by Rae Kennedy
Already? Sheesh, this seems quick. Is there maybe a PowerPoint presentation I could watch first? I mean, in driver’s ed, we had to get some classroom hours in before we were just thrown behind the wheel.
“Okay.” I walk up to the horse and take Wes’s hand, which is big and warm and slightly rough with callouses. It’s a nice hand. And I can’t even enjoy the fact that I'm holding it because I am staring at a horse whose back is almost as tall as me. “You’re going to be here the whole time, right? Like right here next to me? You’re not going to let me fall.”
“I won’t let you fall. Here—” He shows me how to put my foot in the stirrup and tells me to just lift and swing my other leg over the side.
That’s way easier said than done, by the way. I attempt to get my leg over the other side of this massive beast for several minutes before Wes finally gives a little boost to my bottom to help me the rest of the way.
He touched. My butt.
Jesus Christ.
Too bad it was while I was flailing around like an overturned turtle and had as much sexual suggestiveness as touching a potato.
I get my leg over and holy shit, it’s high up here. The horse shifts around under me and I am wobbling. Oh god.
Wes’s large hands hold onto my hips and help me back into the saddle.
“Relax.” Wes’s voice is totally calm and soothing as he steadies me.
Focusing on him and how his fingers curl gently over my hips is much better than thinking about the thousand pounds of pure animal muscle I’m sitting on.
“Good. Now sit up straight, relax your legs.” Wes shows me how to hold the reins without putting pressure on the bit unless I’m telling the horse where to go.
His hands are soft over mine as he shows me how to lead the horse to turn and how to tell him to stop. Then he tells me to apply a little bit of pressure with my heels and Gideon starts walking.
Wes walks next to us as I ride around the perimeter of the enclosure, keeping his hand on Gideon’s shoulder the whole time. His hand is right next to my knee and it’s a bit distracting.
“You’re doing so good.”
“Yeah?” I smile down at him.
He returns my smile, the sun gleaming off his face. “Yeah. Your posture’s great—you look like a natural.”
“Well, if there’s one thing you get after years in the pageant circuit—it’s an unhealthy obsession with an unachievable beauty standard—but if you get two things, the second one is impeccable posture. And I am doing pretty great, aren’t I?” Okay, maybe I’m getting a little cocky. Gideon is going so slow, I don’t even think this pace would qualify as a trot. But guys like confidence, right? I’ve never been lacking in that department, might as well lean into it.
Wes chuckles softly and the sound is heavenly. He drops his hand. “You might be my best student.”
“Really?” Oh, the things I would let him teach me. I smile down at him and he smiles up at me, his blue eyes twinkling.
It happens quickly and all at once. I loosen my grip and Gideon shakes his head, pulling the reins from my hands. I sort of panic—fine, I completely panic— and crouch down, stiffening and tightening my legs into the horse’s sides. So, of course the horse thinks I mean “go.” And he goes. Not even fast, but now Wes isn’t here anymore so I look behind to find him and that’s when I lose my balance and all sense of direction and then I’m falling. There’s nothing to grab on to and nothing under me until there is.
Spoiler: it’s the ground and it’s really fucking hard and it really fucking hurts.
I’m flat on my back for a second, just looking up at the little white puffy clouds in the sky wondering if this is how I die.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Wes is at my side in an instant and cradles my head in his hand.
Yep. I’m dead and this is heaven.
Then Eric is at my other side. Not in heaven then.
“Don’t move. Is anything hurt?” he asks in a tone that maybe, for the first time in his entire life, doesn’t have any snark in it.
“I’m fine.” Actually my whole body hurts, though not as much as my bruised ego. I move to sit up.
“I said don’t move.”
“Don’t boss me around. I said I'm fine.” I sit up, giving Wes an appreciative smile as he moves his hand down to my back for support. “The only thing that really hurts like a mother is my leg.”
I point down to my calf where, yep, my jeans are ripped and there’s a gnarly gash in my leg from where I fell on a pokey stick. Said stick is still sitting a few inches away. The nerve it has to just lie there looking all innocent.
