by Gina Kincade
Stepping back towards the door, she watched with an eagle eye as the young vet dealt with her horse. And, though she’d never admit it—not even on pain of death—she was impressed. Both at his manner with Venus, which was impeccable, and with him in general. It was then, as he bent to gently lift the horse’s hoof to look at the afflicted area—which he must have ascertained himself, as she hadn’t enlightened him—she realized why she’d reacted to him the way she had. She was attracted to him, for heaven’s sake! What on earth was that all about?
She was old enough to be—she did some mental calculations—yes, she was old enough to be his mother. Legally, too. Closing her eyes in a mixture of disgust and distaste, she let her head loll back against the stable door. She was losing the plot—had to be. What other possible explanation was there for her, the self-proclaimed ice queen of the Yorkshire Dales, being attracted to a man she could have given birth to? She hadn’t been attracted to anyone for so long, she’d literally forgotten what it felt like. No wonder she hadn’t realized straight away what was going on.
She held in a sudden gasp. Goodness—there was another potential explanation. Though it wasn’t much better than the first.
Early menopause. Very early, she told herself indignantly. Fluctuating hormones, hot flashes… they could be the reason for the heat that had infused her body since the young veterinarian’s appearance. The heat and the—this time the gasp slipped out before she could stop it. The dampness between her thighs. Good Lord, just what was going on here? She’d had a loveless—animals excepted, naturally—sexless existence of her own making for so long now that even arousal had escaped her.
Some of her friends—well, maybe that word was a bit strong, but that’s what she called them for want of a better description—talked about their “battery operated boyfriends” as a perfectly acceptable alternative to sex, whether it was because they were single, because they didn’t fuck their husbands or boyfriends, or because they weren’t satisfied by said husbands or boyfriends. On their recommendation, after the divorce, she’d gone online and ordered herself what professed to be a top-of-the-range rabbit vibrator with a silly amount of functions and buttons. Surely it only had one job—to vibrate? After fitting it with batteries and attempting to get herself in the mood with a nice bubble bath, a glass of wine and a mushy chick flick, she’d switched it on and prepared to have her mind blown.
All that had actually happened was a great deal of fumbling, pressing of buttons and… nothing. It hadn’t felt bad, exactly, but nor had it filled her with tingles, or rocketed her to the otherworldly heights of orgasm—sometimes multiple—the others had described.
On that occasion, she’d given it up as a bad job, figuring that side of her maybe just needed a rest. It would happen when it happened. But after a couple of months and a few more attempts, she’d shoved the vibrator to the very back of her underwear drawer and forgotten all about it. Forgotten all about sex, masturbation, orgasms. Thrown herself wholeheartedly into running her business.
That side of things, at least, had never been better.
Chapter Three
Once Brett had ensured the horse was comfortable with him, he made short work of looking her over. Samantha’s diagnosis had been spot on—a mild case of thrush in one frog. Nothing to worry about at all.
He’d just carefully lowered the horse’s affected hoof to the ground, ready to retrieve his bag and the equipment he needed when he heard a gasp from behind him. Frowning, he turned to look at Samantha. “Everything all right, Ms Hanson-Bishop?”
She was backed up against the stable door, looking thunderstruck. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks—which had been as porcelain as the rest of her face earlier—now blazed with color. For several seconds, she seemed to stare past him, as though he wasn’t there. Or perhaps she wasn’t there? In mind, anyway. There was no doubt the petite, curvy posh bird was right in front of him. It was a shame she was such a bitch, because she sure was easy on the eye.
He waited a couple of seconds for a response, then, worried there was something really wrong with her, took a step closer. He said more loudly, “Ms Hanson-Bishop? Are you okay?” Slowly, he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.
His fingers had barely contacted the material of her riding jacket when she suddenly sprang into life. Twisting away from him, she glared and spat, “Don’t you dare touch me, boy! Just get on with treating my horse, would you? I don’t have all day to stand around babysitting you.”
