The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (The Wicked Horse Series)

by Sawyer Bennett

  Woolf shakes his head. “Not for me to say. But I’m just telling you… if he slides back into that closed-off person… have patience with him, okay?”

  “Of course I will,” I tell him reassuringly. “He knows I’ll accept whatever he can give me.”

  “Well, I hope that’s not true. I want you to push at him for more, but just be cognizant of the fact that he’s got a lot of years of being a certain way, and what you’re offering him is probably as terrifying as it is thrilling. Bridger’s happiest in his darkness, and while he might be enthralled by the light you’re casting, he’s going to be distrusting of it.”

  I turn back to look at Bridger, his smile even wider than it was minutes ago. My daughter secure in his arms. I see perhaps a future there in that paddock and wonder if I have the fortitude to grasp onto it.

  “What’s the best way I can help him?” I ask Woolf without taking my eyes off my daughter and the man who may be what dreams are made of.

  “Let him lead the way. Let him be in control. And don’t push him too hard.”

  “I can do that,” I say with resolve.

  “Even if it takes forever,” Woolf adds on.

  “Even if it takes forever,” I agree.

  The commitment is made. I’m in this for the long haul.

  Bridger continues to walk Lucy around the paddock, a few times even breaking into a little trot that caused Belle to shriek first in terror and then uncontrollable laughter. I almost shrieked too the first time he did it, but I luckily maintained my composure.

  Finally, Bridger walked the horse back through the gate and handed Belle down to Woolf, who sets her on his hip. She looks over his shoulder at me and exclaims, “Mommy… you see me on ho-sie?”

  “I did, baby,” I tell her with clear pride in my voice. “You were so brave, and that was amazing. Can you tell Bridger thank you?”

  Belle looks up to Bridger and says, “Tank you, Bwidg-uh.”

  “My pleasure, darlin’,” he says. He even tips his hat at her, and oh man… I swear my ovaries just combusted.

  Bridger turns his eyes to me and holds his hand down to me. “Come on. Your turn.”

  “What?” I ask, taking a step backward. “No way.”

  “Yes,” he says, snapping his fingers before holding his palm out again. “Get that gorgeous ass up here.”

  Woolf turns and walks away with my daughter, calling over his shoulder. “I’m going to take Belle up to the house. Callie will have lunch ready in about an hour.”

  I look at Woolf’s retreating back as he walks to Bridger’s truck and puts Belle back in her car seat. “But… but…”

  “Come on, Mags,” Bridger says in a low voice.

  I chew on my lip again, all the same fears I just had for Belle coming to the front of my mind. Except this time, it’s me I imagine falling off the horse and getting trampled to death. “I’m scared of horses.”

  “You’re scared of nothing,” Bridger says with a pointed look. “And I’ll go just as slow as I did with Belle. I promise.”

  With a pained sigh, I give him a nod and say, “Okay… how do I get up?”

  Bridger considers me for a moment before he dismounts. “I was going to just swing you up behind me, but now that I think about it, I’d rather have you in front of me. Means I get to wrap my arms around you.”

  Oh, swoon. Did he just say that?

  Now all of a sudden, I’m dying to get on that horse.

  Bridger comes up behind me and with hands to my waist, helps to lift me easily into the saddle. The horse stands completely still and then Bridger’s hauling himself up behind me. Two of us can’t really fit in the saddle so with an arm around my waist, he hoists me up a bit and sets me down right over his crotch.

  This, of course, makes me think lewd thoughts. They’re immediately driven away when Bridger clucks and taps the horse’s flanks with his boots, and the horse starts walking. My hands go to the saddle horn. I latch a death grip on it as Bridger leads the horse away from the paddock and onto a trail that starts on the far side of the barn. The Teton Mountains loom straight ahead with gray, craggy peaks covered in snow.

  Bridger chuckles and tightens his arm around my waist. “Ever been on a horse before, Mags?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. It wasn’t high on my bucket list.”

  “Well, try to relax. You’re stiff as a board.”

