by Dani Wyatt
“Yes, I know. I’ve read everything I could about you over the years. I’m sorry about your injury. You were a great competitor, one of the best. I still can’t believe you are going to train me.”
Her voice turns sad and I’m suddenly very aware of the way I lean to the right, taking the pressure off my crippled left leg.
“We all have injuries, Constance, and we all need to decide how much they will affect our lives. My injury turned my life in a new direction is all. And now I do what I do and help other people and horses, and that is more satisfying than any trophy or ribbon I’ve ever won.”
We spend the next two hours moving slowly, walking Ruby around the arena on a lead rope. I have Constance start and stop without verbal cues, one hand always on Ruby’s shoulder, communicating what she expects simply with the calm energy that flows through her body.
It’s a stunning sight. I step back, taking in the majesty of them both. Constance is soft and small next to the hard, sleek power of the magnificent horse. It will take time, weeks maybe, before I put her on Ruby’s back again. But they will be far more bonded under my care than they ever were before.
I can promise that.
From watching them today, I’m more sure than ever that something is hinky with what happened at the show. Even with her injury and the trauma she went through, Ruby is a gentle giant, curling her nose around to nuzzle at Constance, asking for her approval, her acceptance.
I put them through some ground exercises that helps re-build their bond, and before long I know that this is not a horse that would just lose control and go against her rider’s commands for no reason. She wouldn’t do anything to put Constance in danger.
“Great work. Let’s get her back in her stall. You both deserve some TLC.”
I watch Constance guide Ruby down the long hall of the stable with stalls on either side. One of my grooms meets her and she hands off Ruby, who will get a nice cool hose down, a thorough grooming, and then grain and hay for the night.
The sun is hitting the horizon as I look out the open doors of the arena toward the houses. My belly flips trying to decide if I can keep myself from her tonight.
Parts of my body answer immediately, my heart being one of them. I’ve never wanted to have a woman the way I want to have her. I want to love her with all of me. I don’t just want to have sex with her; I want to mate with her. Bond with her. Own her and taste her and mark her so that she knows she will never be apart from me again.
It’s crazy, but it’s those thoughts that are running through my brain over and over, barely making room for any other civilized thoughts.
I fight that inner monster as Constance approaches.
“Great work.” That foreign full smile breaks over my face again. I think I need to get used to this new look because around her, I’m like a kid in a candy store.
“I just walked her around.” She shrugs off my compliment. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I disagree. You did more than you can imagine. You will learn to listen in new ways, to see what I see. Ruby was talking to you that entire time and you were talking to her. It was a beautiful dance and trust me, you did a great job.”
I swallow, wanting to tell her more, tell her how beautiful her tits are, how I can’t keep my eyes from tracing down her curves to that magical triangle between her legs that screams my name.
“Come on. You must be starving.” Taking care of her means all of her and she needs nourishment.
“I am hungry. Hospital food for even a day has left me with a knot in my stomach.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve arranged for the kitchen to prepare a private buffet for us at my house. How does that sound?”
“Just call me Pavlov’s Dog.” I watch her swallow and jut her chin out playfully, and I’m stuck on the way she plays with the horseshoe pendant which dangles just at the top of her cleavage. I want to carry her off, pin her against the wall...
But I’m not even sure that I can. Physically, I mean.
A flash of embarrassment flushes over me. I know how to work with my leg in my regular daily tasks, but what if I want to lift her up, clutch at her around my waist? Will my leg hold? I hate the doubt that stabs in my heart. I want to give her everything she deserves, and I’ve never tested my leg in the ways I want to test it with her.
I’ve made peace with the constant pain. The limitations of my physical disability. But this? Can I be the man she needs? The man she deserves?
I push away the insecurity. The ways she turns me on are making me crazy – every little movement of her hands, the rise and fall of her chest. She brushes her hands down the fronts of her thighs, her britches showing off every contour and curve. She stomps the dust from her tall black boots and every movement is like magic.