Wes makes a cringey face at my leg.
“Yeah, we’ll need to get that cleaned up,” Eric says, inspecting it.
“Wow. It’s like you missed your calling to be a detective,” I deadpan.
“Let’s get you up to the house.” Wes leans over and sweeps one arm under my knees and the other around my waist and scoops me up off the ground as if I weigh as much as a feather—and I assuredly weigh way more than a feather.
I wrap my arms around his solid shoulders, the warmth and hardness of his chest presses tightly to me. I can feel his heartbeat and the cadence of his breathing as he carries me uphill to the house. And, lord almighty, he seems to be barely exerting himself.
It’s just like in all the fantasies I have of Wes sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away—except in those fantasies he’s taking me to go find a place to fuck because he’s so overcome with desire. Oh well, I’ll take what I can get.
Eric holds the door open for us as Wes carries me over the threshold (swoon) and lets the screen door slam behind us.
“I’ll go get the first aid kit.” Eric disappears down the hall and Wes sits me down on a stool in the kitchen.
“Are you sure you didn’t hurt anything besides the leg when you fell?” Wes asks, the sweetest, most genuine look of concern on his face.
“I’m sure, just the leg.”
“Oh good.”
Shoot. Maybe I should have played this up more and gotten Wes to play nurse to me. I mean, he did promise he wouldn’t let me fall—it’d be only right if he kept watch over me through the night, you know, in case I need something...like cuddles. Or cock.
Eric comes back in and sets the first aid kit on the counter. He asks Wes to get some washcloths and hot water to clean up the wound.
“Let’s take a look at this.” Eric pulls a chair over and sits across from me. He takes my leg and removes my boot then gingerly lifts it so my foot is resting on his knee.
He inspects the cut through the bloody rip in my jeans, one hand on my ankle, his face leaned in and his eyebrows furrowed. Then he takes both hands and curls his fingers into the hole and tears my jeans with one loud rip. They split from my knee to the hem.
“Hey!” I really liked these jeans.
He looks up at me, cocking one eyebrow. “They were already torn and stained and they’re too tight to push up. Would you have rather taken them off? Because, by all means, we can still go that route.”
I grumble, “No,” just as Wes comes back with the clean cloths.
Eric takes one wet cloth and presses it lightly to the cut.
“No need to put yourself out, Eric. I’m sure Wes can help me with this part and you can go back to doing...whatever it is you do.” I smile up at Wes and flutter my eyelashes a bit, just enough to convey to him that I’ll be a very good little patient.
He gives me a tight smile and backs away, one hand on his hip and the other fisted over his mouth. Dammit, can nobody decipher facial expressions?
“I’m good,” he says. “I don’t do very well around blood.”
I look down at my leg. It doesn’t look to be bleeding anymore but there are some drips down my leg and bright red stains at the top of my white sock.
Eric just looks up at me with an unamused expression as he continues cleaning my leg. Right now his face is saying shut the hell up already and just let me help you.
Fine.
Once Eric cleans the blood away, Wes starts to shuffle back closer but still avoids looking directly at my leg. It’s actually kind of cute.
“Doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches,” Eric says. “But you should rest it tonight. Stay off of it as much as possible.” He works on bandaging it up.
“Of course, Dr. Gallagher.”
“Dr. Gallagher? I like that.” He smirks. “Do you need a ride home?”
“No, I can manage. It’s not even my driving leg. Besides, I’m not going home right away—I have to go visit my grandpa first.”
“Already disobeying doctor’s orders.” He shakes his head at me. “Fine, but promise me you’ll rest it after.”
“Promise.”
* * *
And like the good little patient I am, when I get home from my visit with Grandpa, I go straight to my room, get undressed, and slide under the covers with Chris Pine.