Brett raised his eyebrows, but somehow managed to keep quiet, although his blood was starting to boil. Who the fucking hell did this woman think she was? She was treating him like some kind of second-class citizen, and an imbecile to boot. Did she have something against men, or what? Or men younger than her, anyway? She certainly seemed to think the sun shone out of Andrew’s arse. Prickly as she was, he doubted there was a significant other on the scene—unless she’d been lucky enough to find someone that enjoyed being spoken to like shit.
Then, remembering the way she’d spoken to Natasha on the telephone the previous day, Brett surmised that the snobby bitch just didn’t like anyone. Bar Andrew, of course.
With thoughts of his friend, boss and mentor firmly in mind, he turned away from the bizarrely-acting woman and back towards his bag. He’d put up with her shitty behavior, but only for the sake of the business. Besides, after today he’d never have to see or deal with her again, because Andrew would be back from his holiday next week—thank God.
Retrieving what he needed, he got on with treating the horse, murmuring reassurances to the animal the entire time. It didn’t seem necessary, however—clearly the beast was a lot better behaved and more well-adjusted than her owner.
Before long, he was done. Following one last check of the horse’s other hooves, just to be sure none of them were infected—they weren’t—he packed away his equipment.
“Okay, you’re all set, girl,” he said, giving the horse a pat on the flank. “You’ll be better before you know it.”
He bent and picked up his bag. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned to Samantha. “I’ll leave you with a bottle of this solution—I take it you know the drill?”
Samantha gave a curt nod. Her demeanor and complexion seemed to have returned to normal. “Yes, of course. I’ve dealt with this condition in horses many times.”
Which makes me wonder for the umpteenth time why the hell you called me out in the first place. “Excellent.” He gave a grin that felt so forced he thought his face would split in half. He probably looked like a demented clown. “I’ll get going then. You’ll get your bill in the usual way. Any further problems, or anything you’re concerned about, just give us a call.”
Samantha still stood in front of the stable door, blocking his exit. Seeming to take in his words, she then narrowed her eyes and shifted her gaze from him to the horse. After looking the beast slowly up and down for a moment or two, she returned her attention to him. “Huh. Seems you do know what you’re doing, young man. Venus barely batted an eyelid. Jolly good. Thank you, dear boy.”
Brett only just stopped his mouth from dropping open in astonishment. He covered his surprise by thrusting the bottle of treatment liquid at her. “Ahem. Well, yes. Thank you. I’ll see myself back to the car. Excuse me.”
She didn’t move quite quickly enough, so there was a lot of bodily contact as he pushed past her in his attempt to escape. Unintentional, but, much to his surprise, pleasurable nonetheless. Apparently his hormones couldn’t care less that Samantha Hanson-Bishop was a condescending bitch—the briefest hint of breast, hip and buttock seemed imprinted on his body where they’d touched. The imprint turned to warmth, which built with every step he took out of the stall, the building, and across the gravel towards the car. He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the keys, swearing loudly as he dropped them.
Grumbling as he retrieved the keys, he ignored the activity that was taking place below his belt. Finally, he unlocked the car, got in and shoved his
bag into the passenger footwell. Only when the door was closed and locked behind him did he allow his feelings free rein. He let out a string of expletives and gave the steering wheel a sharp thump with his palm.
Then, letting out a heavy breath, he started the engine. Looking up, he saw Samantha leaning on the doorframe of the stables, watching him. Her arms were folded, and the action only served to emphasize her already plentiful bosom. Gulping, he raised a hand in acknowledgement, then quickly put the 4x4 in reverse gear and prepared to get the hell out of there.
The gravel, followed by the rough surface of the track leading out onto the main road, meant he couldn’t zoom off quickly, as every fiber of his being ached to do. Instead, he had to take it steady. The enforced speed—or lack of it—meant he had time to look in the rear view mirror at Samantha one last time. She grew smaller as she receded into the distance, but, unless he was utterly mistaken, she now wore an incredibly smug smile on her perfectly made-up face.