  I try to relax, but I can’t seem to remove the steel pole out of my spine. I try to concentrate on the sway of the horse so I can make sure I counter sway and maintain the best stability.

  “You need an orgasm,” Bridger whispers in my ear.

  “What? Huh?” I ask, startled, my hand gripping onto the saddle horn even tighter.

  “I was going to tell you to put on your jeans when you got dressed this morning, but I couldn’t resist the easy access these little stretchy pants you wear would provide,” he says, and then his hand is slipping down the front of said stretchy pants.

  “Bridger,” I hiss at him. “Stop. Someone might see us.”

  “So,” he says dismissively as his finger scrapes against my clit, but I know he’s being dismissive because my concern is ridiculous. There’s no one out here, and Woolf has already left with Belle.

  My head immediately falls back onto his shoulder, but I don’t give up my death grip on the saddle horn.

  “That’s it,” he urges me. “Just relax and let me make you feel good.”

  The tip of his finger dips into my pussy, which is flooded, and he pulls that wetness back up to my clit, rubbing in quick circles.

  Then comes the ear porn.

  “Wanted to do this last night,” he growls near my ear. “With my mouth. Wanted to lick this clit and suck you absolutely dry until you couldn’t possibly give me another orgasm. Then I’m pretty sure I was going to fuck you after and make you come again.”

  “Oh, God… just damn, Bridger,” I say in a complaining voice. “You are way too good at dirty talk.”

  He laughs darkly and flutters his finger over me faster. I give into the sensation, let the sun warm my face and I listen to his continued filthy talk while he finger fucks me to orgasm. It doesn’t take long and Lucy, God love her gentle soul, doesn’t even flinch when I scream out my release.

  Bridger pulls his hand out of my pants and licks it clean. All I can do is lean back into him, utterly relaxed and ready to enjoy the rest of the ride.

  We’re silent for a moment, but because I’m feeling so mellow and Bridger’s in such a good mood, I ask him, “So last night… it was good?”

  “You mean am I good after coming in your mouth?” he asks, and I don’t miss the humor in his voice.

  “Something like that,” I mutter.

  “I’m good, Mags,” is all he says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

  So I push forward with another question that’s been eating at me. “The tattoo… the birds on your torso. Those have special meaning?”

  “They do,” he says, but then nothing more.

  “Will you share the meaning?” I ask hesitantly, fearing his rejection.

  It comes swiftly and simply. “Nope.”

  That should be enough to dissuade me from trying further intimate conversation, but I’m not going to give up. I promised Woolf I wouldn’t, and I’d rather not wait for “forever” to break through to him completely.

  “Then tell me about The Silo. Why did you open a sex club?”

  I hold my breath and brace myself for his rejection. He’s silent for a long moment but finally, he takes in a deep breath. When it’s released, he says, “You already know I’ve got some screwed-up ideas when it comes to sex, so I guess the easiest way to explain The Silo is that it’s able to sort of bring order to my thoughts about sex.”

  “Like how?”

  “The Silo is about freedom. About doing things that make you feel good with no guilt or shame. It’s about expressing desires, passion, and lust, and doing it in a way that lets you sleep soundly at night because the
re’s no judgment.”

  “Have you been judged?” I hazard a tentative guess.

  “Not for expressing my sexuality,” he responds confidently.

  “Ashamed?” I whisper.

  “Every fucking day,” he says.

  I sit straight up because I’m so stunned. Craning my head to look at him, forgetting my fear of falling, I ask him, “Why? Why would you ever be ashamed?”

  His eyes bore into me, and I immediately regret asking him such a personal question. I expect him to tell me to mind my own fucking business, but he doesn’t.

  But he also doesn’t answer my question.

  Instead, he asks one of his own, “Would you ever go to The Silo with me? You know… after this shit with Zeke gets sorted?”

  “Sure,” I say with a quaking voice as I turn around and face forward again. But the thought of going to a sex club terrifies me. I’m terrified of what I’ll see… namely that Bridger might like the things that go on there better than he likes just plain old sex with me.

