by Remy Rose
Myself included.
But I can't think in terms of the dating world. I'm not going to be dating Cassandra, and I'll need to keep reminding myself of that. Christ, if Dall knew I was analyzing Cassandra's psyche for any reason other than to get further ahead in the contest, he'd never let me live it down. Brockton Dall is not the type to get emotionally intimate with anyone. We have our differences, but this is one thing I can agree with him on. It's a lot safer that way.
I drain my martini and set the glass on the end table. I'm feeling tired. Hoping to get more than a few hours of sleep tonight, although the multiple drinks I've had will probably result in me waking up a few times. Insomnia has been my unwelcome partner for the past few years, like a clingy girlfriend who doesn't want to let go. I've weaned myself off the sleeping pills my doctor prescribed, since they caused me to have some bizarre, fucked-up dreams. Exercise helps some. But when I'm alone like this, late at night in the heavy stillness of my house...my mind becomes restless and my thoughts get loud and scattered, like marbles on a tile floor.
I chase the thought of my mother first. Tomorrow would have been Paolo Leone Miller's fifty-second birthday. Gianna would have driven home, and the two of us would have taken Mama to Massimo's Cucina Italiana (the only Italian restaurant she didn't scoff at) for the Fruta di Mare family platter we all loved, with homemade gelato for dessert. Scott would have been there, too. I consider myself a logical thinker, but I have to believe my stepfather passed away of a broken heart the year following Mama's death. The love they shared...it was warm, real. Vibrant. The kind of love people find only once in a lifetime. The kind that renders your heart frozen when you lose it. But feeling numb—that's a lot better than feeling pain. A cold, rigid heart is impenetrable, and safe.
Enough. Brooding is pointless bullshit. When the road of life becomes bumpy, the weak and ignorant are the ones who keep riding the same path, searching for the smoothness that will never come. It's the savvy survivors who quickly learn to get the fuck off and blaze a new trail.
Or many new trails.
Cassandra is one trail I most definitely plan to explore. Even if I hadn't met her at the stable, our paths may have crossed at Tucker's, since I sometimes eat in Manheim. Makes me smile, thinking of how rattled she was by my flirting at the restaurant, as much as she tried to hide it.
I like that.
I close my eyes, and there's the image of Cassandra, self-consciously tucking stray wisps of hair behind her ear, her face coloring. God, I wanted to slide off that elastic, put my fingers up under her hair and fan it across her bare shoulders...then run my hands down the front of her, listen to her sharp intake of breath as my fingers find her nipples...
And now I'm rock hard. I continue this little fantasy, imagining Cassandra fondling the big head of my stiff cock—tentatively at first, sliding down to stroke my balls, then grasping my length and stroking my shaft, faster and faster...
I'm going to have to take care of this. Jacking off won't be enough. I need to fuck.
I set my laptop on the coffee table and pick up my phone. 12:45 a.m. It's late, but that’s never mattered before, and she's only minutes away. Scrolling through my contacts, I find her number.
She answers on the second ring, sounding pleasantly surprised and surprisingly alert. “Carlo?
“Hi. I didn't wake you up?”
“No. Watching a movie.”
“Are you alone?”
Her voice takes on a teasing tone. “Why, yes, actually. I am.”
“Good. I'd like to come over.”
“Oh, would you? And what did you have in mind, Mr. Leone?”
“As an attorney, you must realize that you shouldn't ask questions without already knowing the answers.”
She laughs. “Very true. I guess I'll see you in a bit, then.”
I grin as I end the call. I'm lucky to have found someone with my same mindset: no strings, no stress...just sex when it was mutually agreeable. Her strong libido, combined with her intelligence and emotional maturity, make her an ideal fuck buddy for me. I met Alexis two years ago at Prost, a German-style pub in East Petersburg. After a few drinks, her hand was on my thigh, and within the hour, I found myself standing in her bedroom with my pants around my ankles and her mouth around my cock. We’ve hooked up many times, before Brock and I started the contest. Alexis wouldn’t have been a candidate for that—no challenge, for one thing, and I want her more long-term.
