing up.
The man who’d bumped you stood taller than you in his boots, broad through the shoulders and dressed down in well-worn jeans and a black pearl-snap shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had short, close-cut hair the colour of sun-bleached dirt and a faint, aged scar tracing upward from the curve of his jaw to just under his right cheekbone. His stubble cast shadows across a sharp jawline, and his eyes — deep, slate blue — crinkled faintly as he smiled, one hand raised in apology.
“S’all good, darlin’,” he drawled, voice so low and so smooth that it practically melted into the background hum around you. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”
You blinked, caught off-guard more by the easy charm in his tone than the actual bump. “No worries,” you said quickly, glancing back down at your ruined napkin before crumpling it in your palm. “It got crowded all of a sudden.”
“Always does around this time,” he replied, taking a step closer, not enough to smother you, just enough to glance over your shoulder at the buckles on display. “You eyein’ any of these? That one there’s a junior champ award buckle — see the little steer head etched on the sides? They give those out at the youth events.”
You gave a faint, polite laugh. “I’m not really interested in buying anything,” you admitted, straightening up and gesturing at the hot dog still half in your hand. “Just killing time.”
That earned a short chuckle from him, a rich, warm sound that came up from his chest and settled easy in the space between you.
“Fair enough,” he said, eyes flicking over to the display. “Well, I ain’t the one sellin’, so you’re safe. Don’t have the patience for standin’ behind a table all day anyway.”
You tilted your head. “So what, you just wander around mansplaining belt buckles to strangers?”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, soft, like he liked the way you talked. “Nah, I’m workin’ tonight. I ride.”
You blinked. “Ride what?”
His grin deepened like he was waiting for you to walk into it. “Bulls.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. I’m on the roster for tonight’s event,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Figured I’d walk around and take in the sights before I try not to get my spine cracked.”
You stared at him, unconvinced, feeling your stomach tighten under his gaze. “Right.”
He touched a hand lightly to his chest, right over his sternum, eyes feigning sincerity. “Scout’s honour.” He stuck his hand out then, palm up, fingers splayed. “Phillip Graves.”
You looked down at his hand, then back at his face — the scar catching the light now — and finally shook it. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and the callouses on his fingers sent the faintest of shivers down your back.
“[Name],” you replied. Phillip repeated it under his breath, pleased, slow and smooth, the syllables falling from his mouth like he’d meant to savour them. You felt your cheeks heat at the stillness, strange and brief, before he nodded over his shoulder toward the stadium entrance.
“Well, [Name], I’ll be climbin’ on a mean bastard named Widowmaker right ’round eight. You oughta come by. Ain’t every day you get to watch a man risk his spine for glory.”
“Tempting. I’ll see if I have time.”
Phillip stepped back, the crowd shifting around him, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he said, giving you a cocky little two-fingered salute.
And then he disappeared into the moving swell of bodies, boots scuffing over concrete, his back framed by the haze of smoke curling up from a barbecue stall somewhere nearby. You stared after him for a moment, the hot dog forgotten in your hand, ketchup pooling at the edge of the wrapper.
⟡
The stadium lights bore down heavy and bright, washing the entire arena in a glow that made the dirt shimmer like gold dust. You took your seat higher up in the VIP section, your dad’s laminate pass clipped to your belt. Below, everything bustled with motion: handlers corralling bulls behind chutes, announcers calling out names and numbers in a blur of slurred vowels, fans waving flags and screaming like the whole place was on fire.
You weren’t here for the rodeo. You couldn't even pretend otherwise. Your gaze cut through the noise and crowd until you spotted him — Phillip Graves — waiting at the edge of the chute, one boot braced on the rail, the other planted in the dirt. He wore a black vest now over his shirt, protective but well-fitted. The moment he stepped into the holding pen, his movements were nothing but fluid confidence. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just muscle memory and rhythm, the easy sway of a man who had done this too many times to count.