“Let’s go. I’ll drop you at your place so you can change and clean up if you like. I’ll be back over in an hour to pick you up.”
“Pick me up? I’m like next door. I can just walk over.” She steps closer to me and my heart skips a beat.
We fall into step down the hallway of the barn. The sound of my cane tapping on the cement under our feet seems louder than usual.
“No. You will not just walk over. You deserve to be escorted. Just come out on the porch when you’re ready. I’ll be there waiting. The first time you come into my house, I want you to be on my arm. Call me old-fashioned.”
I want you to call me a lot of things, but we can start with old-fashioned.
Her cheeks brim with a blush and my dick jerks upward. I step forward to open the passenger door on my pick-up. It’s an old Ford 1976 two-tone brown classic, and I’ve had it since I was sixteen. I named her Brown Sugar back then. She’s what I drive around the farm, but I keep her immaculate, like new. I don’t believe when something breaks you throw it away. This old truck has been with me for a long time, and I take care of what’s mine.
Constance
I toss a pair of black skinny jeans on the floor and stomp on them. I start grabbing at the other articles of clothing.
“Stupid. Stupid. Dumb. Doesn’t even fit. Why did I bring it? Ugh.”
It looks like my suitcase has vomited all over the floor of the bedroom in my little guesthouse. Everything I pull out to wear over to dinner is stupid. I’m a horrible packer. When I got home from the hospital, I was in such a hurry, I don’t even think I brought underwear. Which is a problem because the pair I have on is shot thanks to the close proximity to Reed over the last few hours.
I walk back into the bathroom in a huff. The place is neat and cozy. The bathroom is all white, with a classic marble sink and shower. The fixtures are original but kept like new. Already it feels like home. Someplace that is mine, even though it really isn’t, but I pretend for a moment. I’ve dreamed of moving out of my parents’ place for the last year, feeling free like I do now.
I rub a pie-sized clear spot on the steamy bathroom mirror, then pin my hair up. I don’t own much make-up, but I manage to stroke some mascara on my lashes without getting it all over the place and I have some sheer pink lip gloss, so I give that a spin across my lips.
Images of Reed’s steel-gray eyes and the way they make me feel like he’s touching me wherever they land play over and over in my mind. He may have just become my trainer, but it’s still a position of authority and he’s like an icon in this world. To have him as my own private trainer is a dream come true, let alone have him show interest in me beyond that capacity.
I just hope he’s not one that beds every young, wide-eyed hopeful that comes his way. That thought hadn’t really crossed my mind until now, but now that it’s here, my stomach sinks to my toes.
What if I’m just a conquest? I mean, look at him. Not just how he looks but who he is. Riders from all over the world would give almost anything to be under his tutelage. Why me? I’m not even a real professional. And look at me, I’m all filled out, more than most of the female riders anyway. They keep themselves lean and willowy, while I’m more sturdy
Oak.
I pull on the only skirt I brought that fits and I don’t hate. Why do I pack things I know are too tight? I have this miracle hope that just because I want something to fit suddenly it will.
Besides my riding britches, I’m normally a skirt girl, mainly because finding jeans and slacks that fit me right has been a nightmare since my body decided to puff out above and below the waist. I button the sea-foam green, lace skirt at my back and reach over into the chaotic mass of clothes on the bed, deciding on a simple sleeveless, high-neck ivory sweater, and slip on a pair of low-slung wedges.
I don’t want to look too eager. But I don’t want to frump around in my britches and polo either.
I groan with one more look in the mirror. I peeked out onto the front porch of the small house a half hour ago and Reed was standing there already. Tall and straight, his cane centered in front of his massive form, hands layered on each other and his fresh-shaved face calm and distinguished. The sight of his square jaw and intense features made me flush with sweat. So I tiptoed back into the bathroom for another quick hop in the shower.