Brett gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Unfortunately, it did nothing to quell the raging hard on he was sporting. A hard on he still couldn’t quite explain. Yes, he’d sort of touched Samantha’s side boob—not deliberately, and not with a hand—but that was no excuse for getting a stiffy he could chop wood with. Christ, he wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy, for whom brushing against a female counted as sexual activity, and would fuel multiple furious masturbation sessions, at least until the next thrilling “sexual encounter” came along. He was a grown man—despite Samantha’s snarky comments to the contrary—well versed in the ways of sex and romance. And he didn’t go short, either. Well, not of sex, anyway. Romance had been a little lacking in recent months, but he wasn’t worried. He had plenty of time for all that.
As he steered around a bend in the track, Samantha and her stables were mercifully lost from view. Hopefully now she was out of sight, she would, as the saying went, be out of mind.
Maybe she would be, he thought ruefully, if his damn cock would settle down. At the moment, he was trapped in a vicious circle. His cock was still rock hard and aching for attention, which couldn’t be ignored. Therefore his brain latched onto the reason for the erection, and so on.
Brett growled and smacked the steering wheel again. He had to get rid of this bloody hard on—pronto! He slowed the vehicle, scanning the land either side of the track. It was deserted. It was still early, after all. Hmm…
With one last glance around to make sure he was absolutely alone, Brett made a snap decision. He pulled over and engaged the handbrake, but left the engine running. That way, if anyone did happen to come along, he could say he’d pulled over to make a phone call or something. Plus, when he was done he’d be able to make a quicker getaway.
Undoing his seatbelt, he leaned over to get the box of tissues he kept in the glove box. Then, putting them within easy reach in the centre console, he sat back and set about releasing his still-raging cock from his jeans and underwear. Once it was in his hand, he had a final furtive look around, before beginning to toss himself off.
At the first firm stroke, he let out a hiss. God, that felt good. It’d be even better with a slick of lubricant, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was in the middle of a field, for fuck’s sake! He needed to get on with it and be on his way as soon as possible, before he got caught, or was late to the practice and his next client.
With that in mind, he gave himself a couple more slow strokes, just to get his grip absolutely right before he picked up the pace and got into a rhythm. Satisfied, he slipped his other hand to his balls and began to cup, roll and gently tug on them as he shunted his fist up and down his shaft.
He closed his eyes. Unbidden, an image of Samantha popped into his head, all tight jodhpurs, shiny riding boots and figure-hugging shirt under her jacket. For some reason, fantasy-Samantha also wielded a riding crop. Part of him internally shook his head at the ridiculous cliché, but a much bigger part of him, the part that was yearning for climax, decided that visual was fine. Just fine.
In fact, as he increased the speed with which he tossed himself off, he came to the conclusion it was a very nice image. It was doing the job, in any case, as already his balls were drawing up to his body and… oh shit… any minute now…
Snatching his hand away from his ball sac, he hurriedly yanked a wad of tissues from the box, glad he knew exactly where he’d put them. And not a moment too soon, either. He’d barely cupped them over his glens when his orgasm hit. With a strangled moan, he let go. Thrills coursed through his entire body, centering on his dick as it twitched and throbbed in his hand and jets of spunk filled the tissue.
Finally, with a long, shaky exhalation of breath, he was done. He sagged into the seat and opened his eyes. Thankfully he was still alone, still unobserved. Not a single soul knew, or would ever know, that he’d just wanked off in his car, in a field. And over Samantha Hanson-Bishop, no less. Bitch of the fucking century.
As he cleaned himself up and tucked himself away, he realized with a heavy heart that that wasn’t strictly true. He’d know. And it was something that—short of hypnosis—he’d never be able to unknow.
Fuck. Still, no harm done, right? I’ll never have to see the haughty bitch ever again.