The bull beneath him was massive, dark as wet stone, the kind that looked bred for rage. Its shoulders rippled each time it kicked against the gate, froth dripping from its mouth like it’d been waiting all day to throw someone off.
When the chute swung open, everything snapped into motion like a pulled trigger.
Eight seconds. That was all he needed. You’d looked it up just to be sure.
And yet it felt longer. Time dilated as the bull exploded from the gate, bucking with a fury that sent dust into the lights. Graves moved like water atop the chaos, his arm loose in the air, hips shifting with each violent twist beneath him. His legs stayed tight, his back never arching too far, not giving the beast an inch more than it needed. He looked focused but relaxed, eyes locked somewhere just ahead of the horns, his mouth slack as if he were lost in the rhythm. You half-expected him to smile.
The buzzer rang, sharp and final.
Phillip dismounted like it was nothing. Let the bull tear off across the ring, let the clowns distract it. He hit the dirt running, turned to the crowd with a little tilt of his hand in mock salute, and jogged off before they could even finish cheering.
You didn’t stay to watch the next rider. There was no point pretending. You’d come just for that. For him. And now that it was over, the heat of the stadium and the echo of the crowd started to dull into background noise, fading as you made your way down the steps, out past the corrals, and onto the street.
The bar you found a few blocks down looked like it had been yanked straight out of a western fever dream, corrugated tin roofing, wood siding, and string lights glowing warm from every beam and overhang. Inside, it was more of the same — rough-hewn walls, high ceilings strung with wagon wheel chandeliers, a haze of sawdust underfoot and the distant reek of beer-soaked wood. The music was live but far too loud, a band wailing into a fiddle and electric guitar hybrid like they were trying to summon something unholy.
A dance floor opened up in the centre, already hosting couples in boots spinning with the rhythm, all hips and heels and confidence. But what caught your eye, more than the neon signage or the crowd or even the glow of the bar, was the mechanical bull parked near the corner of the room. It sat beneath a spotlight, roped off and looming like some strange, robotic altar. A teenage operator leaned on the controls nearby, disinterested. You scoffed under your breath. Of course they had one. A rodeo-themed bar with a fake bull, like some parody of the real thing you’d just witnessed not twenty minutes ago.
You made your way to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour out of habit, and the bartender handed it to you in a flimsy clear plastic cup with a lime wedge floating lazily on top. Authenticity, apparently, only went so far.
Settling into one of the stools, you nursed your drink and scrolled through your phone absently. Every few minutes, the crowd swelled. More boots, more hats, more noise. You figured most of them had come from the same event you had. Their shirts were still dusty, and a few of them even wore their contestant numbers half-pinned, half-forgotten on their backs.
You were reading an article you weren’t actually absorbing when someone cleared their throat behind you. You turned your head, startled, thumb slipping against the glass of your phone.
Phillip stood there, one glove tucked into his belt loop, the other hand braced casually against the edge of the bar.
“Well now,” he said, voice like warm bourbon. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He smiled, slow and amused, before tapping the empty stool beside you with two fingers.
“Mind if I sit, darlin’?”
You let your gaze travel down first — scuffed boots worn at the toes, a fine layer of arena dust still clinging to the hems of his jeans and the sleeves of his shirt. His belt sat crooked on his hips like he’d fastened it in a hurry, and there was a smear of dirt just under his left forearm where it looked like he’d leaned on something rough. He looked as if he’d walked straight out of the ring and into this bar without skipping a beat. You lifted your drink and took another sip, the rim of the plastic cup pressing cool against your lips before you spoke.
“You following me?” you asked, voice dry. “’Cause I’ve seen horror movies start this way.”
That slow, familiar laugh rolled out of him again, warming everything around it. He slid onto the barstool beside you like he didn’t need your invitation anyway.
“Well, I was thinkin’ about it,” he hummed. “Tried to find you back at the stadium.”
“Oh? Didn’t know you wanted my attention that badly.”
“'Course I do,” Phillip said, that grin of his spreading, teeth flashing beneath the warm bar light. “Hell, I was afraid I bored you.”
