They’d been drinking heavily after the monthly poker game. Some new friend of Breck’s tossed off a nasty comment about women being the weaker sex, which sent Celia into full attack mode. She’d challenged the guy to a wrestling match and the dumb ass had taken her up on it.

She’d had him in a headlock within a minute.

And so it began. The other men wanted a shot at besting Wyoming cowgirl-tough Celia—none succeeding—while Breck egged her on. She’d whipped up on three guys. Then it was down to Breck and Kyle as the only ones who hadn’t answered her challenge.

Breck had refused, claiming he’d never live it down if his girlfriend beat him.

Kyle had refused to tussle with Celia because he’d been pissed about Breck’s treatment of her—like a pet to entertain his ass**le friends. But Celia, being Celia, used that smart mouth of hers to question Kyle’s manhood, forcing him to give her the Muddy Gap smackdown.

What the onlookers hadn’t known, and Celia herself had forgotten, was he’d been grappling with her since they were kids. Kyle knew all her moves; hell, she’d stolen most of them from him, and she’d never bested him.

Not once.

In the spirit of sportsmanship, he’d allowed her to believe she’d gotten the upper hand, and then he’d pinned her, demanding her submission.

No surprise Celia had refused to give it.

So he took it.

Her shrieking, thrashing, and threats were to no avail, because Kyle, drunk on victory and cheap scotch, turned her over his knee to dole out the birthday spanking she deserved.

Except during the test of wills, the feel of her muscled flesh warming beneath his stinging hand and the seductive way her body writhed on his lap became an erotic interlude, not a punishment.

Round about spank fifteen, she surrendered.

Round about spank sixteen, Kyle had a hard-on that rivaled steel.

Breck had cracked jokes immediately after Kyle delivered Celia’s last birthday blow. But neither Kyle nor Celia had laughed. They’d barely looked at each other, unsure how to react to the sexual tension arcing between them like heat lightning.

That night Kyle realized Celia’s relationship with Breck wasn’t making her happy. Maybe it never had. He became a man on a mission—getting Celia to see she deserved better than Breck. He’d never suggested becoming her replacement lover, no matter how badly he’d wanted to.

After the breakup, Kyle had seen the suspicion in Breck’s eyes, as if Kyle had encouraged the breakup because he’d wanted Celia for himself.

Which wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

Celia Lawson stirred something inside him. Given their tumultuous past, he’d initially believed the feeling to be frustration. Yes, he’d lusted after her for the past two years, but the pull between them had always been more than merely physical. Everything about her spoke to him on the most basic level. How she could look both innocent and sexy almost at the same time. How she moved both on and off her horse. The fire in her eyes. Her pensiveness. Her sweetness. He’d never cared enough to examine another woman’s body language and quirks so intimately, which spoke volumes about his feelings for her.

Feelings that had her running scared and had him chasing after her.

He’d given her three weeks to think about the next step between them after that life-changing kiss in Texas. Now that she’d shown up in Vegas—as she’d promised—it was time she accepted that this thing between them wasn’t going away.

Kyle intended to pull out all the stops tonight to make her his.

After spending a few hours hanging out in the casino trying to win a little extra cash and partaking of free drinks, Celia wandered to the event center. She slipped on her all-access backstage pass and headed through the arena to the stage area. Two beefy security guys checked her pass, looked inside her purse, and waved her through. At the next backstage doorway, two more security guards blocked access. They scrutinized her pass, giving her a lewd once-over that suggested a thorough patdown. When thick-necked goon number one asked what had happened to her forehead, she almost said, “Knife fight,” but amended it to “Baking mishap.” Not as much fun, but that response didn’t trigger a strip search.

Celia smiled when Devin approached her. “If it isn’t the superstar man of the hour. How are ya?”

“Damn glad you’re here, brat.” Devin led the way down a long hall lined with people, but no one intercepted him.

“Who are all these people?” she whispered.

“No f**kin’ idea.”

“Why aren’t they talking to you?”

“It’s a stipulation in my contract that no one talks to me for two hours prior to a performance. Unless it’s an emergency.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re this big country music star beloved by millions and not just the meanie who used to hang me upside down from the barn rafters.”

“That was Kyle, not me.”

“You used to hide in the basement closet and jump out and scare me.”

“I had no part in that. Blame—”

“Kyle. I get it. Just a reminder that he’s always been horrible to me.”

“He didn’t seem horrible to you today at the hospital. In fact, he was straight up freaked out when he called me.”

“Guilt, I’m sure. Afraid my brothers would find some way to put the blame on him for my accident.”

“Accident?” He lifted a brow. “That’s stretching it. But you didn’t seem to mind his attentions, Cele.”