Chapter Four
Samantha paused before stepping through the double doors in front of her. She pulled in a deep breath, straightened her spine and drew back her shoulders, giving herself false confidence. She knew she looked fantastic—and so she damn well should, having spent a big chunk of the day, and an equally big chunk of cash, in salons—but that first step, that first crossing of the threshold, always got to her. Walking into a room full of people, many of whom she knew, by herself was difficult. She wasn’t entirely sure why, either. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, being alone presented no problem. In fact, she preferred it.
But there was just something about this situation that always made her feel vulnerable. It was only for a brief moment—the time it took to grab a drink and a canapé from a passing waiter and stride over to join a group of people she knew—but a dark moment nonetheless.
Time to get it over with. As soon as she was in there, glass and a nibble in hand, she’d be just fine. She actually loved these black-tie events—the excuse to dress up in beautiful, hideously expensive clothes, shoes and jewelry, to drink exquisite bubbly, eat gourmet food, mingle with the local elite and exchange anecdotes and brag about their latest achievements. It reminded her of what she’d accomplished, of how hard she’d fought to get where she was. And made her all the more determined to stay there, at the top of her game, no matter who tried to depose her.
The death grip on her bejeweled clutch bag the only outward indication of her nerves—and one she was sure nobody would notice—she strode into the large reception room, head held high and a smile on her face. A smartly-dressed, handsome young waiter quickly materialized with a tray of champagne. Taking one with a half-nod of acknowledgment, she continued farther into the room, seeking out someone she knew. Or rather, someone she knew that she could actually tolerate talking to. For every successful businessman or woman in the room, there was also an insufferable old bore who’d had everything handed to him or her on a silver platter. She’d rather claw her own eyes out than talk to someone like that.
After a moment, fate smiled upon her. There was Andrew Norris. She had no idea how he always managed to wangle invites to these events—he was wealthy, she supposed, but hardly in the same realm as everyone else in the room—but she was still glad to see him. She could more than tolerate talking to him—she actually enjoyed his company, and that of his wife, Lizzie. Perhaps it was because he, too, had worked his way up from nothing to become a well-paid, well-respected member of the local community.
And therein, she suspected, lay the origin of his frequent attendance at these events—he was well-respected. He was a bloody good vet, and nothing was too much trouble for him. He’d probably treated all the animals of the people in the r
oom.
Snagging a vol-au-vent from another passing waiter, she started walking in Andrew’s direction. He was talking to a group of men she vaguely recognized, but she wasn’t worried about that. She’d soon commandeer his attention, and Lizzie’s when she appeared.
Samantha was barely two paces away from the group when a realization made her freeze in her tracks. She more than vaguely recognized one of the men. In fact, she’d studied the gentleman to Andrew’s left in quite a lot of detail, and the images had flitted through her mind on a regular basis ever since.
Only those images weren’t of an impeccably-dressed young man with shiny shoes and perfectly coiffed hair. A young man that wouldn’t be out of place on the front cover of GQ magazine, or a publication of its ilk. They were of a down-to-earth veterinarian in worn jeans and T-shirt and sturdy, practical boots. A man with wild, dark blond hair and a manner that had calmed her horse, Venus, almost instantly, allowing her to be treated with no issues whatsoever.
A man who, in hindsight—and she’d sure looked back at what had happened enough times—seemed to have been as affected by her as she had been by him.
She’d never expected to see him again, so once she’d gotten over the initial shock of her attraction to the sexy vet who was young enough to be her son, she’d allowed her fantasies free rein. There was no harm in it. Those big hands, that sexy voice, that bulky physique… in her mind’s eye they’d gotten up to all kinds of naughty, wonderful things, allowing her to pleasure herself to climax again and again. She hadn’t even needed the assistance of her vibrator—it remained in the back of her underwear drawer.
No, all she’d needed to get off since Brett the Vet’s visit to her stables had been her right hand, reawakened libido and newly-fertile imagination. She’d never come so hard, or so often, in her entire life. And that had just been by thinking about him. What on earth would it be like if she had sex with him for real? She’d considered that question frequently since meeting him.