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Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Release Day Blitz: Cowboys Don't Samba by Tara Lain

When an American bull riding champion meets a Brazilian rookie the results are one hot samba.

Cowboys Don't Samba
(Cowboys Don't Series, Bk 3)
By Tara Lain 


Maury Garcia’s one of the greatest bull riders in the world—and one of the biggest liars. Can he turn forbidden love with a rodeo rookie into a lasting romance? 

Ever since his brother was killed because he was gay, Maury’s worked to take his brother’s place as the bull rider, the provider, and the ideal of his family’s macho expectations. The only thing Maury’s ever done for himself is buy a secret ranch so he can get away from the responsibilities he’s chained himself to. Then he meets Tristão Silva, the younger brother of the one man who could rob Maury of his bull riding championship. 

Tristão may be a world-class bull rider in his own right, but his kind, gentle nature and sexy samba hips make Maury long for something beyond his selfless, sexless life. The two men’s lives are worlds apart, even if they’re both buckling under family expectations. Will their future last beyond an eight-second ride?

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Breathing. Breathing would be good.
Maury watched Xesús Silva swagger in the door, but he wasn’t alone. Behind him came another guy. Young. Dark hair, pale skin. And probably the most gorgeous human Maury’d ever seen. Not that he noticed guys’ looks all that much, but hell. This dude set new records in plain beautiful. He also resembled Silva, who was, after all, a pretty handsome man if you didn’t count his soul.
Silva made a straight line to the table where the Brazilians were sitting. Some of the men definitely didn’t look thrilled, but a couple of other guys hailed him. People moved aside, and someone pulled over two chairs.
Silva straddled the chair in that hypermacho way of his. The other guy? Holy crap. Poetry. Loose-hipped and graceful, he slid into the open chair and crossed his legs. Most of the Brazilians were squeaky clean-cut, but this dude’s inky hair hung down to his neck and curved around his ears. He was a little taller than usual for a bull rider and lean rather than the more compact build of a lot of the PBRA competitors. Of course, he looked young, so that might explain the lanky body.
“That’s the younger brother I told you about.” Earl helped himself to a french fry. “Haven’t seen him ride, but I hear good things.”
“Let’s drink up and get out of here. I, uh, need some sleep.” Maury pushed back his chair with a scrape.
“Uh, boss, it’s five fifteen.” Earl grabbed for his wallet in his hip pocket. “Let me pay the check.”
Maury stood and started toward the door. Just need to get out before I meet the asshole again.
“I hear it’s your birthday, Wetback.” Usually Silva was subtler, but he yelled this halfway across the room. “No wonder the judges felt like they had to let you cheat to beat me.”
Maury plastered on a smile and turned. “No one has to cheat to beat you, Silva. Little kids can do it.” He said it like a joke, and a few people laughed, but the serious competitors, especially the Brazilians, looked uneasy.
Silva stood at his chair. “I’ve got the baby that can beat you, Garcia.” He reached down, took the young man—younger—by the arm, and pulled him to his feet. “This is Tristão, and he can ride the butt off any bull and defeat a herd of American cowboys. He’s a Silva.”
Maury gave the young guy a direct gaze. Almost too much for his eyes to take. Like looking straight into the sun. “Hey, Tris, good to meet you. Welcome to American cowboying. Good luck with that whole winning thing.”

