Unbridled

by D. Jackson Leigh

  Her teeth nip at my earlobe. Her strong arms pen me against her so tight I can feel her nipples harden through the silk of my blouse. I press my butt into her crotch.

  “Imagine how it would feel to surrender, to free yourself of those bonds.”

  I turn my head, but she silences my intended denial with a deep, forceful kiss that makes me whimper. She grinds her hips against my ass, and her hand is on my belt buckle.

  “Lauren?”

  Is there really any question about my permission? “Yes. God, yes.” I guide her hand under the waistband while I release the belt, button, and zipper to give her fingers room to slide into my panties and between my legs where I need her.

  “Tell me what you want, Lauren.”

  I moan because I can’t form words. Arousal from her long seduction is drenching my panties, making my sex throb and my heart pound in my ears.

  “Tell me.”

  I make a guttural sound of frustration when her fingers stop just short of their goal, and then, like a breached dam, words pour from my mouth. “I want your fingers on me, in me. I want you to stroke me, fill me. I want to come with you inside me.”

  “You’re so sexy when you ask for what you want.” She takes my mouth again, and I moan into hers as her fingers slide over my aching clit.

  I’m so primed my legs begin to quiver on her third stroke, and I can’t hold back when my belly tightens and the pressure builds. It’s too soon, but it’s too late. “Marsh. Oh, Marsh.” Release bows my body, and my startled cry rings out. She plunges one, then two fingers inside and strokes through my orgasm until I’m limp and, I think, sated in her arms.

  Before I can catch my breath, her arm is behind my knees, and she’s lifting me. She’s walking, and then I’m lowered onto something flat and soft. Her bed?

  Wordlessly, she strips my linen trousers and panties down my legs, and then my silk shirt is opened, and my bra is gone. Her cashmere sweater is soft against my breasts, her nipples hard against mine.

  “I’m going to put my mouth on you.” Her words are low and smooth and certain. “And I’m going to fuck you.”

  “I might need a moment to recover.” She isn’t listening. She’s moving down my body, tasting my nipples, dipping her tongue into my navel and pushing my thighs toward my chest, opening me to her. “Yes, please.”

  I reach to take the mask from my eyes because I want to see her between my legs. I want to find her eyes and hold on to her gaze. But she’s atop me again in a flash, grabbing my hands and pinning them over my head.

  “I didn’t tell you to take that off.” Still dressed, she grinds her pelvis against my sex, then plunges her tongue into my mouth, matching the rhythm of her hips humping against me.

  We both suck in deep breaths when she withdraws. “Keep your hands off that mask.” This is an order, not a request. I whimper because she is repeating her journey down my body. I have no time to protest or contemplate why my legs automatically open in a wanton display of where I want her most.

  Then that tongue is doing delicious things to my clit and thrusting inside me. It isn’t enough. I raise my hips. “More. I need more.” I’m pleading.

  “More of what, Lauren? I want you to say it.”

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  Her finger, then fingers enter me, and I gasp. So full, but her languid strokes are driving me mad. “I want you to fuck me hard.” I moan out the words. “Hard and fast.”

  “Good girl.” Her thrusting gains momentum. “See? You can ask. Now, give yourself to me.” She adds a third finger and fucks me harder and faster. I’m so full, stretched so tight.

  “Oh God, oh God. Marsh, I’m going to come.”

  “Not this time, but maybe next time I’m going to flip you over and fuck you from behind,” she says. Her words ignite my orgasm, a flame burning sharp and hot through my belly when her mouth finds my clit and sucks hard.

  It’s probably seconds, but it feels like I’m hanging helpless in a hurricane of sensation for long minutes before it releases me, boneless and drained by spent pheromones.

  “You are so spectacular when you let go, Lauren. Why do you keep such a tight rein on your need?”

  “I…I don’t.” The murmured lie hangs between us.

  Her sigh is a whisper across my lips before she gives me a taste of myself on her tongue. Then the bed jostles as she removes her boots and climbs up to spoon my naked body against her clothed one. She tugs a very soft blanket up from the foot of the bed and covers us.

