by K. Rowe
“Yes, that’s correct. Tom’s taking his time with the colt.”
“I do not wish to sound forward, but before I became a jockey, my specialty was breaking horses. I’ve started probably a thousand under saddle—some quite difficult.”
He shook his head. “No, out of the question. I can’t afford to have you hurt. There’s a race meet coming up in a few weeks, and I need you fit to ride.”
“But—”
“No buts. I need you to get familiar with Ziggy, Chase, and Beau. You’ll be riding them in the Charles Town races. There’s a big stakes in the middle of June.”
She studied him for a moment, seeing the unyielding expression on his face. “Oui, Monsieur.”
“I know you’d like to help, but War Monger’s a dangerous horse. Tom and the lads are treating him with kid gloves, hoping he’ll come around and be a good runner.”
“May I at least watch his training?”
“From outside the round pen, yes.”
“Thank you.” She nodded. “I suppose I shall go home and…uh, as you say ‘hit the hay’ since I’ll have an early morning tomorrow.” Rising from her chair, she headed to the door.
Evan got up. “I’ll see you out.”
Ginger saw the expression on Suzanne’s face. “No, Monsieur, that is not necessary. I can find my way out…Thank you for a lovely evening, and an excellent dinner…Good-night.”
She left the house, walking back in the near darkness. Along the way she saw Tom checking on the horses. She stopped to talk to him. “Good evening, Tom,” she said awkwardly.
He looked particularly handsome wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. His muscular arms and chest stretched the thin cotton material, showing all his masculine curves and cuts. He may not have been a jockey anymore, but he kept himself in amazing condition.
From her limited interaction with him that day, she found him to be decisive, and quick of wit. As a jockey, Ginger knew what she liked. And she liked her horses and her men fast.
“Oh, hello,” he replied, surprised to see her. She still wore her pale tan dress. His mind began to wander, wondering what was under it.
“Doing evening rounds?”
“Uh, umm, yeah…And checking on Wanderer.”
She leaned against one of the posts supporting the roof. “How is he?”
“Tito’s been doing two poultices a day, and it seems to be helping.”
“Good, good,” she said softly. “Are you almost done?”
“Couple more minutes.”
“Ah…Uh, would you like to join me in the house? I have a nice bottle of wine I brought from Canada.” A pleasurable tingle worked its way through her abdomen and headed between her thighs.
He studied her for a moment. The expression on her face seemed quite different than earlier in the day. “Sure, I’d like that.”
“Bon je vous voir bientôt,” she said in a rather seductive tone. Tom had no clue what she’d just said, but it sounded like a wonderful invitation. He watched her head to the house.
Finishing his nightly checks, he wandered over and knocked on her door. Jolts of excitement shot through his body when she appeared in the doorway.
“Come in,” Ginger said, holding the door wide for him.
“Thanks.”
She led him to the kitchen. There were only a few lights on in the house; most of it remained shrouded in darkness. “I hope you like red wine.” She took the bottle from a cabinet and grabbed two glasses.
“Yes, actually I do. There’s a winery not far from here, I visit them on occasion.” He sat down at the small farmhouse table.
Ginger dug around in a drawer, finding a corkscrew. With deft precision, she opened the bottle. Giving the wine a little sniff, she poured it into the glasses. “This wine comes from my area of Toronto.”
Tom lifted the glass, took in the wine’s heady aroma, and had a sip. “Nice, very nice.” He took another, longer drink. “I didn’t think grapes could grow way up there.”
“They do, but only the strong survive.” She sat down across from him.
“I’ve always heard you Canucks were a tough breed.”
She smiled. “Oh, we are. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside.”
He chuckled. “Really?”
“Do I not look tough?”
“No, not in the slightest. You look like a beautiful porcelain doll.”
“I do not!” she protested.
“I beg to differ. You have all the grooms’ tongues wagging.”
She leaned forward. “Do I have your tongue wagging?”
Tom was rather surprised at her forwardness. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t.” He felt the discomfort returning to his jeans.