Chris Pine is my silver bullet vibrator—my go-to man. Chris Hemsworth is my big pink rabbit vibrator, also wonderful and never a bad choice. I used to have a purple vibrating dildo named Chris Pratt but he broke and I had to throw him away. Chris Evans is a little black egg-shaped vibrator I haven’t used in ages, but maybe I should give him a try because lately I haven’t been able to quite get over that peak, if you know what I mean.
It’s been a month. An orgasm-less thirty-two days, to be exact. That’s the longest I’ve gone since I discovered the exact location of my clit when I was fourteen. But tonight it’s going to happen—I can feel it. Because I’ve got some real-life, grade-A material to use for inspiration.
I turn on Chris Pine and nestle him between my legs right up against my most sensitive spot and close my eyes.
I’m back on the horse, and Wes and I are sharing a moment where we lock eyes, his heavy-lidded with lust. He isn’t wearing a shirt in this scenario for some reason. Oops. And this time when I fall off the horse, he catches me so I never hit the ground. I’m wrapped up with his bulging biceps, and then he kisses me. A perfect, long kiss. The kind that goes deep but is still hungry for more. He’s so overcome with need he carries me off, but he can’t wait to get to the house, so he just lays me down in the grass, and he’s kissing me and running his hands all over me and ripping off my shirt—
Wait, actually the grass would probably be all pokey and the ground is hard and shit. Let’s back it up a little.
I rub Chris Pine around, slipping him lower then higher again, the gentle vibrations warming me all over. All right, this time he takes me to the stables and lays me down on a soft pile of straw. He undoes his belt buckle, his cock straining behind his zipper, and then he starts to unbutton my jeans. I lift my hips so he can take them off but—
Dammit, straw really isn’t soft either.
Third times a charm. Okay, so we stand up. I put my hands flat against the wall, bending over as he pulls my jeans and panties down to my ankles in one smooth motion. I hear the clink of his buckle as he drops his jeans too. Then he comes up behind me and—
Motherfucker. The stables smell. Maybe if I hadn’t been mucking in the stables all morning I could have let it go, but I can’t. Just remembering the smell is enough to dry me up.
I look at the clock and son-of-a-titty-fucking-cocksucker, it’s already late and I have to get up so unreasonably early and I’m not even a little close to coming. Fuck’s sake. I reluctantly give up the crusade for a climax—again—and put my underwear back on.
Wes the fantasy just isn’t cutting it for me anymore. I need the real thing.
CHAPTER 4
The next few days, Tom tells me to stay and help Bev around the house instead of ranch work. I know it’s just because they want to make sure I really am okay after falling off the horse, which I totally am. I’m a bit sore, but that’s not from the fall—that’s from shoveling poop. On the plus side, if I do this all summer I’m going to have some seriously cut arms. Like Michelle Obama arms.
Unfortunately, my horse-riding lessons have been postponed indefinitely, and that sucks.
It’s not that I dislike helping around the house—it’s mostly hosing off the deck, watering plants, and helping Bev make breakfast and lunch. She asks about my mom and spreads a few pieces of tame gossip she heard at the grocery store as she cooks. And I’m learning some tips in the kitchen. Bev is a fantastic cook and I am borderline mediocre, so this could be helpful. I’m sure being a good caretaker and cook are qualities Wes would appreciate in his future wife and mother of his children. So I try to stay positive.
But being at the house all day means I don’t get to see the guys—Wes, specifically—except for when they come to stuff their faces with delicious food for approximately nine minutes at meal times before heading back out.
This will not do.
It’s exceptionally hot today for only the beginning of June, so I suggest to Bev that I take some cold drinks down to the guys while they’re working. She thinks it’s a wonderful idea and lets me make the lemonade myself.
Gracie’s dad and her two eldest brothers are in the farthest pasture and Wes and Eric are fixing fence nearer to the house, so I go to them first.
“Hey!” I call out.
Wes looks up from where he was bent over and takes his hat off to wave it at me. He’s shirtless. And holy hell, it’s so much better than my conjured up image of him from last night. He walks toward me, the sun gleaming off his tanned chest and biceps and ripple-y stomach.