  “You do.” Marsh’s low burr holds no judgment. She nuzzles my neck and cups my breast in her hand—not in a way that excites, but in a move to possess. “I’d like to help you unbridle your passion.”

  Drugged by exhaustion, her words and my mumbled “yes” are the last thing I remember.

  * * *

  I stretch languidly in the sun that streams in through the window and warms the bed. I’m not surprised to wake alone. I know Marsh’s days begin at sunrise with horses to feed, stalls to muck, and schedules to check. And I have a vague memory of murmured instructions that I should go back to sleep.

  A chair has been pulled close to the bedside. Did she sit there to watch me sleep while she pulled on her boots? I’ve never slept so soundly, and no matter how badly I wish she were sitting there now so I could drag her into bed with me, the chair holds nothing but my clothes with a paper folded neatly on top. I reluctantly sit up, draw the blanket around me, and reach for the paper. My name is written in Marsh’s perfect, bold cursive, so I unfold it and begin to read.

  You are a temptress curled so innocently on my bed, in my blanket. But Langston Farms is one of the sponsors of Saturday’s fund-raiser, so I’ll be at the show grounds in Cherokee Falls much of the day to make sure everything is ready. I could use some help tomorrow if you’re free and undaunted by chaos. I’ll pick you up at seven in the morning if you’re game. Also, there are bagels and cream cheese in the fridge. Keurig is on the counter. You’re welcome to help yourself to breakfast and a shower before you leave.

  Marsh

  P.S. Your clothes are on the chair, except for the black lace panties. I’m keeping those.

  My belly clenches, in a good way, and an involuntary shudder runs through me. I can’t think about what she’ll do with my underwear, or I’ll throw myself at her the minute I see her. Images of her naked and hovering over me fill my languid mind. What had she said?

  …next time I’m going to flip you over and fuck you from behind…

  Last night had been perfect, except for one thing. I flush with shame. I fell asleep and left Marsh wanting. Damn. She must think I’m a pillow princess, which is far from the truth. I’m dying to get her naked and touch her everywhere. I want to cup that firm ass in my hands, wrap my legs around those slim hips, and dig my heels into her muscled thighs.

  I shake those lascivious thoughts from my head and stand before I leave a wet spot on Marsh’s sheets. Still wrapped in the blanket, I walk out to the kitchen and push the button for the Keurig to heat. While I wait for the coffee—a necessity for starting my day—I find a pen and add a reply to her note.

  I’d love to spend Saturday helping you at the show. I’ll be ready at seven.

  Lauren

  P.S. Since you’ve confiscated my black panties, I’ll have to wear my red lace ones next time. Oh, and I’m going to steal a pair of your boy-short underwear to wear home.

  Pleased with my note, I brew myself a cup of French roast, skip the bagels, and head for the shower.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marsh wasn’t kidding when she described shepherding a dozen youngsters, their horses, and a sidecar of parents among four simultaneously working show rings as chaotic. She appointed me as ringmaster since she, Alex, Harrison, and the parents with horse experience had their hands full keeping the beasts calm and safe among the chattering
, giggling kids and nervous teens.

  My job involves wielding a clipboard of schedules noting what classes are happening in which ring at what time and who from Langston Farms is entered in each. I make sure each participant is in the right ring at the correct time. I’m also guardian of the fix-it box, which holds hair ties, bobby pins, nail clippers, scissors, a sewing kit, a variety of safety pins, and first-aid supplies. I can repair a ponytail or nail-torn breeches and the scratch to the human skin underneath the damaged cloth. Also, I can safety-pin together what I don’t have time to sew or tape.

  I accepted the invitation to spend time with Marsh. But we’ve barely had time to speak since she handed me the clipboard, fix-it box, and brief instructions. She’s around all the time, but we’re both swamped answering questions, handling crises, and directing horses and riders from the massive Langston Farms seven-horse trailer where we’ve set up our base of operations.

