by W.M. Kirkland
After a fling with a professional polo player and model on the set of a reality show, rodeo rider Dustin Gerke wants to let go of his regrets and get back in the saddle—romantically and professionally. Determined to wash the Frenchman out of his mind, he schedules a 1Night Stand…
Unable to forget his affair with bronc rider Dustin, Pierre Anthony Archumbault III has cut back on his schedule to follow the rodeo circuit…and the cowboy he hasn’t gotten over. Signing up for a 1Night Stand he hopes for a fresh chance at a new romance…
What neither of these former lovers expected was each other, but they have one night to lasso their dreams…
About the Author:
A long time ago in a galaxy far away…oh wait, that’s a different saga. W.M. Kirkland began writing over twenty years ago, and all the stories, no matter the genre, featured handsome princes. Today, W.M. combines a love of history and fantastical settings with strong men and bonds which cannot be broken. Although these men keep W.M. at the computer most of the day, there’s still time for enjoying the outdoors, great movies, and a good time.
(they share the twitter account)
Enjoy the following excerpt for Frenchman’s Cowboy:
The door opened. His heart raced like it did during the scant seconds before the chute opened and the bronc reared out. He held position, like holding his mark out—no use getting caught at the gate—and waited for his date to enter.
Shock sucked the air from his lungs. “Tony?”. The stunning blond man, whose perfect hairstyle had to have come from a salon, strode into the room. He turned, stared at the bed, and stopped.
“Shit,” he whispered, and Dustin startled. Big words filled Tony’s vocabulary, not the coarse, four-letter ones he’d just used. Had Tony meant to be heard?
The latch clicked shut, the overnight bag he’d been wheeling into the room forgotten.
The man stood there. His jaw didn’t drop, but clear surprise filled his expression. Dustin hadn’t gotten to the top of his sport by being emotional. Where other cowboys slammed the chutes or stomped their hats, he remained stoic, good ride or bad. That talent served him well right then.
The man who’d walked through the door was the last one he’d expect.
Pierre Anthony Archumbault III, professional polo player, appeared as he did in one of his many commercials for expensive cologne or fancy watches. The white shirt tucked into a pair of expensive and tailored navy pants set off his smooth, tanned skin. The shoes were Italian leather—he’d would eat his hat if they weren’t—and the bag carried a label that said it couldn’t be bought for under four figures.
He’d been “Tony” the week they’d spent at an expensive resort, riding jousting horses for a reality show. Tony had been knocked off on the first round; he’d gone out in the second. He probably would have lasted longer, but a certain sexy Frenchman kept invading his thoughts and his bed.
If he thought he would get Tony off his mind by having a one-night stand with him…. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he held, knowing he wouldn’t get his mind off of things tonight. And yet, maybe he needed exactly this. Get Tony one more time, then he could move on. Yeah, that sounded good. He’d go with that theory and, if anything changed, he’d figure it out in the morning. He’d treat their encounter like a ride. Stay on, get to the clock, get a score, and head out to the next town.
“Dustin?” Tony asked in that accented, rich voice of his. Of course everything about the man was rich. His daddy owned a vineyard famous the world over for its expensive, exquisite wines. Dustin preferred his drinks with more hops and his men closer to his social circle. Still, they’d spent one hell of a week together. That meant tonight would be one hell of a night.
“You think Madame has a sense of humor?” He drawled. Hell, he really needed that second brew. Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood, leaving dirt on the bedspread from when his boots were there earlier. He opened the mini fridge, grabbed another bottle of fancy beer, and popped the top with the bottle opener on the front of the fridge. “Isn’t this something?” He took a swig.