“I left after your ride,” you said, letting your fingers trail around the rim of your drink. “What more was there to see?”
“So you were watchin’,” he said.
You gave him a flat look, the barest twitch of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Unfortunately.”
“Ouch.” He winced theatrically, one hand pressed to his chest like you’d just wounded him. “Damn. Tough crowd.”
You let your elbow rest against the bar, chin sinking into your palm as you studied him openly. He looked good like this — relaxed, leaning back with the faintest sheen of sweat still clinging to the curve of his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone and framing the sharp line of his collarbone. He smelled faintly of dust and something richer, like cedar and sun-warmed leather. You weren’t trying to stare, but God, he made it hard.
“You made that bull look weak,” you admitted, voice softening a little. “Like it didn’t even put up a fight.”
Phillip's grin pulled wider, a flicker of pride passing across his face. “Wasn’t its best day.”
You tilted your head, letting the sarcasm bloom slow. “Sure didn’t look like yours either.”
That got another laugh from him — real and rough-edged — as he turned toward you more fully. His knees brushed against yours beneath the bar, the contact casual, but electric all the same. His gaze didn’t waver, not for a second.
“C’mon now,” he said, that familiar teasing lilt weaving back into his voice. “You tellin’ me that ride didn’t impress you?”
You gave a shrug, slow and drawn out, like you were weighing it in your mind. “I mean, yeah — if I conveniently forget the part where you only lasted what? Eight seconds?”
“Eight’s the magic number, sweetheart.”
“For bulls, maybe,” you shot back.
He smirked, interest sparking in his eyes. “Oh yeah?”
You sipped your drink again, the condensation wetting your fingers, your gaze locked on his with practiced ease. “I’m just saying. Eight seconds doesn’t exactly scream stamina. If that’s the bar, I’d be worried for whoever ends up in your bed tonight.”
There was a pause. Then another laugh. His hand curled tighter around the edge of the bartop, like he needed something solid to hold as he shook his head with a breathless grin.
“Shit,” he said, voice a little husky now. “You got a mouth on you.”
“Always have, cowboy.”
“That so?” he asked, leaning in just a little, making your stomach dip. “Well, I like a challenge, sweetheart.”
You stayed quiet a moment, swirling the last melting ice cube around in your plastic cup before finally tipping it back and draining it. The bartender drifted past again, and Phillip waved him down easily, gesturing towards you with a questioning look.
“You stickin’ with that?” he asked, eyes dropping briefly to your empty cup. “No shame in cocktails every now ’n then, but beer’s where it’s at.”
You set your cup down on the bar and shrugged playfully. “What, are you judging me now?”
He laughed, waving dismissively. “Not judgin’, just sayin’. Beer’s reliable.”
“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes but grinning anyway. “Fine. Pick something out, then. Impress me.”
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at the bartender. “Two Lone Stars, please.”
The bartender slid the beer bottles across the lacquered wood with a low scrape, their labels darkening where the moisture gathered and dripped in lazy rivulets. The overhead lights caught the amber inside, turning it golden. Phillip nudged one toward you with a casual flick of his fingers, and your hand met his in the middle, warm skin brushing briefly against yours. The contact was nothing, a blink, but it sent a ripple through your chest all the same.
You took the bottle, pressed it to your lips for a slow sip. “It’s decent,” you said, cold droplets sliding down your wrist.
Before Phillip could say something smart back, the bar erupted in noise — cheers, whistles, a few whoops of encouragement rising over the twang of the music. Your gaze snapped to the source: the mechanical bull, now alive and kicking beneath garish, rotating spotlights that painted the padded arena in pulsing reds and electric blues.
A group of girls had taken centre stage, crowding around the bull with drinks in hand. They wore low-slung jeans that hugged every curve, crop tops glittering like confetti under the lights, and cowboy boots so pristine they probably hadn’t seen real dirt in their lives. Each one took her turn climbing aboard, laughing, stumbling, shouting to her friends over the music. The bull jerked to life with sudden force, throwing its riders into elegant chaos. Hair flew, legs flailed, hands clawed for the horn, and every time one of them hit the padded floor, the bar cheered louder, drunk on spectacle.