That’s the other thing, our age. He’s at least ten years older than me, but unlike most girls my age, I find him far more attractive than the boys that fumble around with their false bravado and overexcited sexual innuendo.
I gulp down my nerves, make my way to the front door and twist the knob. As soon as the door opens a few inches and he sees me, a visible quiver shakes his wide shoulders and I see him draw in a sharp breath and grip his cane until his knuckles turn white.
“I’m ready.” I shut the door behind me. I’m not sure what to do with my hands. They feel like dead fish hanging at my sides so I cross my arms over my chest.
“So am I,” he says, extending his bent arm for me to latch on. He’s so formal, it’s comforting. “Shall we?”
Yes. Yes we shall.
C H A P T E R E I G H T
Reed
Every move I make matters. My brain spins trying to keep up.
I’m calculating every shift of my weight, every brush my fingertips make against her clothing. Panic spikes inside me as I draw a breath full of her. Leaning down just an inch from her hair, pulling her scent inside of me, my body ripples with need. Not want. Not desire.
Need. The clenching, painful kind.
The best kind.
As we step into the dining room of my house, the candlelight covers her cheeks, and I love the quick smile she fights to hide.
“Wow. This is so beautiful. And you weren’t kidding when you said a buffet.” The smiles breaks over her lips, then takes her face and her eyes like a wave meeting the shore.
The catering kitchen at the club house followed my exact orders. The smells of warm food, vanilla candles, and the white roses that fill two giant vases at each end of the serving table circle and drift around the room.
I didn’t know what she likes to eat, so I made sure there was a selection of vegetables, salads, fingerling potatoes, filet, and I also threw in some chicken strips and hand-cut French fries.
“Let’s eat. You must be starving.” It’s nearly 7:00 p.m. and she mentioned she hadn’t eaten anything but hospital food in the last twenty-four hours. That thought makes me unsettled, her being left wanting isn’t right.
My hand falls to the small of her back, barely touching the cream colored fabric of her sweater steering her toward the food. The soft connection rockets through me like an electric jolt.
The dining room is set for two. I instructed the staff to remove the usual long table that seats twenty and replace it with a round mahogany pedestal table that has been here with the house since it was built in 1912.
There are at least eighty-four candles lit, because that was all I could find, but I told the staff if they could find more to bring them and light them when they set up the food, and from the glow around the room, they had done just that.
The display of food is lined up in an elegant display, high and low bowls and platters neatly placed. The picture would rival any Martha Stewart dinner party.
I watch as Constance tentatively takes a plate from the beginning of the buffet, licking her lips, and I think of how she tasted when I’d kissed her earlier.
I showered quickly after I’d settled her in the guesthouse. Ice cold. Still, my cock would not retreat. I considered stroking off just to get some relief, but something inside me has changed. When I cum next, I want it to be inside her. I need it to be inside her. So as long as it takes for that to happen, I’ll and suffer blue balls until she’s ready.
When she is ready, she’d better be ready though. I may blow her right off my dick when it happens. The pressure I’m feeling from below is nearing a dangerous level.
She considers the steaming food and reaches for the platter of fried chicken strips first, then her hand freezes in mid-air and instead she side-steps toward the steamed broccoli, heaping two spoonfuls onto her plate.
I narrow my eyes when she bypasses the homemade mac and cheese and the garlic, red-skin mashed potatoes to pinch a tong full of spinach salad and drop it next to the other green mound on her plate.
“You know what?” I lick my lips and tighten them against my teeth. I’m pissed but not at her. “I’m not being a gentleman. I’m sorry. You should sit, and let me make your plate. You’re my guest and I should serve you.”
I pinch her plate in my fingers, taking it from her, gentle but insistent. Her eyes go wide, one eyebrow arches and the crinkle of her nose makes me want to kiss her freckles.
“But, I had it all ready. Besides, I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
“Uh huh. What you have on that plate is ready for the rabbits. Come here, sit.”