“I like you, Tom Christmas.” She leaned even farther forward.
“But we only just met.”
“Does it matter? The life of a jockey can be over in the blink of an eye.”
“Well, yes, you’re right on that one. I’ve seen a jock go down and not get back up.”
“You see my meaning.” She rose from the chair and went around to him. “Do you like fast things?”
“I’m a guy, of course.” He barely managed to finish his statement before Ginger shot forward and caught his lips.
All day as she unpacked, she’d been thinking about him. At her height, there was no point going for tall, dark, and handsome men. Yes, Evan was quite a looker, but his loyalty lay with his wife, and Ginger respected that. But Tom seemed to be available, and his smaller stature most definitely appealed to her. Everything about him was firm and masculine.
She kissed him hard, then drew away slightly. Tom was momentarily stunned by her actions. “Whoa,” he said with a gasp.
“You did not like that?”
“I liked it, just wasn’t ready for it so soon.”
Ginger reached past his shoulders, grabbed the back of the chair, and with her strength, pivoted the chair partly away from the table. Tom marveled at her power.
Without a word, she pulled up the sides of her dress and straddled his lap. “I told you, I like you, Tom Christmas. And I’m not a woman to wait for things.” She caught his lips again, almost devouring them with kisses. He opened his mouth slightly, her tongue happily invaded.
This can’t be happening, he thought, feeling the material of his jeans getting damned uncomfortable. He knew she could feel it, in fact, she let her hips rock forward to come in closer contact with him. Tom gasped, it’d been quite a long time since he’d been with a woman. Horses, training, and racing pretty much took up his life. Now he had a woman throwing herself at him, and he felt uneasy.
Her hand wandered down and caressed the fullness cramping up in his jeans. He grunted, it felt so good, but yet so wrong. She’d only arrived today, and now she was seducing him.
“Baisez-moi, maintenant,” she said in between kisses.
“What?” he barely managed.
In the softest of whispers, she uttered: “Fuck me, now.”
He pulled away. “Ginger!”
She grabbed his shirt. “I like you.” Her hand gave his crotch a firm caress. “You like me, so what’s to argue?”
“I’d argue that we’ve just met.”
“So? We’ll get to know each other later.” She worked harder on his taut blue jeans. He moaned and realized it was a losing argument.
With both hands, Ginger fought to get in his pants. She yanked at the top button, and when it finally gave, she worked the zipper down. Tom still couldn’t believe her actions. It seemed she’d let out the wild animal inside, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until thoroughly serviced.
She dove her hands into his underwear, feeling the fullness of his arousal. He gasped, knowing what needed to be done, but his own gentlemanly restraint prevented it.
Ginger had him in her hand, moving up and down with purpose. Her own body ached to be filled. Reaching under her dress, she grabbed the sides of her panties. Standing up only briefly, she quickly pulled them off.
<
br /> Returning to her position on his lap, she reclaimed his lips. Tom felt her hot, wet skin against him; it was utter torture. The throbbing of his discomfort made it even worse. She was nearly raping him and he wanted her in the worst way. “Ginger,” he managed to grunt between kisses.
She drew back. “What?”
“I…I…want you, but I don’t have any…” His sentence was cut short as she attacked his lips again.
After a few moments, she paused. “I’ve been on the pill a long time.”
“Are you sure you want this?” He just couldn’t believe the situation he found himself in.
Rising up, she reached down and guided him into her depths, his ample endowment filling her to utter comfort.
Tom moaned loudly; his own animal instinct winning the battle over his mind. He grabbed the sides of her dress and pulled her down as far as she could go, sinking deep into her. Ginger gasped and giggled; this is what she’d wanted all day. Tom Christmas was exactly her kind of man. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she began to move.
Tom fought every emotion racing through his head. He had a beautiful woman astride him, sitting him like a coursing Thoroughbred, and there was no way he could come too early. Biting his tongue, biting his cheek, it didn’t matter, he had to hold off.
