Unbridled

by D. Jackson Leigh

  My stage whisper prompts several people sitting around us to also check their phones to see if I’m right.

  Jules shakes her head, her expression disbelieving. “She just gave him his head and let him go. I swear, that horse might have run the course clean with no rider at all. Just for the joy of it.”

  Someone sitting nearby shushes us because Marsh and Crescendo are starting their third round. Marsh is obviously pushing him to match Rampage’s speed, and they nearly do. But the young stallion rushes the last jump, and two poles fall.

  The crowd waits as his time and score flash on the light board, then the final scores.

  Skyler and Rampage have edged them out by a few points.

  “Let’s give them both a round of applause, folks.”

  Skyler reappears, and both riders take a turn around the arena to accept the applause before they stop and dismount.

  The young blonde who’d ridden against Jules earlier comes into the ring and gives Skyler a fist-bump, then leads Rampage away. Alex comes in behind the blonde, and Marsh hands Crescendo over to him.

  Marsh walks over to Skyler and holds out her hand. Instead of a handshake, Skyler yanks her close to fling her arm over Marsh’s shoulders. Someone puts the wireless mic in her hand, and Skyler addresses the crowd.

  “I guess the old man still has it in him,” she says. With the horses gone, the crowd is more raucous than ever, cheering and stomping their feet on the metal bleachers. After a minute, Skyler waves for quiet. “I want to thank Marsh for participating in our little contest. Folks, that stallion just came out of quarantine this week and arrived at Langston Farms yesterday. Marsh literally rode him once in Germany and a second time yesterday at her farm.”

  The crowd rumbles with surprised and appreciative remarks.

  “After seeing him perform today, I’m looking forward to sitting in my rocking chair and watching Marsh collect the blue ribbons and maybe a few gold medals over the next couple of seasons.”

  The crowd applauds with a few whistles thrown in as Skyler hands the mic to Marsh, who shakes her head as she accepts it.

  “Thanks, Sky,” Marsh says. “And thanks to all of you. I hope you enjoyed the show, and please be generous on your way past the tables mentioned earlier. It’s for a very good cause.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marsh puts her truck in park but leaves it running as she twists toward me. “Thanks for helping today.” Her face is unreadable in the dim light.

  “Come inside. I have chicken Alfredo we can heat for dinner. I might even have a German wine you’ll like.” Actually, I found a highly rated wine from a German winery located in the area where Marsh said she’d spent summers training and riding, and I paid a small fortune for a case of it. I already tried a bottle, and it’s very good.

  Marsh doesn’t move or answer. She studies me. “Tell me what you want, Lauren. What do you need?”

  I want her to stay. I hesitate to admit what I need because need gives away power. My brain insists I don’t need anybody or anything. My body is screaming a completely different story. I’ve been thinking all day about this chance to be alone with Marsh, and I’m not going to mess up this opportunity, even if it requires a little role-playing. I lower my eyes to my hands. “I want you to stay. To share dinner and conversation with me.” I raise my eyes to hers. “I need you to fuck me senseless afterward.”

  I swear that her blue eyes grow bright with that last admission, burning with a hunger that makes me catch and hold my breath.

  She lifts her hand and caresses my cheek. “Thank you. I will stay for dinner…and after.”

  Saints above, I am so instantly wet I practically slide off the seat and out of the truck when she comes around to open my door.

  Dinner is a simple salad and two plates of chicken Alfredo. I’m a pretty decent cook, but I’m lazy and haven’t been home since Marsh picked me up at seven this morning. So, the housekeeping and chef service I use came while we were at the horse show, cleaned the house, and left the dinner I requested in the refrigerator. Mr. Microwave is my friend.

  We make small talk while I set the table and heat our dinner. The main part of my house, like Marsh’s, is an open concept, which lets Marsh peruse the artwork on my walls and the bookcases that flank my fireplace. I watch her circle the room, peering out the large windows even though it’s too dark to see anything, examining the book titles—all classics—on my bookshelves, and picking up the framed photo of my nine-year-old self hugging my grandmother while we smiled for the camera.