Ten minutes after I called, I’m standing outside her condo. The door opens, and Alexis is there in a loosely-belted, silky robe, her short, caramel-brown hair looking disheveled.
She pushes her sweep of bangs to one side and smiles apologetically. “Sorry I'm not in top form—someone didn't give me very much notice.”
“And that someone thinks you look fantastic.” It’s true; even without makeup, she’s very attractive, with hazel eyes and a heart-shaped face. “Thanks for letting me come over.”
Alexis motions me inside and shuts the door, taking my hand. I follow her to the living room. “No need to thank me, Carlo. I'll be getting something out of this, too.” She winks as she puts her arms around my waist. She’s the tallest woman I've ever been with, standing only a couple of inches shorter than me, which makes for easy stand-up sex.
The playfulness in her eyes is replaced by fiery passion. My cock starts to throb.
“How do you want me?” she murmurs, pulling me closer so my erection presses against her slippery robe.
I put my mouth at her ear. “I'm going to take you from behind.”
Alexis inhales sharply. “You’re in a primal mood.”
“Yes, horny as hell. I want to go in deep.”
She opens her robe and lets it fall to the floor, revealing her nude body. God, she looks good—tanned and in perfect shape. There’s a small, blue butterfly tattoo just above her panty line that I haven't seen before. Her nipples are already hard, and I have no doubt she’s wet and ready for me as usual.
Cupping her face in my hands, I cover her lips with mine and kiss her deeply, my tongue filling her mouth. She gropes me through my jeans till I groan. I won’t wait.
“I need you now,” I tell her hoarsely. This will be quick, and rough. One of the best things about our arrangement is the no-condom sex. We both were tested and she’s on birth control, so fucking is uncomplicated physically as well as emotionally.
I guide her to stand in back of the couch. My voice is a ragged whisper. “Bend over.”
She quickly obeys, spreading her feet apart. I take in the sight of her tight ass and long legs as I unbutton my pants and push them down, my cock springing forward. I put a hand on the back of her neck. No need to check if she’s ready for me, but I want to do it anyway. Dragging a finger along her glistening slit, I grin as I hear her moan. She’ll easily take me the way I want her to. I tunnel two fingers inside her, pushing them deep till she moans again.
Satisfied, I tighten my grip on her neck and place my other hand at the small of her back. Her skin is soft and warm. I rub the head of my dick up and down her opening, drawing in my breath with anticipation.
I jerk my hips forward. Alexis gasps my name as I enter her. She’s bracing herself against the couch as I thrust hard, fast—deep. I don’t want to hurt her, but since her pussy is getting hotter and tighter by the second, I know she’ll accept a little pain with this pleasure.
She cries out my name again. “Carlo! Carlo...”
I can tell her climax is only seconds away. I close my eyes and give one final, deep thrust as she comes just before my own release.
We’re both breathing hard. She turns around, her face flushed and eyes glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. “God...you’re good.”
“Likewise, sweetheart.”
“I’m going to have a glass of wine. Want one?”
“Sure.”
She gives me a quick peck on the mouth as she re-ties her robe and heads into the kitchen. I won’t spend the night; this isn’t what we do.
We drink, talk for a little while, and then I tell her I’m heading home to hopefully catch at least a few solid hours of sleep.
Alexis gives me a quick hug before I leave. “Thanks, fuck buddy.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Until next time.”
On the ride home, my thoughts turn to Cassandra. There’s no denying I want to have her—totally, completely—but I’ll have to be patient. Rushing is never the answer with this. I’ll wait a week, maybe more, before contacting her again. Make her wonder.
I’ll find the balance with Cassandra. And even if it’s only for a brief time...she’ll be mine.
chapter nine ~ Cassandra
Ingrid is pacing the stable aisle, the heels of her riding boots clacking against the cement floor, while Sonya and I clean tack and try our best to ignore her. Ingrid always gets like this on Judy days—the days when the trainer came to work with the horses. For one thing, Judy is a highly-regarded equestrian, a United States Dressage Federation gold medalist who studied with some of the world's top dressage masters, training over a dozen horses and riders to Grand Prix, the highest level in dressage. She’s also a royal bitch.