He closed his eyes and fought. The tension built in his body, he could feel Ginger tensing as well. She had her head back, mouth open, riding him as if they were heading down the homestretch. His mind momentarily snapped back—thank God she doesn’t have a whip, he mused.
As her pelvis pounded against him, Tom continued his fight for control. He decided he wanted to take charge. Wrapping his arms around her back, he got his legs under himself and stood. Ginger laughed and coiled her legs around him.
Turning slightly, he laid her down roughly on the table. She laughed more, apparently not fazed by his move for domination. He grabbed her dress, hiking it up as far as he could. The rest of her skin was just as pale as her porcelain face. With all restraint going out the window, Tom unleashed the animal inside. His body ramming home, his strokes coming like a piston, he was in control now.
Ginger moaned and laughed, her body willingly accepting what he gave. Reaching over, she grabbed his glass of wine and had a swallow. Dunking her finger in the glass, she smeared it across his lips. Tom licked up the wine, tasting the sharp tang of the grapes. Tom couldn’t believe what was going on, his mind argued every moment for control. She’d only arrived that day, and now he was fucking the living hell out of the new jockey.
Life could be so strange, he thought, giving more to his thrusts. It wouldn’t be long, he knew it. Looking down, he saw Ginger. Her eyes were closed, mouth open, and veins rising on her neck. Oh, she was close too. Her muscles clamped down on him, squeezing with delicious intensity. A little more, a little harder, he continued; his own breaking point mere seconds away.
She cried out, not terribly loud, but to Tom, he thought the whole world would hear. Her body shook with climax. That was all it took. Plunging deep into her, he came. A low growl escaped his throat, his body tensed so tight he thought it would lapse into painful spasms. He grunted, finishing with a few slow strokes. His t-shirt clung to his back, now covered in sweat. Dear God, what had they just done?
7
Tom awoke the next morning, but didn’t immediately open his eyes. He wasn’t sure where he was. Did last night really happen? Or perhaps, it all happened in his mind. His mother used to say he had a vivid imagination; but that vivid? No way! Keeping his eyes closed, he reached down and felt himself. Sore. That meant one of two things: he really did fuck the jockey or he spent most of the night dreaming and getting off to the thought.
Finally opening his eyes, he looked around and saw he was in his own bedroom. No, it happened, he felt fairly confident of that. Oh, and what if Evan found out? The boss would probably throw a shit-fit. Best friends or not, there were some things you just didn’t do, and Tom figured laying the jockey the first day they met was one of them. He tucked his arms behind his head and thought about it for a few moments.
But Ginger jumped him, so if anything, she should get in trouble. Although, he was a willing participant, so double jeopardy could be used on that one.
He crawled out of bed, went to the bathroom, and took a quick shower. After dressing, he headed downstairs. Tom wondered if the rest of the guys knew what happened last night. He hoped not.
“Morning,” he said as he tromped into the kitchen and grabbed his coffee cup.
“Good morning,” the threesome replied. Not another word came from them. Tom poured some coffee and joined them at the table. To him, it seemed like just another day. As they settled into eating breakfast, there was the usual small talk of horses and the training schedule. So far, so good, he thought, taking a piece of toast and buttering it.
“Hey, boss?” Tito said with a mouthful of egg. “You want me to walk and poultice Wanderer again today?”
“Yes, please. His leg’s looking much better.”
“Okay.”
Bradley rested his casted arm on the table. “What’s on tap for War Monger?”
“Well, we’ll see. If he’s good with the bridle, maybe we can try the saddle again today.”
“Anyone laying over?” Manuel asked.
“No, not yet. He still needs time.” Tom chomped on his toast, finished his coffee, and went out to the barn. The whole place erupted in a cacophony of whinnies as the horses called for their breakfast.
“Okay, okay, hang on, it’s coming,” he said, quickly hanging hay nets and dumping grain into buckets. A few minutes later, the grooms showed up and jumped in to help. Soon the barn fell silent, only the content sound of horses munching and slurping on their grain could be heard.