  Her house decor is sort of a modern-cabin, L.L.Bean style. My home is more Martha Stewart–Southern casual with color-coordinated throw pillows placed strategically around the room and on the window seat, a Sherpa throw tossed casually over the back of the sofa, and my reading glasses perched atop a book on an end table. I become uncomfortably aware it all seems too perfect, like the house has been staged for some tour-of-homes fund-raiser.

  “Don’t be deceived by how neat everything is,” I say. “My housekeeping service came today and cleaned up my usual sloppy chaos.” Truth is, I’m fairly neat when I have time to be, which is any time I’m not up against a book deadline.

  “It’s a beautiful home,” Marsh says. “How much acreage do you have?”

  “Just ten. I didn’t want to be too isolated, but I wanted to sit on my porch and see nothing but woods and meadows, not another house a hundred yards from mine.”

  Marsh nods. She understands. We’re both fairly private people.

  “Can you open the wine?” I ask, plating our salads and placing the warmed mini-loaf of sourdough bread on a small cutting board with a crystal dish of Irish butter. Martha Stewart would be so proud.

  She picks up the bottle of wine and smiles. “A very good vintage. I’m truly impressed.” She uncorks it and pours a bit into one of the glasses I’ve set on the table. She swirls it, takes in the aroma, then tastes. She takes time to roll it on her tongue, then gives an approving nod and fills her glass and mine.

  When I bring the warmed plates to the table, she holds my chair for me to sit. Although it’s my house, she makes it clear who’s in control here. The warm, relaxed Marsh who kissed me briefly at the horse show is transforming before my eyes into the intense, enigmatic, and commanding Marsh.

  We talk about her new stallion, the equestrian center where the show was held, and the story behind the Parker-Reeses. We’re both hungry, so our plates and wine bottle are empty too quickly.

  “Would you like coffee? Or some dessert?” I’m about to die for sex, but not sure how to transition from dinner to naked. “I have several flavors of ice cream.”

  Marsh stands. “I’d like to see the rest of your house.”

  Her request surprises me. Maybe it’s a polite way of asking to go to the bedroom, and I’m on board with that.

  My bedroom is a lot of white—white sheets, white duvet, white sheer curtains, and a white faux-fur rug next to the side of the bed where I sleep. All the white is accented by blues—a country-blue dresser, a royal-blue wing-back chair, and, of course, a variety of strategically placed pillows in various shades of blue.

  To my disappointment, Marsh gives my bedroom only a cursory look. She seems fascinated, however, by my office.

  “This is where you really live.” It isn’t a question.

  “Well, yes. This is where I usually work. If the weather’s nice and I’m writing rather than researching, I sometimes take my laptop out to the patio. I like the fresh air and watching the birds and squirrels that come to the feeders.”

  She nods, trailing her fingers along the rows and rows of books I have on the shelves that line two entire walls. She gives a quick look at my collection of mysteries. “You like British mysteries. Good choice.” She slows at my library of fantasy. I’m not much for science fiction. “Impressive,” she says. “And surprising. I wouldn’t hav
e pegged you as a fantasy reader.”

  “I like the fantasy genre. It’s freeing and often an insightful vehicle for social commentary.”

  “I agree. Don’t ever bring the subject up around Harrison unless you have a couple of days to discuss it. Fantasy is his genre of choice.”

  I’m pleased that she takes my reading choices seriously but wait impatiently for her to reach the second wall of books, which consists of almost exclusively lesbian titles.

  She moves to the other wall, where she scans the titles more carefully. She glances my way once, and I don’t try to hide that I’m watching her. She takes a book from the shelf, reads the summary on the back, then thumbs through to read a few passages. She raises her eyes from the book, and her gaze is so piercing that, after a long second, I lower mine. Heat crawls up my neck, but I watch again—more discreetly this time—when she returns to the shelf to select another for examination. She repeats the process of reading the back of a book, then thumbing through it several times before she suddenly wheels and exits my office. What the hell?

