Unbridled Read online

  The longer I watch, the greater the dampness between my thighs grows. I smile to myself. Observing these riding lessons—or rather the instructor—has become my favorite pastime of the break I’m taking between novels.

  Okay. It’s more like a block than a break.

  My find-the-clues, solve-a-mystery idea caught on and burned through the mystery-intrigue literary world like a California wildfire. I’ve finally made a few best-seller lists with the book I wrote from the exercise, and even appeared several times on the daytime talk-show circuit. Now I’m at a loss for an idea to top that. Am I washed up already? Have I used up all my allotted creativity too early in life? Am I a flame-out at thirty-four?

  My sister, Katelynn, knew I needed a distraction from the hole I was digging in my self-confidence when she called to ask if my niece, Amy, could stay with me for six weeks while she and her physician hubby went on a medical mission-slash-research trip this summer. I’d been at a loss. I do enjoy my niece’s company. I’d just never had to entertain a ten-year-old for such a long period.

  When I bemoaned the kid-duty to a friend over coffee the next day, her eyes lit up. I could enroll Amy to take riding lessons with her daughter, who’s the same age. I later came to suspect she just needed someone to drive the girls to the lessons twice a week, but I instantly forgave her when I met the instructor.

  Marsh Langston is worth every minute I sit in the sun, shaded only by the broad brim of my floppy straw hat, and fan away the heat. She is a bottle of sparkling water in my current desert, and I salivate over her.

  I was aghast the first week when I wore light-blue cotton trousers that clearly showed the dampness between my thighs caused by imagining her tall, strong body against mine, her long, sure fingers touching me. Since then, I make sure to wear an absorbent panty-liner to keep my clothes clean, though my thoughts are increasingly filthy as I watch her move about the ring.

  I bring my folding camp chair and stay for every lesson, despite the unrelenting sun and dust from the riding ring. Still, I’ve yet to make any headway with her. I’ve approached her several times, after my niece’s lesson, with small talk. Marsh is polite and friendly enough, but distracted by the children asking questions as they unsaddle their lesson ponies and groom them for turnout. Still, I’ve glimpsed that hungry look in her eyes before they lose focus as though she’s been looking past me all along. And I’ve felt her gaze burning down my back and lingering on my ass. Each time, it pebbles my skin and tightens my belly.

  Today is Amy’s final lesson and my last chance. I’m one of those women as comfortable in a dress as in hiking gear, so I’ve tried a variety of summer outfits over the weeks to see which draws the longest looks from her. I’ve decided she prefers sporty women—not too femme, but not too butch. So, today I settled on khaki shorts and a sleeveless oxford to display my well-toned limbs, and my favorite Nikes, the kind only serious runners wear. I’m also wearing my collar jauntily turned up—yes, I know that went out in the eighties, but I’m convinced the style will return—and my favorite floppy-brimmed hat for a more feminine flair.

  When the lesson comes to an end, I stand and fold my chair. I lay awake most of last night, mustering my courage and practicing the right words. God, I haven’t been this nervous over a woman since my college days. I pull my bandanna from my pocket and pat my neck and face dry of perspiration and wait. When she finally holds the gate for the last child to exit, I approach.

  “Marsh, do you have a minute?”

  She glances over her shoulder at me while closing the gate, then casually turns to face me. Her mouth curves into a faint smile. “Sure.”

  My heart stutters as she removes the dark shades to expose eyes more brilliant than a Montana sky. Fat beads of sweat gather where her sunglasses had molded to her high cheekbones, and she moves to wipe them against her shoulder. I automatically hold out my small bandanna. She stares at the sporty pattern and “On the Move” logo.

  “To wipe your face and neck if you want,” I say. “I run and bike, so I always have one with me. It’s absorbent, like those towels they advertise to wipe your car dry. A friend owns the company that makes these for sports enthusiasts. They’re lightweight enough to tie around your neck or fold up small enough to put in your pocket.” I’m babbling and totally off course from what I’ve rehearsed, but she takes the offered cloth.

