Elite: Tina Armstrong - Rodeo Red, White & Blue (404 photos) (Patreon)

The county fairgrounds smelled of dust, diesel, and cheap beer, but Tina Armstrong only smelled him. She’d come for the rodeo (eight seconds on a bull named Thunderbolt, prize money enough to fix the gym roof back home). She stayed for the cowboy leaning against the corral fence, Stetson low, eyes darker than the Texas night.

She wore the flag like a dare: stars-and-stripes bikini top barely containing her, bottoms tied tight at the hips, fringed chaps slung low and unbuckled. The hat was his (he’d lost it in the chute when she’d vaulted the rail to celebrate her win, landing in his arms instead of the dirt).

Now, behind the livestock barn, the music thumped distant and tinny. Tina pushed him against the rough wood wall, hat tipping back as she straddled his thigh. The chaps creaked; the bikini top strained with every breath.

“Thought you said eight seconds was your limit,” he growled, hands sliding under the fringe to grip her ass.

“I lied,” she whispered, rolling her hips slow. “I ride all night.”

The bottoms came off first (one tug, the knot gave). The top followed, flung into the hay. She sank down onto him right there, back arched, boots digging into the dirt for leverage. His mouth found her breast, teeth grazing the star-spangled fabric still clinging to one nipple. She moaned loud enough to spook the horses.

He flipped her (pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding between her thighs). She came hard, thighs shaking, the American flag tattoo on her hip flashing under the moonlight. When he followed, it was with her name on his lips and her nails down his back, leaving red stripes to match the ones on her bikini.

Later, sprawled in the truck bed (his shirt under her head, her hat on his chest), Tina traced the buckle on his belt. 

“Next rodeo’s in Tulsa,” she said. 

He grinned. “I’ll bring the rope.” 

Some bulls, she decided, were worth getting bucked for.

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