According to Ingrid, Paolo Miller, the former owner of Windswept, had practically worshipped Judy and was training at Third Level at the time of her death. After Paolo died, Ingrid was hoping Judy's services wouldn’t be needed anymore, but the owner’s son decided to keep her on at the stable to continue training and showing the horses his mother had loved so much. And with less than two months till the dressage show at Devon, Judy’s been at Windswept for several hours each day, four days a week, practicing the Fourth Level test with Brownie, rehearsing a musical freestyle program with Sweet Surrender, and coaching Ingrid, who’ll be riding five year old Rafsi in the U.S.E.F. Young Horse test.
The trickle-down bitch factor from Judy to Ingrid to Sonya and me has been unbelievable.
I’m doing my best to stay positive, focusing on the little things that give me contentment…like the sunlight today, spilling in the windows and splashing in a pale yellow glow on the just-swept floor, and the calming, mindless job of oiling stirrup leathers. Sonya’s sitting in a camp chair sliding a damp rag up and down a set of black reins, looking bored and annoyed, while Ingrid keeps sighing loudly and checking her watch.
She finally erupts. “Judy's late. Again. Does she really think the world will just wait for her?”
Maybe not, but she knows you will. I almost—almost—feel sorry for Ingrid. I guess I can try to de-stress her by some conversation. “How was your last session on Rafsi?”
Ingrid turns to look at me and huffs. “It was fine.”
“Well, that's good, then. You must be getting excited for Devon.”
“Excited isn't a word I would use to describe what I'm feeling. I will be relieved when it's over with.”
The sound of a car door slamming shut, and Judy walks in. She’s tall, thin and angular, her black hair pulled back into a severe bun with not a strand out of place. Her pink polo and tan breeches are impeccably neat and clean, her boots buffed to perfection. I’m equally irritated and impressed.
As usual, Judy completely ignores Sonya and me as she addresses Ingrid. “Shall we?” Impatiently, like she is the one who’s been kept waiting.
Sonya rolls her eyes as she watches them walk toward Rafsi's stall. “I will be sooo glad when this stupid horse show is over. I seriously need a different job. Don't you get sick of this place?”
I smile. “Actually, no, I don't. Not ever.”
“It's just so boring. And I've never been able to get used to the smell.”
Sonya just doesn’t get it. It’s not her fault; some people just can’t understand. Personally, I love the smells of the stable: the sweet, summery odor of fresh hay, the rich scent of leather, the heady aroma of the horses. The manure...honestly, I’m okay with that, too.
“I mean, maybe if there were more people working here...no offense, but just more people to interact with...” Sonya's eyes grow wide. “Oh my God. I can't believe I didn't mention this before! I met the guy who owns the stable.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. About two weeks ago. I came in to the office just as he was finishing his meeting with Ingrid. I wish you'd been here—you would have fuh-lipped out. He is so effing hot.”
“Really? I always thought the owner would be some rich old guy instead of—”
I stop in mid-sentence when it hits me.
Oh.
My.
God.
“Ohh, he's rich, all right. Just not old. He's the head of Miller Valve—the stable used to be his mom's, and Ingrid told me he kept it after she died. Just because she loved it so much. Kinda sweet, actually.”
I pick up a rag and a leather girth to clean, working in the saddle soap slowly, methodically. My heart is pounding. “Did you—did you happen to get his name?”
“Umm...it was something Italian. Leone. I don't even know if I heard his first name.” She giggles. “Wayyy too distracted looking at him.”
Carlo Leone—the owner of Windswept. Why didn’t he say anything when we first met? Jesus, and I told him it was a private stable and basically asked him to leave!
“So he was just meeting with Ingrid?”
“Yeah. I literally ran into him when he was walking out of the office. He didn't seem to mind, and I sure as hell didn't!”