  Startled, it takes me a few seconds to react and follow. I burst into the hall just in time to see her disappear into my bedroom. Weird, but I’m going to go with this because I’m absolutely dying to see her naked, and watching her read my erotica collection has turned me on like I’d never imagined.

  I find her standing at my two-drawer bedside table. She holds my gaze for a moment, and I know what she’s going to do. Probably the most private thing in the home of any single woman—gay, straight, or bisexual—is the contents of their nightstand. I meet her gaze, then submissively lower my eyes. My heart pounds with this game we’re playing. Although I rage at the thought of anyone trying to control my life, I can’t deny that my deepest desire is to give over that control in the bedroom. Marsh somehow sees this need in me, and I realize at this very moment that I trust Marsh’s discretion enough to give it to her.

  She opens the top drawer and extracts my bedtime reading material for the past month, Riding Passion. She raises an eyebrow and hums her approval of the horse on the cover. Then she digs around among the sex toys, uh, stimulation aids. I’m not ashamed of what she finds. I’m an adult, and women have a right to pleasure themselves. I’m sure she does it. Still, my face heats when she holds up the cylindrical vibrator. I keep my eyes averted, but not so much that I can’t watch her in my peripheral vision. She watches me as she smells, then licks the length of the vibrator.

  I can’t hide the shudder that runs through me, but I bow my head to stare hard at the floor and resist the impulse to widen my stance because of the throbbing between my legs. I’m concentrating hard on this and miss her crossing over to me until the vibrator appears under my nose.

  “Is this you I smell and taste on this? Or some other lover?” Her tone is curious rather than accusing.

  Still, I stiffen with indignation. “I don’t bring women to my home.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize what I’ve revealed.

  Marsh says nothing, but grasps my chin and tilts my face up. She looks briefly into my eyes, hers so fierce and hungry I don’t know whether to back away or fall at her feet. But I don’t have time to do either because her mouth is on mine, devouring and claiming. Her hands are on my hips, pressing me against hers. Her hands move to my ass and lift me off my feet. I instinctively wrap my arms and legs around her as she steps over to the bed.

  She lays me on the bed and leaves my mouth to kiss and suck at my neck—Goddess, I love that—while she unbuttons my shirt and opens the front clasp on my bra to bare my chest to her. She pays only small attention to my breasts before kissing down my belly, dipping her tongue into my navel while she makes quick work of my belt and the zipper on my pants.

  Marsh yanks off my boots while still leaning over my half-naked body, then slides my pants and panties down my legs to toss them behind her. Her mouth is on me again, but she does not linger or tease. My clit, turgid with arousal, is between her lips. She alternates between sucking and licking, sometimes scraping her teeth against my singing bundle of nerves as she sucks and licks, sucks and licks. I don’t last more than sixty seconds before I’m bucking and screaming at the ceiling in the clutches of a blinding orgasm.

  Her mouth, her tongue is glorious. If she were mine, all mine, I might be inclined to have it insured. I’m still riding the aftershocks when she claims my mouth again. Her cheeks are slick with my cum.

  “Don’t move,” she commands.

  As if I could.

  “I’ll be back.”

  She strides out of the bedroom, leaving me in my post-orgasmic stupor. My shirt and bra are still on my shoulders, but laid open, and I’m naked from the waist down. I’m too boneless to even cover up, although Marsh remains fully clothed.

  Languorous, I relax into my plush bedding with my legs still half hanging off the bed. I wonder briefly where she put the vibrator. I’m still singing with arousal. But then the vibrator would be a disappointment after Marsh’s cunnilingus skills. Did I mention that her mouth is spectacular? I drift through that savory memory, then jerk back to the present when Marsh is again hovering over me.

  She tugs me up to a sitting position and fully divests me of my shirt and bra, then cups my ass to lift me. I demur even as I’m again wrapping my arms and legs around her, but she ignores me and carries me back to the dining-room table. She has cleared our dishes and prepared a bowl of pistachio ice cream. I’m intrigued.

  She rests my butt on the table and lays a long finger against my lips when I start to protest for sanitary reasons. “No talking.” Her stern words rather than her finger stop my protest. “You’re sitting on a place mat because I’m still hungry, and you, Lauren, are going to be my dessert.”