I guide her to the table with my hand gently in that perfect curve of her back, pull out her chair until she tentatively lowers herself to sit her hands gliding under her legs, smoothing her skirt in place.
Once she’s seated, she folds her hands in her lap, I move back to the buffet, settle my cane against the table and use both hands to work two plates down the line of home-cooked decadence.
I am able to walk without my cane, it just takes more concentration So making my way back over to the table where she is sitting, cautiously eyeing me, I’m intent on every step lest my knee give out and she’ll be wearing the food instead of eating it.
“There. Now, you can eat what you want, but you’re not going to sit here and eat the two green things when there is all this other heavenly comfort food I had prepared for you.”
“No way can I eat all that.” She smiles but I see the relief in her eyes.
“We will see.”
I sit across from her, my plate piled with the exact same choices as I brought to her. The fried chicken of course, the mac and cheese, a little broccoli, to which I added the cheese sauce, mashed potatoes and two homemade rolls cut open and stuffed with butter.
I’ll admit, watching her eat only makes me hungrier, because despite the food piled on my plate, nourishment is not what my mouth wants right now. I want her planted on my face. That’s going to be my kind of comfort food.
“This is so good.” Constance finally relaxes, her shoulders drop and her words fill with deep enjoyment.
“Yes. They can cook. You need to eat. I need you strong. But more than that...” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “...you’re beautiful. If you lose a pound I’d be heartbroken. Because that’s less of you for me to enjoy.”
Her fork hangs in mid-air along with my words. My muscles tense, I may have gone too far too fast.
When she bites on the inside of her lip trying to keep her smile at bay, heat covers me. The rise of crimson in her cheeks and the flicker of fire behind her sapphire eyes tells me all I need to know.
“I’d like for you to show me just how you would enjoy me.” She places her fork on the edge of her plate, licks her bottom lip. She dabs at her mouth with her napkin and finally raises her eyes to meet mine in a direct challenge.
For a split
second, I wonder if I even knows all the things I want to do to her, but just as quickly that thought is gone because the explicit details of all those things are playing over and over in my mind on a loop.
“Don’t tempt me, Constance.” My heart has never beat so fast. Not in any competition, not when I got hurt. I’m light-headed and the thundering desire ripping through me tells me I need to warn her. “I want you. Not in a one-night-let’s-see-how-it-goes sort of way. I want you in an I’m-afraid-I-might-hurt-you way, because gentle may not be possible and I may never let you go.”
Her eyelashes flutter over the pools of blue where I’m drowning, and I see the wheels cranking in her head. I’ve ceased to breathe because I’m not sure, even if she pulled back right now, I would be able to keep my seat or let her walk out that door without throwing her down and watching her grab on to anything within reach, trying to keep me from thrusting her straight into the floor.
I take the risk, pushing up on the edge of the table, a fleeting thought of my cane left leaning on the buffet table. But rational thought has left me.
In the next second, I’m leaning down. My lips capture hers and I’m gone. The first moment I laid my eyes on her spins through me, realizing in this instant that it is a defining moment in my life. Call me crazy, but everything up until this moment was in preparation for her and I only hope she feels a fraction of what I do right now.
Her breathy sounds add fire to the burning need in my core. Wanting like this is new to me and I’m not even sure what to do with the feelings she is conjuring.
My teeth click against hers as our kiss gains traction. I follow her shoulders with my fingertips down her arms, memorizing the journey lower until I’ve got both her hands in mine, pulling her upward, my lips still pinned to hers. When I have her standing, I break our kiss so I can see her face, settling her hands on my shoulders, then taking her neck in mine.
I give her a moment to catch her breath, but I want that sweet warmth on my cheek. I can’t let her go far. I rub my thumbs over the silky skin under her jaw, my fingers caressing the back of her neck. I want her secured in my grasp, held here with me. I don’t think she’ll run, but I need to be sure.