Simon "Ghost" Riley | Cowboy

The sun sat heavy over the fields, spilling gold over the dry grass and rolling fences. Dust curled up under boots, drifting lazy in the heat. And Simon Riley stood by his horse, one hand steady on the reins, the other brushing through the gelding’s dark mane in slow, practiced strokes.

He wasn’t in his usual coat—just a thin, white shirt stretched tight across his chest, sleeves rolled, collar undone enough to leave the sharp cut of his collarbones and the dangerous slope of his V line bare for the world to see. His trousers sat low on his hips, belt loose, sweat clinging to him in the unforgiving summer light.

Quiet. That was Simon. Quiet as the land itself. Until hoofbeats cracked the silence. Soap came tearing across the field on his own horse, grinning wide, hat tipped back like the reckless bastard he was. He slowed only when he reached the fence, leaning down against his saddle with a cocky grin.

“Riley,” he called, voice carrying. “Ya hear the news?”

Simon didn’t look up, still brushing his horse, calm as stone. “What’s it now?”

Soap tilted his head toward the dirt road that led into the village. “New folk movin’ in. House just down from yours.”

Simon hummed, a low, disinterested sound. New people passed through all the time. Drifters. Traders. Most never stayed. But then Soap grinned wider, eyes glinting like a man with a secret.

“She’s a lass. Pretty one, too. Breathtaking, Simon. Had half the town lookin’ at her when she stepped off that wagon.”

Simon froze. Just for a second, his hand stilled in the horse’s mane. He dragged in a breath, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. But he said nothing. Not yet.

Soap laughed, catching the shift. “Ah, so ya do care.”

“I don’t.” Simon’s voice was low, gravelly, but it lacked its usual bite.

“Sure, ya don’t.” Soap leaned forward on the saddle horn, smirking like the devil himself. “Tall fella like you, standin’ out here all broody, shirt hangin’ open like you’re beggin’ for attention—don’t think she’ll notice? Don’t think she’ll ask who the hell the ghost of this town is?”

Simon shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. But Soap only laughed louder, tipping his hat.

Simon didn’t answer. Stayed silent when Soap finally rode off, laughter echoing behind him. And then, the field was silent again. Just the horse shifting its weight, tail swishing, and Simon Riley standing there, jaw locked tight, brush hanging useless in his hand.

He hated when Soap was right. He hated it more because now, all he could think about was her.

What she looked like. What kind of woman decided to move to this little strip of dirt-and-sky village. What her voice sounded like, soft or sharp. What she might think when she saw him—the monster in the white shirt, all scars and silence.

Simon dragged in a sharp breath, shoved the brush into the bucket, and led his horse back to the barn. By the time he got the horse settled, tied up, and the door closed, he knew he wasn’t going to win the fight with himself. So he didn’t.

He walked straight out the barn, boots crunching on the dirt path, heading toward the new house at the end of the lane. And then he saw her.

Christ almighty.

She was standing out front, basket in hand, fussing with something near the porch. The sun caught in her hair, made her skin glow like she’d been dipped in gold. Simple clothes, nothing fancy, but it didn’t matter—she was stunning. Fresh, bright, untouched by the grit of this place. She looked like she’d been dropped into this dust-bowl town straight from heaven itself.

Simon stopped dead in his tracks. His throat closed. His heartbeat thundered so hard he swore she could hear it. Worse, the sight of her knocked the air out of his lungs, heat hitting him low, sudden and brutal.

His cock stirred before he could even curse himself.

Quickly, he adjusted his belt, pulling his trousers lower on his hips, exposing just a bit more of that hard V line. He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it just enough, set his shoulders, and started walking.

Slow. Confident. Sexy. That was the plan, anyway.

Truth was, his hands were shaking. His palms itched. Each step closer made his pulse climb higher, made him feel like some idiot farmhand instead of the hardened man he was. But when she finally turned, when those eyes landed on him—

He smirked. Just a little. Enough to look like he owned the world.

“Afternoon,” Simon drawled, voice low, rough as gravel but carrying that cowboy charm he’d perfected years ago. His gaze dragged, shameless, from her face down to her lips, to the soft lines of her body, then back up again. “Didn’t think angels set foot in this dustbin of a town. Guess I was wrong.”

Her lips parted, surprise flickering over her face. Simon tilted his head, letting the sun catch the sharp line of his jaw, tugging his trousers down another inch with his thumb hooked lazy in his belt.

“Name’s Riley. Simon Riley. I’m just down the way. If you need anything—sugar, water, someone to keep you company at night—” his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, “—I’ll come runnin’.”

He held her gaze, smirk sharp, cock already half-hard in his pants, heart pounding like he’d just run a mile. She looked at him, wide-eyed, basket clutched against her, and Simon swore he felt something snap inside his ribs. So he pushed it further.

Simon tipped his hat off his head. Slow. Deliberate. The sun caught in his hair, sweat-darkened, strands sticking to his temple. His hand was steady now, though his heart was a goddamn cannon in his chest.

And then, with a lazy smirk curving his mouth, he reached forward and settled the wide-brimmed hat right on her head. It slid down just a touch, shadowing her face. Perfect.

Simon leaned back, tongue sliding across his teeth behind the smirk, watching her under the brim of his own damn hat. She tilted her head, adjusting the brim, confused but amused.

He stepped closer, boots crunching on the dirt, towering now, heat radiating off him. His thumb hooked into his belt, tugging his trousers even lower, teasing her with the sharp line disappearing into them. His other hand tipped the edge of the hat up, just enough to see her eyes.

“You put on a cowboy’s hat...” His breath ghosted across her cheek, low and dirty. “...means you gotta ride him.”

The words hung in the air. Hot. Heavy. Charged with something primal.

Simon didn’t move back. Didn’t give her an inch. His eyes locked on hers, hungry, daring. He could see the way the brim cast her in shadow, his hat too big on her head, making her look small, delicate, his. He chuckled, deep in his chest, low and slow.

“Congratulations, darling.” His fingers brushed her jaw, calloused, rough, but careful, tilting her chin up toward him. He bent, lips grazing the shell of her ear as he whispered, “Better get used to it. I play for keeps.”