  “Would you let me fuck you in The Silo?” he presses me, arm tightening around me again. “In front of all those people?”

  “I… I…” The words won’t come out, lodged deep in my throat.

  But he moves on, and I’m starting to understand he’s trying to make a point to me.

  “Would you let me lock you in a stockade, fuck you in front of everyone, and then invite all my friends to come and do the same?”

  My stomach rolls.

  “Or maybe I can put you on my St. Andrew’s cross, and I can stripe your skin with a whip? How about that, Mags? Would you let me do that?”

  “Bridger,” I say with dismay.

  He growls low in his throat and puts his lips near my ear, causing a shudder born of fear and anxiety to ripple through me.

  “I’m ashamed, Mags,” he murmurs in my ear. “Ashamed because I want to do all those things to you, and I want you to love it. I’m ashamed because I want those things, and I know you can’t ever give them to me because they’d cause shame in you. And mostly, sweet Maggie, I’m ashamed that I’m even torturing you with this, because when it boils right down to it, I’ll never act on these desires. You and I are just too different, so it’s all moot.”

  “No,” I automatically say in denial, because I don’t want to believe we can’t have common ground even though what he wants to do to me is beyond my comprehension at this point. “I could try.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to try, Mags,” he tells me with brutal honesty. “I’d want you to beg for it.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask him with a hard edge to my voice. “Truthfully, Bridger… why are you saying these things?”

  “Because, babe,” he says before nipping my ear. “I’m trying to make you see that while I’m enjoying you immensely right now, The Silo is my life. It’s how I survive, and that makes us too different in the long run.”

  Chapter 19

  Bridger

  I add a little more chili powder as well as some cumin and give the chili a stir. I’d put the pot on not long after we got back from Woolf’s, figuring that would feed us for a few days. Of course, Belle wouldn’t eat it as I’ve figured out she’s a picky little eater. So the fridge is stocked with some deli turkey, yogurt, and raspberries, three things that she can apparently eat for every meal.

  My eyes keep flicking down the hallway to Maggie and Belle’s room. Maggie had put Belle down for a nap over an hour ago and had lain down beside her for a bit. When I went to check on them a few minutes ago, I saw Maggie was fast asleep.

  I watched her like a certified creeper for a few minutes, my heart torn in a million different directions while my mind kept interjecting its own opinions.

  I want Maggie like I’ve never wanted another woman. I want her so bad my teeth hurt, and I’d probably give my right nut for her. But fuck if I wasn’t telling her the truth today… in the long run, we’re too different.

  Or rather, I’m too fucked up to ever really have a chance at a normal relationship. I might have gotten past a sexual hang-up by coming in her mouth, and I want to come in other places in her body too, but that’s all it is. A hang-up.

  Poor Maggie would still have to deal with my entire fucked-up state of mind. That’s just not something that’s solved with an orgasm in the right place. Coming in her mouth, her pussy, or her ass if she gives it to me isn’t going to stop me thinking about my stepmom every day. I think about the things she did to me and how I caved to those things on a daily fucking basis. They are a part of me. The shame is a part of me. The nightmares are a part of me.

  Just like The Silo is a part of me. I need The Silo like I need air. I need that place to constantly remind me that sex is good and real and should be enjoyed. I might not partake in much fucking that goes on there, but I need the existence of it to ground me. I need it to help ease the shame that seems to be immersed into my very skin.

  Why did I say those things to her today?

  I could easily blame it on her and the way she pushed at me for personal information, but truth be told, I knew I had to say those things to her when I was giving Belle a ride on the horse. I happened to glance over at Woolf and Maggie as they stood at the fence and watched us, and I knew they were talking about me. I know Woolf well enough to know he was probably giving her advice on how to handle me, and what I saw in Maggie’s eyes about slayed me.

  I saw hope and determination, and I knew Woolf was egging it on too.