As he gets closer, I can literally see the sweat glistening on his brow and dripping down his neck. I did not properly gird my loins for this show.
“Hey Kyla,” he says as he takes off his work gloves and stuffs them in his back pocket.
“Hi.” My voice squeaks. It’s a very un-me thing to happen. “I brought you some lemonade, thought you might be thirsty.”
I hand him one of the mason jars, the ice clinking against the glass.
“Hey thanks. This is amazing.” He smiles and I’m almost blinded by it.
The glass is slippery with condensation and our fingers graze as he takes the jar from my hand.
“What’s this?” Eric walks up to us, wiping sweat from his forehead with what looks like a white cotton T-shirt—probably the one he is no longer wearing.
“Lemonade.” I hand him a jar too and try to avoid looking at his naked torso too much. Because, damn.
I mean, obviously he isn’t the panty-melting perfection that is Wes. He’s paler, for one. He doesn’t seem to tan as much as just redden and then freckle. And he has a lot more chest hair. And arm hair. Not my thing. But underneath? He is buff, like wow. He looks like he could snap me in half. Like that one meme of Captain America chopping wood, and he just tears the log apart with his bare hands—it’s like that.
Hmm...maybe I should move Chris Evans up on the roster tonight.
Wes brings his drink to his lips. His throat bobs as he swallows down the liquid. He abruptly puts the jar down on a fence post as his face pinches and he starts coughing.
“Oh my god, are you okay?”
Then Eric spits his lemonade onto the ground.
“Is it the lemonade? Is it bad?”
“It’s a little tart,” Wes says, his mouth tight.
“It’s a lot fucking tart,” Eric says matter-of-factly.
“I’m going to head back to work,” Wes says, putting his gloves back on. “Thanks for the refreshment.” With that, he tips his hat toward me and walks away, leaving the jar of lemonade on the fence.
Eric comes closer. “I’m guessing this wasn’t a part of your plan?”
“Okay, so I needed to add more sugar.” Isn’t that just a metaphor for my whole dating life? I’ve never been accused of being too sweet. “But if I’d made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I would have nailed it. Anyway, I don’t really have a plan. It’s just—how else am I supposed to get his attention?”
“I think you got his attention—maybe not in the way you’d like.”
“Hmm, I like the all-knowing part, but I seem to have been demoted from Doctor to Mister. That can’t be right.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Fine. Help you what? Hook up with Wes?”
“Yeah. I mean, you and Wes are friends. Talk me up, be my wingman and shit.”
He’s still looking at me with a tilted head like a confused puppy.
“Look at it this way—the sooner Wes finally realizes I'm the one, the sooner you won’t have to see me around the ranch so much. And the smaller the chances get that I’ll fall off another horse or make you more lemonade.”
“It’s a tempting offer, but I’ll have to pass.”
“Why?”
“Well, it kind of feels like you’re asking me to be your pimp.”
“Ew. I’m not asking you to go buy us lube and condoms or something. I just need some help in creating opportunities to spend more time with him alone.”
He wipes more sweat away from his brow. “You and Wes... I don’t know.”
“What does that mean? Do you think I’m not good enough for Wes?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know you didn’t say that. It’s called reading between the lines—that’s when one infers a hidden meaning that is implied by tone or context rather than being explicitly stated.”
“Thank you for the vocabulary lesson. I feel enlightened.” He takes his gloves out of his pocket like he’s going to get back to work too.
I touch his arm lightly to stop him. “Tell you what—I’ll be super nice to you from now on if you say yes.”
“Does that mean you won’t constantly roll your eyes at me, make sarcastic remarks or give me unsolicited grammar advice?”
“Sure.” The odds of me being able to contain my eyerolls alone seem low, but I’ll try for Wes.
“Sounds boring.”
“Oh, come on, Eric. Please?”
He stares at me for a long, hard minute, biting the inside of his cheek.
I make my best, sweetest I’m in distress face.