You couldn’t help it; you giggled, soft at first, then fuller, shaking your head in amusement as you took another slow sip from your bottle.
Phillip leaned in beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low enough now to curl beneath your skin.
“Fun, ain’t it?” Phillip said, his voice curling at the edges, mischief flashing in the blue of his eyes as the cheers rose again from the bull pen.
You gave a small shrug, eyes tracking one girl — tan, breathless, her ponytail swinging like a whip behind her — as she launched off the mechanical beast and landed in a heap, boot completely gone off one foot, shrieking with laughter. Her friends clapped and hollered, one of them holding up a phone like she’d just filmed the highlight of the night.
“Sure,” you said, the word lazy, stretched out as you lifted your brow. “It’s entertaining, I’ll give you that. But it’s not really my scene.”
Phillip hummed, inching closer. “Y’know,” he said, cocking his head, “you say that, but you’re starin’ at that bull like you’re thinkin’ real hard ’bout provin’ yourself wrong.”
You turned to him with a laugh, shaking your head as you wiped a finger beneath your lower lip to catch a stray drop of beer. “Absolutely not. No way.”
“Aww, c’mon,” he coaxed. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?”
“I’m not scared,” you said, though your voice betrayed you. “I just don’t have a death wish or a desire to go viral tonight when I get launched halfway across the bar.”
“Shit,” he chuckled. “You act like it’s the PBR finals.”
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again. “You saw that last girl. Her boot flew off. Like, physically flew.”
“She was showboatin’,” he said, waving a hand. “Didn’t have the technique.”
You turned back to the pen, the lights spinning faster, casting the bucking bull in a dizzy blur of colour and motion. “Technique,” you repeated, deadpan.
Phillip leaned back slightly, the grin never leaving his face. “You’re tellin’ me you came all the way down here, wearin’ jeans, that little rodeo shirt and all — lookin’ real damn cute, by the way — just to sit on the sidelines?”
You tugged at the hem of your shirt self-consciously, eyes narrowing at him with a playful glare. “I didn’t dress up. This was ten bucks at a merch table. And anyways, I’m pretty sure that bull smells fear.”
He scoffed and leaned in again, just a breath away now. “That thing ain’t got a heartbeat, sugar. It’s a glorified rocking chair with attitude. What’s the worst it’s gonna do — tilt you?”
“I just don’t feel like making an ass of myself,” you muttered, even as your voice softened.
He looked at you for a second, quiet, and then nodded slowly, a glint sparking behind his lashes. “Alright. What if I went up there with you?”
You blinked. “Together?”
He grinned, wolfish. “Why not?”
You looked from him to the bull and back again, doubt creeping in despite yourself. “I don’t think that’s a thing. Is that a thing?”
“It is,” he said, no hesitation. “Couples do it all the time. Seen it before. Two riders, one bull. Real romantic.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s fun.”
You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. The bull shifted lazily beneath a new rider, and the crowd erupted again as she shrieked and held on for dear life. Your hands itched and you hated how tempted you were.
“And what if I fall?” you asked, the words quieter now.
Phillip leaned closer, the heat of him tangible now, and you could almost swear you felt the air between you shift. His voice dropped, steady and warm, the teasing fading into something gentler.
“You won’t.”
You glanced at him, unsure, heart thudding low in your chest. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” he said. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go.”
You went still. Then, as if sensing the weight behind your silence, Phillip reached up and gently brushed his fingers against your cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. The crowd roared again somewhere behind you, but the sound felt miles away.
“Cross my heart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you fall.”
The mechanical bull loomed ahead, padded and ridiculous and swaying just enough to look like trouble. The operator — some kid in a dusty cap chewing gum with all the enthusiasm of a corpse — waved you over with a flick of his wrist. You should’ve backed out. Should’ve let the buzz of beer and flirtation die right there at the bar. But Phillip’s hand was warm on the small of your back, guiding you toward the edge of the mat, his voice low and smooth in your ear, whispering sweet praise with that unshakable confidence.