  The trailer is so large, Alex towed it with a semi-truck like a tractor-trailer rig. Langston Farms is painted on the cab’s door and emblazoned in fancy script on both sides of the trailer. The front section holds a tack room, a small bathroom—reserved for Alex, Marsh, and myself—and built-in bunk beds. A couple of other smaller trailers belonging to some of the students and towed by pickups are parked to create a semicircle with the Langston Farms trailer. In that semicircle, two tent canopies are erected where people rest in lawn chairs among drink-filled ice chests when they aren’t competing in a class.

  Like a movie star, I sit in the center of it all in a tall director’s chair. Alex has written “Lauren’s Chair” in beautiful cursive with a thick black marker on the front and back. The scene would have seemed so elitist if we didn’t all smell like horses and the manure shoveled out of the trailers. Everyone is wearing boots and pants spattered with mud from last night’s rain.

  Besides her students and their parents clamoring for her attention, a parade of attractive women—some younger and some older—keep showing up to flirt with Marsh. She’s polite but never encourages them, no matter how much they bat their eyes, no matter how many times they grasp her arm, lean in to whisper in her ear, or kiss her cheek. One went for her lips, but Marsh neatly dodged. For God’s sake, impressionable kids and watchful parents are milling around her. Do these women have no shame? They practically throw themselves at Marsh, but she is all business.

  “Lauren.” Grace tugs on my sleeve to get my attention. “I thought my hunt class was at two o’clock in ring three, but I just went down there, and the miniature horses are lining up to show there next.”

  I consult my clipboard, then my phone, where I pull up the show’s website for last-minute updates. “Oh, your class was just moved because ring one is too soft for the wheels on the minis’ carts. They’re in three now, and your hunter class will be at the indoor ring.”

  “Sweet.” Grace, who has stepped close to look over my shoulder while I consult the schedule, waves her arm over her head and yells loud enough to be heard in the next county. “Mom. We’re changed to the arena. Over there to your right.” Mom is diverted, and Grace leads her new horse to intercept her. She calls back over her shoulder. “Thanks, Lauren.”

  At least that’s what I think she said. I’m not sure because my ear is still ringing from her screaming while standing next to me. Teens. Geez. I scan for Marsh again because I’m hungry. The delicious bacon-and-egg biscuit she got for us when we first arrived is a distant memory. Bingo. I spot her carrying two cardboard take-out trays and coming straight toward me.

  “I guessed and got you a cheeseburger rather than a hot dog,” she says, handing over one of the trays holding a large burger and piled high with French fries. She sets her own lunch on top of an ice chest and shows me how to flip up the small side shelf on the arm of the chair, then retrieves her own director’s chair from the trailer to set up next to mine. She gets drinks for both of us from one of the chests, and we settle in to eat.

  “You sure know how to treat a girl,” I joke. The burger is one of those pre-molded, fifty to a box—tasteless if not for the cheese, tomato, onions, mayo, mustard, and ketchup piled on top. But the fries are still hot and incredibly good. Or maybe I’m incredibly hungry.

  “Is that sarcasm? Is it the paper carton rather than china?” She waves a fly away from her food. “Or the pesky uninvited guests that want to share your meal?”

  I laugh. “Well, I could do without the fresh, outdoor fragrance of manure, and the service is a little slow. I don’t mind mid-afternoon lunches, except when breakfast is served at dawn. However, the sexy waitstaff pretty much makes up for my meal’s late arrival.”

  “Your standards are very high,” she says with an exaggerated frown. “I don’t know if I can meet them.” She wolfs down her last bite of burger and gives the rest of her fries to Alex’s terrier tied to one of the larger coolers.

  “I think further evaluation is needed,” I say, struggling to look serious.

  Marsh cocks her head, her smile amused. “I would agree.” She steps close and bends to put her mouth next to my ear. “I think I’d like a chance to study this writer species further. Perhaps in her own habitat.”

  Her words send a chill down my arms and flames to my crotch. “I think that can be arranged.” I am so easy. I wipe nonexistent food from my lips, just in case I’m actually drooling at the suggestion.