Was it strictly a business meeting with Ingrid? Or maybe…
He was looking for me.
I feel a little burst of pleasure at this thought and then quickly dismiss it. I am not going to be so goddamned pathetic. Carlo's the owner, and Ingrid's the manager—of course they would need to meet once in a while. Still, it’s a little weird that he showed up so soon after I met him there, when he said he hadn't visited Windswept in a few months.
It’s been ten days since I last saw Carlo. But who’s counting, right?
No matter how much I might try to deny it...I am.
chapter ten ~ Carlo
I’ve been reading the same email over about fifteen times. For fuck’s sake, Leone, focus. Separate work from your personal life.
Easier said than done.
It’s been harder than I expected, staying away from Cassandra. For the past week, I’ve had to fight the urge to drive to Windswept on my way home. But all the waiting will—hopefully—pay off in the end.
I’ve been planning the next contact for days now, from the time and the place to what I’ll wear. I’ll go heavy on the innuendos, light on the physical contact—balancing the two always heightens the sexual tension. Not only is this necessary for the ultimate goal, but being in charge has become a necessity in my life. For me, there is no other way. I allowed myself—once—to be completely vulnerable with a woman, letting her in to every fiber of my being, every ounce of my soul...and in the aftermath, I learned what that could do to a person.
I can’t allow myself to get to that point again.
Back to the email. My fingers fly over the keyboard, the rhythmic clicking bringing me back into the present.
The door opens. Estelle Perry, my secretary, who has never knocked and never will. She’s in her sixties, hired by my stepfather, and has been with the company for thirty years. Everything about her trumpets no-nonsense, from her short gray hair to her pencil skirt and sensible black flats.
I like her immensely.
“Estelle.”
“Carlo. Good morning. Just double-checking to see if you okayed this expense for the Phillies game.”
I skim the receipt she hands me. “Yes. Judging from the refreshments, it looks like the boys enjoyed themselves.”
“They always do.” Estelle walks over to the Boston Fern on my windowsill and pokes a finger into the soil. “Are you watering this, or do I need to take over again?”
“I'm thinking you need to take over again. I keep forgetting it's there.”
“Perhaps if it had breasts.”
“Estelle. That's completely untrue. You know I'm more o
f an ass man.”
She frowns at me from behind her bright blue glasses. “You've seemed distracted lately. Is everything all right?”
“Everything is as it should be. But thanks for asking.”
Estelle opens her mouth, then closes it. I grin at her, and she clicks her tongue and sighs. She wants to say more, but she knows me.
A loud rapping on the door, and Brock enters. Estelle gives him a cool nod and takes the receipt off my desk. “I'll reimburse Jared.”
Brock and I watch her leave. He shakes his head, chuckling, as he closes the door behind her. “The woman fucking hates me. I don't get her.”
“She's an enigma. You're not supposed to get her.”
“She needs to get laid. And speaking of laid...are you making any progress?”
“I'd rather not divulge anything.”
Brock grins. “That would be a no, then.”
“Believe what you want.”
“I'm not meaning to brag here, buddy, but I've been texting mine—sexting, actually—it's gotten pretty hot. She's been more receptive than I thought. I even find myself needing to pull back a bit, because as you and I have found out, slow and steady wins the race.”
“We'll see how it all plays out.”
“Yes, we will. Do you have any interest in going for the same end result this time? Or would you rather just provide evidence and come to a mutual decision like we usually do?”
“The latter. That way, we can individualize and go as far as we're able.”
“All right. I have some ideas.”
“I'm sure you do. I hope your creativity extends to non-sexual endeavors...for example, our company.”
“Ha! Of course. I've been giving that some thought, too—the direction we may want to move in. I hear that Emory Valve is having some real problems making deliveries, so we need to get the sales force to work on their distributors...tell them we can fill all the orders.”
“Let's plan to have a break-out group at the sales meeting, and we can talk about this. I'd like to hear from all the regions and how we can capitalize on our competitors' misfortune.”