And now you were climbing onto the damn thing, your thigh hitching over the worn faux-leather as the whole crowd cheered. Of course they were cheering. You could feel their eyes on you, laughter ringing out over the country music as you straddled the bull and grabbed the handle. Your heart thudded behind your ribs like it wanted out.
A few women hooted when Phillip stepped up behind you, climbing on with easy strength, his jeans brushing yours as he settled in.
You muttered, “Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I even doing—”
“Ridin’ with a professional,” he said behind you, voice thick with amusement. His thighs pressed snug to yours, wide-set and firm, and then one strong arm wrapped around your waist like it had every right to be there.
“Hold on,” he whispered into your ear, his breath brushing the side of your neck. “To me, not that damn handle.”
You barely had time to respond before the bull jerked to life, jolting beneath you with a mechanical growl. You yelped, instinctively grabbing his arm instead, your body thrown back against his chest. His hand was splayed across your stomach now, hard and unyielding, fingers pressing into the soft skin there as he adjusted his grip and pulled you tighter.
The ride bucked again, rougher this time, and you gasped, the motion bouncing you up against him, your back hitting his chest with each jolt. He was solid behind you, unmoving except for the flex in his thighs and the give of his hips. His breath was hot against your cheek, lips brushing so close to your skin you could feel the ghost of a smile there.
Phillip's hand shifted lower, just slightly, fingers grazing the waistband of your jeans, then flattening again, fingertips pressing with a little more intent. He wasn’t subtle about it. He didn’t have to be. You could feel the heat of his palm, feel his thumb brush once against the bare skin just beneath the hem of your shirt.
“Doin’ alright, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice rough against your ear. His free hand gripped the saddle horn with a steady surety, anchoring both of you while the bull twisted beneath you, spinning, bucking.
Your breath hitched. “Are you feeling me up right now?”
He laughed into your neck. “You sayin’ you mind?”
You didn’t answer, couldn’t. The bull threw you again and your hips slid backward, back against the solid press of him behind you, his body molded to yours now, breath syncing with yours as you rocked together with every wild jerk of the ride. His scent clung to the collar of his shirt — sweat and leather, cedarwood, sunbaked cologne — and it filled your head until nothing else existed, not the cheers, not the music, not the ache in your thighs from holding on.
Phillip's grip shifted again — up, then back down, fingers teasing under your ribs now, tips grazing the curve beneath your breasts as you gasped again. It felt like being trapped inside some fever dream, a mess of adrenaline and heat, the friction of denim and the undeniable weight of him behind you. The bull slowed finally, grinding to a halt with one last dramatic buck that sent the two of you forward, your chest crashing into the saddle horn, his body catching yours before you could fall.
You stayed there, stunned, caught between him and the slow creak of the bull’s motor winding down. Your breath came fast and uneven. So did his.
Phillip’s mouth was right at your ear when he spoke, his voice honeyed.
“Told you I wouldn’t let you fall.”
The cheers chased you as you stepped off the mat, heat prickling at the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the Texas air. You didn’t look back — not at the girls already climbing back on for a second go, not at the ones hooting and clapping in your direction like you’d done something brave or stupid or both. Maybe you had. Your skin still buzzed from the ride, from the way his body had moved against yours, from the way his hand had lingered just a little too long when he helped you down. You crossed through the bar without stopping, shouldering past the scent of beer and fried food and perfume and sweat, stepping out into the humid night, gasping for air.
You stopped beside a dusty fence rail near the edge of the lot and let out a breath, one hand coming up to wipe your damp forehead. The air outside smelled like warm engine oil and honeysuckle, sweet and heavy in a way that only Texas nights could be. Your skin still tingled where his hands had been. Your mouth felt dry, but your thoughts wouldn’t stop moving. He was older. He knew exactly what he was doing. And you — God, you were still trying to pretend you weren’t smitten.