  Marsh straightens. “Alas, I have to spend the next hour judging two beginner equestrian classes, so I must leave you to your own devices. I think everybody is already lined up for their last class or two, so you’re done with your duties. If you’re tired, you can nap in the trailer.”

  “I think I’ll wander around a bit. I haven’t had a chance to check out the vendor booths, and I might watch a bit of the minis’ class. They are just too cute pulling those carts. I can’t believe two of them can haul an adult person around.”

  “They may be small, but they’re horses and very strong. I can promise that you wouldn’t want one of them to kick you.” Marsh peers across the grounds toward the indoor arena, where more experienced riders are competing in show-jumping and dressage. “Jules is here, by the way.”

  I stand and stare in the same direction. “Is she? Where? I might want to make a massage appointment with her.”

  Marsh’s frown is genuine this time. “I have it on good authority she’s booked solid for the next year.” She turns to me and raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ll have to make do with her massage instructor.”

  It’s my turn to lift an eyebrow at her. “You?” Holy mother. Is there anything this woman doesn’t do exceptionally well?

  “Unless you inherit wealth, which I didn’t, most equestrians have to work some job to support themselves. Massage is one of those professions where you can make your own schedule and work as much or as little as you need.”

  “Then I, of course, would rather go to the source, rather than the student.” I revel in her unexpected display of possessiveness.

  Marsh tips her head toward me in acknowledgment. Is that a flicker of relief before her expression turns smug?

  “But since you brought her up, where has Jules been lately?” I’ve gotten used to seeing her around the stables. Marsh has been contracted to train a couple of the horses at her barn and Jules assists by exercising them, sometimes riding them in their training sessions while Marsh watches to correct movements.

  “She’s been traveling on the show circuit, campaigning a stallion for Skyler Reese. Sky and her wife, Jessica Parker, own and manage Cherokee Falls Equestrian Center,” she says, sweeping her arm around to indicate the huge facility where the show is being held.

  “Campaigning?”

  “People are going to pay top dollar only for the little swimmers of a proven champion, so you have to show a stallion to gain attention and ratings that improve his worth as a stud. Selling sperm is the big moneymaker in the equestrian world.”
/>
  Marsh glances at her watch. “I’d better head over there.” She picks up our trash to toss in a nearby receptacle, then turns back to me. “Jules is show-jumping in the class that’s about to start in the indoor ring. You should watch her. She has excellent form.”

  I slide out of my chair. “I think I will. I’ve only watched that on television. I’d love to see what it’s like up close.”

  She smiles again, but this smile holds a bit of secrecy. What is she plotting? I like this new Marsh, relaxed and flirty. I love intense Marsh in the bedroom, too, but this version of her is more open. The intense Marsh always feels like a dam holding back…I don’t know…her true self, her passion, her heart?

  “Keep your seat after Jules’s class, and you’ll see some real jumping,” she says. She moves quickly to plant a light kiss on my lips, and then, with a wave, she’s gone.

  Stunned, I glance nervously around. Oddly, we’re the only two people in this area. The day’s crowd has thinned considerably since the classes that hold mostly kids concluded around lunchtime. I touch my freshly kissed lips and feel them stretch in a what I’m sure must be a silly grin. I’m glad nobody else is nearby to see it—the stupid grin, not the kiss. Damn. I’m not falling for her. I’m not falling for her. I. Am. Not. Falling. For. Her.

  * * *

  The indoor ring has actual bleachers that are nearly full of people eager to watch the jumping event. I spot a few open seats on the sixth row and climb toward them, but when I get there, I spot a riding helmet and jacket reserving the places for someone else.

  “There’s room here.” A woman on the third row a few seats to my left scoots over a bit and indicates the empty space next to her.

  “Thank you.” I smile at her and murmur a litany of “excuse me” and “sorry” for the toes I crush and knees that have to move as I make my way to her. Finally, I plop down on the metal bench. “I guess, judging from the crowd, this is the place to be?”