Tom opened the door to the office and went in. He stood looking at the training schedule for the day. As if by magic, Ginger appeared. She was dressed to ride. “Monsieur,” she said in a coldly professional tone.
“Hello,” he replied, matching her coldness.
“Who am I to ride today?”
He traced his finger on the board. Tom still couldn’t believe what happened last night. “Start out with Ziggy.”
“Very well.” She disappeared.
Taking a seat behind the desk, he analyzed Ginger’s attitude toward him. Had she done this sort of thing before? Did she have a track record with behavior like this? She was a female jockey living in a testosterone charged world, seeking to show her position over men. It seemed plausible. Or did she genuinely take a fancy to him? He didn’t know, but he figured he should find out.
After half an hour of paper shuffling, Tom figured it was time to saddle up and get to work. He went next-door to the tack room and grabbed an old English saddle and a bridle.
Going to Rusty’s stall, he made sure the horse had finished breakfast. “Okay, ol’ boy, time to go to work.” Picking up a brush, he gave the horse a good going over, checking for any signs of injury. Then he took the saddlecloth and laid it over the horse’s back, smoothing it out; next, the saddle, and bridle.
Tom led the gelding out to the track and climbed onto the mounting block. Tito and Manuel were already out with the horses, trotting along, warming them up.
Swinging his leg over Rusty, Tom gave the horse a nudge and rode over to the rail. He took up his usual spot, watching the horses go by on the three-quarter mile track. A few minutes later, Ginger rode out on Ziggy; the big, blood bay colt bounced and jigged under her.
“Let up on his mouth, he won’t run off,” Tom called.
“He feels like he wants to.” She tussled with the colt some more.
“No, he doesn’t like a lot of contact with the bit. Ease up and he’ll relax.”
Ginger slipped the reins slightly, the colt settled. She trotted him along, feeling the movement of his gait under her. Ziggy Nation was a strong horse, but surprisingly well mannered for a three year old.
Trotting to the far side of the track, Ginger slowed
and turned the horse. She urged him into the canter and let him stretch his legs in a gentle gait. Riding past Tom, she awaited his command.
“Okay, Ginger, take him to the quarter pole and open him up.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” she replied, keeping her focus on the horse.
Tom took out his stopwatch and set it. He watched for her to pass the pole and clicked the button. The horse picked up steam and tore down the track. Ziggy blew by the other horses, leaving them in a cloud of dust.
Ginger flattened against the horse, her body moving in time to that of her mount. Tom kept a close eye as she sped past him into another turn. Glancing down at the watch, he noticed they were putting in a rather fast time. The colt looked good, very good.
Rusty’s ears flicked back. Tom figured it was Evan coming out to watch. Then he heard the plop of his boss’s arms on the rail. “How’s she doing?” Evan asked.
He didn’t bother to turn, he needed to keep time. “Fine.”
Ducking under the rail, Evan stood next to Tom. “Think Ziggy will do well in the Red Legend at Charles Town?”
“I thought you wanted to run him at Keeneland?”
“Mmm, thinking of holding them all for Charles Town.”
“Think that’s a good idea?”
“Waiting for the Keeneland condition book,” Evan said. “I have a few I want to run there.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
“Red Legend is seven furlongs, right?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. Purse is four hundred grand.” He gave Rusty a pat on the neck. “Too bad Wanderer won’t be ready; I hoped he’d run in the Wild and Wonderful Stakes.”
“Maybe at the by Keeneland meet in October, but no promises.” Tom watched Ginger sail past another quarter pole. He clicked the watch, stopping it. Holding it off to the side, he showed it to Evan. “Good enough?”
“Fantastic! Looks like we have a real runner.”
“Who else are you gonna run?”
“I thought Chasearoundtheclock would be good in the Charles Town Dash and perhaps Beau Review for the Coin Collector Stakes.”
“Good choices.”
“Hope so, I’ve got to shore up the entries fairly soon.”