  “Yes.” Only a whisper, but I know she wants to hear my consent. Marsh has always emphasized choice in every step in our relationship.

  She holds up a spoonful of ice cream for me. It’s smooth and cold in my mouth, and before I can swallow the melting treat, Marsh’s lips are on mine, her tongue mining mine for all the sweet goodness.

  “Marsh, please.” I tug at her polo shirt to pull it from her pants, but her hands stop me. She steps back, her eyes smoldering. “Please,” I repeat. “I want to feel your skin.”

  She doesn’t allow me to undress her, but she pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it to the floor. Hot damn. Not the ripped six-pack of a starved body builder, but the faint outline of abdominal muscles under her smooth belly. She pauses, and I hold my breath. I’m not sure if she’s deciding or simply torturing me, but she finally peels her sports bra up and over her head. It joins her shirt on the floor.

  Her breasts are high and small, her nipples rose-colored to my paler-pink ones. And her shoulders are wide but not bulky. Her shoulder muscles are pronounced and her arms sinewy. My mouth waters. I see a woman warrior before me. She stays just beyond my grasp to retrieve the bowl of ice cream, then uses her fingers to paint her nipples with icy pistachio. “Come here,” she says.

  I hop off the table, still a little self-conscious but sure she’s going to join my nakedness in the next moments. My eyes are drawn to her belt buckle in anticipation of its unfastening. It glistens with my juices from her carrying me from the bedroom.

  Marsh, though, has a different plan, catching and holding my hands when I reach for her. “Taste my breasts,” she says. Again, her tone is commanding, not requesting. My traitorous libido loves it when she wraps her hand around my nape and guides me to her left nipple.

  The pistachio is melted and warm from her heated skin. I lap every bit of the stickiness off, then suck her into my mouth. She doesn’t make a sound, but I feel her breath hitch when I flick my tongue over the hardened nub as I suck. Then I give the same treatment to her right breast.

  Having one hand freed when she released it to grasp my neck, I rake my nails across her abs and bend to lick the pistachio that has dr
ipped down her ribs. She allows this until I touch her belt buckle. She grabs my wandering hand, spins me around, and pins both of my hands behind my back. The quick move forces me to stay in my bent position, and she uses her hips to push me a step forward. My belly tightens in a small orgasmic spasm when I realize I’m bent over the dining-room table.

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

  I squirm when her fingers stroke my clit once, twice, and then I’m filled with one long finger. I’m ready, slick and open, and she’s in up to her knuckle in one firm stroke. I gasp when she rakes her finger over my g-spot, which is so much more sensitive in this position, and reenters me with two, then three fingers.

  I moan as the pressure in my belly begins to build. She’s pounding her hips against the back of her hand to thrust into me harder and faster. “Marsh, I’m…”

  “Don’t you come. Not yet. I’ll stop if you do.” Her words come in short pants. She’s getting off on fucking me, and that realization edges me even closer to orgasm. She’s bent over me, her hard nipples raking across my shoulders with every thrust. She’s slamming her hips into my ass, her fingers into my sex so hard, her thrusts so erratic the table slides forward a tiny bit. It feels so good. So good. I lift my head, and movement in my peripherical vision draws my attention to the floor-length windows along the front wall. It’s dark outside now, so windows mirror back our image—me bent over the table and her bent over me, fucking me with her hand and hips. Stars above, I’m going to die if she doesn’t let me come. I hear her breath catch and feel her body begin to stiffen against mine.

  “Come for me, Lauren. Come for me now.” She groans her words out through clenched teeth, and I am helpless to refuse her.

  “Marsh. God. Oh, Marsh.” I’m coming so hard and long the room fades from me. Then I realize my eyes are closed because my body is on sensory overload after spying us in the windows. I’m not a religious person, but sex with Marsh makes me want to scream “Praise Jesus!” Not that he has anything to do with it, but those words are entrenched in the DNA of all Southerners and seem to surface during moments of extreme gratitude.