As they approached the pen, the big light red bull tossed his head.
“Howdy, Peaches.”
The bull gazed at him and blinked. Bulls, and cows for that matter, could see nearly 360 degrees, but they could smell even better. They could pick up scents literally miles away. “Good to smell you, Peaches.”
He propped his arm on the fence and stared in at the bull, then rested there and watched every tiny toss of Peaches’s head, the way he walked to the fence and paced back restlessly, then stopped and gazed at Maury.
“How will you use that information when you ride him later?”
The voice was light, musical, and heavily accented, but the English was perfect. Every syllable traveled up Maury’s spine like a lesson in a brand-new language. Maury turned slowly. “I guess I’ll be ready for him.”
He smiled. Tristão Silva smiled back. That face Maury had thought was unique when he caught a glimpse of it in the bar set whole new records in fucking amazing. His cheeks were like those of some statue made out of marble, but his smile carved a row of crevices, like ripples on a pond. A milk pond. His eyes were dark, but shockingly, they weren’t brown. They were blue. Deep sapphire blue, and at that moment they were sparkling. He said, “Ah, but what is Peaches planning to do with the information he’s collected on you?”
For a second, Maury stared, but then he pulled off his Resistol, slapped it on his leg, and laughed so hard he practically fell into the dirt.
When Maury’d finally stopped howling, Tristão stuck out his hand. “Tristão Silva.”
“Maury Garcia.” He shook the guy’s hand, which was rough, callused, and tough like any bull rider’s. But warm. Really, really warm.
“Of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt your communion, but I’m a big fan, and I wanted to speak to you before my brother arrives. You know what an asshole he can be.” He grinned, and Maury laughed again.
Maury asked, “Did you go yet?”
Tristão shook his head, and the too-long-for-a-bull-rider black hair danced around his face. “Soon.”
“I’ll come and watch you.”
He touched the brim of his black hat. “I’d be honored.”
“If your brother sees me, I’ll tell him I’m scoping out the competition. He says I can’t beat you.”
Tristão snorted. “I’m sure he said you can’t even beat me.”
Maury quirked the corner of his mouth. “I might’ve heard that word tossed in.”
“Xesús is a great bull rider.”
The name sounded like “Zhayzus” when he said it. It also made his lips purse in an interesting way. Maury nodded. “Almost as good as he thinks he is.”
“So true.” Those deep eyes seemed to have some kind of buried lights in them, like escaped fireflies. “But then a man of little ego would never crawl on the back of a bull.”
He turned to leave, then glanced over his shoulder at Maury. “Sorry to have interrupted your meditation for my fanboy moment.” He ambled away. Do cowboys really walk that way? It was as if Tristão heard some music the rest of the world missed. The man was about to risk his life on a bull, and he barely looked worried. Yeah. Young and stupid… and beautiful.

Tristão was vaguely aware of them walking into the ranch house as he went to the car door. He peered through the glass at Maury’s face, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Little snores were audible through the glass.
Tristão pressed in the door latch, slowly opened the door, and reached in to support Maury’s body as he fell straight into Tristão’s arms.
“What? What’s—”
Before he could say another word, Tristão closed his mouth over Maury’s and in one second had those strong arms that could manage thousands of pounds of bucking animal like no other wrapped tightly around him.
Tristão walked backward, still kissing, until Maury’s legs dropped to the ground. Seconds later, one of those legs wrapped around Tristão’s hip.
Maury’s hands searched all over Tristão’s back and butt, then into his hair, like he was proving to himself Tristão was really there. Finally, he pulled back from the kiss and asked the question. “How did you get here? You never answered my texts. I thought you didn’t care. I thought you weren’t coming. I….”
Suddenly the most amazing thing happened. That tough, scarred, beautiful cowboy face crumpled into tears. Maury pressed his head against Tristão’s shoulder and cried. The deep sobs spoke of more than the fear of losing Tristão. They sounded like a lifetime of doubts, searching, loss, and sacrifice, all flooding out onto Tris’s white shirt.
Tristão pressed his lips to Maury’s silky black hair until his back stopped heaving. Maury looked up. “Sorry.”
“Never be.” Tristão put a finger under Maury’s chin. “Let me be your safe space too.” He pressed his fingertips to Maury’s cheek. “I realize that all you’ve been through, all you’ve given up, has saved me from having to do the same thing.”
“I’m glad somebody could learn from my mistakes. It sure took me a long time.”
Tristão smiled. “That’s not quite what I meant, but it’ll do.”

Cowboys Don't Series

Get All Three Books Here!

Cowboys Don't Come Out
Bk #1

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Cowboys Don't Ride Unicorns
Bk #2

Available for purchase at 

Kindle | Audible |  Nook | iBooks | Kobo | Dreamspinner Press

About the Author

Tara Lain believes in happy ever afters – and magic. Same thing. In fact, she says, she doesn’t believe, she knows. Tara shares this passion in her best-selling stories that star her unique, charismatic heroes — the beautiful boys of romance —  and adventurous heroines. Quarterbacks and cops, werewolves and witches, blue collar or billionaires, Tara’s characters, readers say, love deeply, resolve seemingly insurmountable differences, and ultimately live their lives authentically. After many years living in southern California, Tara, her soulmate honey and her soulmate dog decided they wanted less cars and more trees, prompting a move to Ashland, Oregon where Tara’s creating new stories and loving living in a small town with big culture. Likely a Gryffindor but possessed of Parseltongue, Tara loves animals of all kinds, diversity, open minds, coconut crunch ice cream from Zoeys, and her readers. She also loves to hear from you.   

You can find Tara at Lain

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