  “Thanks,” she says, wiping her face and neck. She looks at the cloth, examining its texture. “Nice.”

  “Keep it,” I say. “I have a box of them.” I want her to have something of mine.

  “Thanks.” She stares at me for a long moment and then smiles again. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Oh, right.” I flush with embarrassment, realizing she’s waiting for me to speak while I stand there like a starstruck schoolgirl. I nervously pull my hat off and comb my shoulder-length hair back with my fingers. “Sorry. I think the heat’s getting to me.”

  I’m being silly. I’m a successful novelist and still attractive in my middle thirties. How has she taken control of this interaction? I internally scold myself. Nobody controls me any longer. Not in my business life and not in my personal life. I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and plunge in.

  “Today is Amy’s last lesson. Her parents will be returning from their trip this weekend and taking her back to Raleigh.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Amy’s been one of the best students in this class. She’s a natural rider. I can recommend a good instructor in the Raleigh area if she wants to continue.” She gestures to the barn. “I have the information in my office.”

  “That would be wonderful. This class is all Amy’s talked about this summer. I’m sure she’d like to continue.”

  I’m a respectable five feet, eight inches tall and leggy, but Marsh still bests me by four or more inches. My confidence swells when I notice she’s politely shortened her long stride to match mine as we walk to the sprawling stables.

  A continuous traffic of adults, children, and horses fills the wide aisles of the T-shaped facility. My niece and her friend have their lesson ponies in line at the wash stalls, so I’m satisfied they’ll be occupied for at least another thirty minutes. I step through the office door Marsh holds open, and she closes it behind her, shutting out the noisy chatter, occasional whinny, and the clop of hooves on hard-packed clay.

  Light from a single window glints off the glass of a tall trophy case that takes up half of the opposite wall. Framed action photos of horses jumping obstacles or prancing through a dressage routine cover the other half. A blanket and pillow are bunched at the end of a large, worn sofa along the wall at my left, and a half-opened door on my right appears to lead to a private bathroom. The scarred hardwood floor is partially covered with a braided rug. The desk centered in the middle of the room and other sparse pieces of furniture are a bit battered, but clean. The room smells of wood polish, leather, and…fresh-cut hay? My eyes fall on a tight bale shoved against the wall near the door.

  Marsh follows my gaze. “Oh, a new vendor brought that sample by yesterday.” She sits at the desk and begins to rummage through a drawer.

  “It smells wonderful in here,” I say.

  She looks up at me, as if she’s really seeing me for the first time, and smiles. “I have to confess that’s why I haven’t already taken that bale to the feed room. I love the scent.”

  She holds my gaze a moment longer before returning to her task. I move to the back wall and peer at the photos. After a moment, I gasp. “Are all these photos of you?”

  “Those are photos of champion horses I’ve ridden.” She extracts a business card from the drawer and begins to copy the information from it onto a notepad. “I hired out as a professional rider until I got tired of the constant travel, so I just happen to be in those photos with the horses.”

  That also explains the trophy case. I’m amused to see the prime shelf is dedicated to
trophies awarded to her by several local groups for her involvement in a therapeutic riding program, Special Olympics, and a program for disadvantaged youths.

  “I’ve written the name of a former colleague who teaches in the Raleigh area now, along with the name of her riding stable, address, and phone.” She holds out a slip of paper. “She has a program pretty much like the one here. They provide schooling horses, like we do, or will board a horse if your sister decides to lease one or buy one for Amy to ride. Jodie, my friend, could help them find the best horse within their budget if they want to do that.”

  I step close and take the paper, letting my fingers trail across her palm while I hold her gaze. “So, Jodie is a close friend?”

  Marsh raises an inquiring eyebrow but doesn’t answer. My confidence stutter-steps.

  “I mean, well, you know her well enough that I can trust her with my niece’s safety?”

  “Amy will be safe with her. All the kids love Jodie and her husband, John.”

  “Then I’ll trust your judgment. Thank you, Marsh. I’m indebted to you.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she says, her voice an octave lower than it was a moment ago.