That was the word, wasn’t it? Smitten. Giddy, breathless, caught off guard. You weren’t supposed to feel this way. He was a stranger. A stranger with strong hands and a voice that poured into your skin like bourbon heat, far too easy to let in.
You didn’t hear Phillip until the screen door creaked open and then swung shut with a soft clang. His boots moved over the gravel like he’d walked this path a thousand times, sure-footed, unhurried. You didn’t turn right away. Part of you hoped he wouldn’t follow. Part of you hoped he would.
“You disappeared on me again,” Phillip said softly, like his voice was only ever meant for you alone.
“I do that,” you murmured, lips curving faintly. “It’s a bad habit.”
He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel his body radiating heat in the humid air, but he didn’t touch you yet. “You alright?”
You laughed a little under your breath, eyes still on the soft glow of the streetlamp further down the lot. “Yeah. Just needed to catch my breath.”
“Bull get to you that bad?” he teased, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
“I stayed on, didn’t I?”
“With me behind you. Not exactly fair conditions for a first-timer.”
You let out a scoff. “Oh, sorry. Should I have told the operator to throw us off mid-ride?”
He laughed, low and warm. “I ain’t complainin’. Just sayin’ — that was probably the sexiest ride that bull’s ever seen.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest,” he said. “And I figure someone oughta tell you how damn good you looked up there.”
Your cheeks flushed hot. “Right. Me, flailing around while you groped me in front of everybody. Real elegant.”
“I did not grope.”
“Oh please,” you retorted, laughing despite yourself. “You had your hand halfway up my shirt.”
“I was tryin’ to keep you steady.”
“By practically grabbing my tits.”
“And did you fall?”
You paused, mouth open, then snapped it shut. “That’s not the point.”
Phillip took a small step closer. “Then what is the point, darlin’? ’Cause I won't lie to you — watchin’ you laugh like that, feelin’ you against me? I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”
You swallowed and looked away, shaking your head a little. “I should head back. To my hotel.”
There was a beat of silence between you, just long enough for the statement to hang.
“Yeah?” he said. “Where you stayin’?”
You gave him a look. “That sounds like the setup to a very obvious line.”
He held up his hands, still smiling. “Just makin’ conversation.”
“I bet.” Another pause. Then you added, quieter, “I’m not here long.”
“I know,” he said. “Couple days, right?”
You nodded. “That’s all.”
He tilted his head like he was thinking through every word before he said it. “Then we oughta make the most of it.”
You breathed out a sigh, almost in disbelief, dropping your head briefly. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Not when I know what I want.”
“And what’s that, exactly?”
Phillip grinned again, but it was slower this time, less cocky, more heat. “Right now? I wanna drive you back to your hotel. Maybe take the long way. Talk a bit more. Listen to that laugh of yours again. You let me in, I’ll keep my hands where they belong. ’Til you ask me not to.”
You stared at him for a long moment, the noise from the bar fading behind you, softening into something distant and irrelevant. The floodlights over the parking lot buzzed faintly, casting a sickle of pale yellow over the gravel and stretching long shadows beneath your feet. Phillip stood there, so steady and sure of himself, the collar of his shirt slightly open from earlier, chest rising slow beneath it. There was a confidence in him that wasn’t performative, and it scared you. It didn’t demand attention, it simply existed, like it was stitched into the lines of his body, the rhythm of his speech, the way he looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking before you did.
He made it feel easy. Too easy. The warmth of his voice, the heat of his hand on your waist, the way his laugh had curled around the edges of your restraint and tugged something loose in you. He knew the tempo of seduction by instinct. He made promises without needing to speak them. And still, your body leaned into the pull.
“You have a car?” you asked, your voice betraying the eagerness you’d tried to hide.
His grin returned, slower this time, like he felt it all too. “’Course I do.”
The heat between your thighs hadn’t gone away. Neither had the ache in your chest or the way his voice played over your skin long after he stopped speaking.
“Alright,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Lead the way.”