  So I had to say those things so I could keep her expectations realistic and hopefully cut down on some of the hurt when she realized her ultimate efforts would be futile against someone as twisted as me. I did it because I wanted to save her pain and humiliation, two emotions I’ve felt plenty in my lifetime and would never wish on her.

  But mostly I said those things so I could ground myself. I need a reminder that I couldn’t let things get out of control with her. I had to temper this insane need I seem to have for Maggie with the brutal truth that I ultimately don’t deserve her brand of beauty and light.

  I hope I have her on track.

  I feel like I’m back on track.

  Doesn’t mean I’m still not going to have her though. I told her today, as we rode the horse up to Woolf’s front porch, that while we were too different for the long run, I was by no means finished with her yet. Because I’m not. Not ready to give her up until I’ve had my fill of her, and that’s the Bridger Payne who’s the selfish bastard coming out to play.

  But at least expectations are clear and my line has been drawn in the sand. I’ll just have to tread carefully with her heart and make sure I never forget who I truly am.

  I put the lid back on the chili pot, set the spoon down in the sink, and turn to the fridge for a beer.

  But then my body freezes as I hear a low rumble of what sounds like thunder at first.

  Then I realize it’s not thunder—it’s motorcycles. Harleys to be exact, and my blood pressure spikes. I run through the living room, peer out the front blinds, and count three Harleys coming down the driveway, kicking up a slight blowing of dust that’s settled over the pavement. Leading the trio is unmistakably Zeke Powell, President of Mayhem’s Mission.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I quickly turn the stove off and haul ass through the living room to the hallway. Maggie meets me, holding Belle in her arms with a look of utter fear on her face. “My bedroom. Now.”

  Maggie turns and flees into my room with me hot on her heels. I go to the gun cabinet and unlock it, pulling down a shotgun. I quickly load two shells, cock it, and hand it to her. “Get in the bathroom. If anyone comes through that door that’s not me, you shoot first and ask questions later, okay?”

  She nods furiously in agreement, and I see a determined gleam in her eye. It’s of a mother protecting her daughter and I know if Zeke makes it past me, Maggie sure as shit isn’t going to let him get his hands on Belle.

  Reaching back into the cabinet, I pull out a pistol and quickly
slam in a cartridge. I pull the slide back and chamber a round before tucking it into my waistband at my back. I turn toward my bedroom door, but Maggie calls, “Bridger.”

  I turn to her and she whispers, “Please be careful.”

  “I will,” I tell her. Then I race down the hallway and through the living room. I can hear the bikes come to a stop and the engines cut, making the air heavy with the silence. I take a deep breath, let it out, and open the door to step out on my front porch.

  Zeke dismounts his bike and removes his sunglasses, hanging them from the collar of his black t-shirt. The other two guys, who I recognize from the club but don’t know their names, remain on their bikes.

  Zeke walks to the bottom of the porch and looks up at me. “Bridger.”

  “Zeke,” I say in acknowledgment. “What can I do for you?”

  He looks off to the side of my yard, taking in the work shed before turning back to me. “Looking for Kyle… seen him around?”

  “Nope,” I say and it rings with truth because it is the truth.

  “Kayla seems to think you’re pretty buddy-buddy with him,” Zeke says as if he’s just attempting some casual conversation with me, but I don’t buy it for a second.

  “No more than I am with you,” I tell him.

  Zeke nods, glances back at the two other bikers, and then raises a booted foot to rest it on the bottom porch step as he looks back up at me. “Something was taken from me… something very precious, and it seems that maybe Kyle had a hand in it.”

  My fucking stomach cramps and sweat breaks out on my forehead. Still, I try to keep a level voice when I say, “Got nothing to do with me.”

  “Kayla says you were in a fairly private conversation with Kyle the other night at the compound,” Zeke says, his eyes boring into me with cold calculation.

  “I shared a joint with him on my way out to my car, Zeke,” I say with annoyance. “Would have done the same with you if you’d been there.”

  He makes a low hum in his throat and gives me a tight smile. I’m not sure if he’s buying my shit or not, but I’m tensed and ready for a battle if need be.