  “But I wanted to ask about something else,” I say, also lowering my timbre.

  “What else can I do for you?” she asks, those summer eyes turning to blue flame.

  What else, indeed. Lock that door. Rip my clothes off. Thrust your tongue into my mouth, fill me with your fingers, and claim me right here on this sofa. I tamp down my lascivious thoughts.

  “I’d like to take riding lessons.”

  “You?” She blinks, then turns away and removes her ball cap as she strides into the bathroom. She returns, rubbing a towel over her sweaty hair to dry it, but lingers near the doorway.

  I frown, instantly hating this new distance she’s put between us. “Am I too old?”

  She drops her hands, her face no longer hidden by the towel. Damn. She’s even sexier with her hair in complete disarray. “Of course not. We have two adult groups that meet twice a week—one morning group and one evening group. We also have one that meets once a week on Saturday mornings.”

  I close a bit of the distance and casually prop my rear against her desk. “I was hoping to arrange private lessons.”

  “Private lessons?” She sounds as though she’s tasting the words rather than asking for confirmation.

  “Yes,” I say, almost cringing at the eagerness in my voice.

  “I’ll need to check the schedule,” she says slowly.

  I pick up the pen and notepad she used earlier and neatly print my name and phone number. “Call me when you do. My schedule is very flexible, and I’d like my first lesson to be very soon.” I tear off the paper and fold it. Rather than leave it on the desk, I tuck it into her hand, giving it a lingering squeeze before I go to the door and pause. “Hope to hear from you soon.”

  * * *

  I’m deliciously breathless from a self-induced, Marsh-inspired orgasm when my cell phone chirps two days later.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Lauren?”

  “Yes. Marsh?” I close my eyes and savor her smooth alto a million times sexier than I conjured in my fevered fantasy only moments before. God, I might come again just talking to her.

  “I called to schedule the lessons you requested.”

  My fingers twitch where they still lie against my slick, tender clit. “I could come now.” The sound of shuffling papers at her end of the line stops, and I suppress the impulse to giggle at my double entendre.

  “I have some questions before you mount up the first time,” she says. The paper-shuffling resumes.

  I swallow a moan, instantly snatched back into my earlier fantasy. I’m bent over the desk in her office, and she’s mounted me.

  “Have you ridden before?”

  “Once or twice.” My clit swells, and my fingers stroke with renewed purpose. “It’s been a very long time.”

  “I’ll make sure to hit all the important basics in the first lesson, then.”

  I thrust my fingers into myself and imagine they are hers pounding into me, hitting all the pleasure spots that make me want to scream. In and out, in and out, then back to my clit.

  “Of course. You’re in charge. After all, you’re the one with the riding crop.” I make no effort to conceal the quickening of my breath. A few seconds of nothing but my breathing and her silence take over.

  “Lauren?”

  “Yes?” My voice is tight like my belly because I’m struggling now to hold back my impending orgasm.

  “I wouldn’t allow a crop during your first lessons. That’s reserved for more advanced lessons. If you want private lessons from me, you’ll have to do only what I tell you and exactly as I instruct.”

  I still my fingers, denying my climax. Somehow, I know we’re talking about something different now. “I understand.” I remove my hand from between my legs and blow out a breath.

  “As long as we’re clear.”

  “Perfectly.” My breathing returns to normal.

  “Good. Tomorrow morning? Eight o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  I climb out of my Volvo SUV at eight o’clock the next morning, a bit sleepy-eyed despite my anticipation. I’m not a morning person, but if Marsh is, well, I can rise to the occasion.

  The stable is already busy. Boarded horses are being turned out after a night’s sleep and breakfast in their assigned stalls. Schooling horses are being led in to begin another day of work after spending their night in the freedom of large paddocks and open run-in sheds. I skid to a stop just in time to avoid a rake full of fresh manure tossed toward the cart parked in the middle of the wide corridor. A lanky teen sticks his head out and looks sheepish.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” He emerges from the stall and repositions the cart to just outside the stall he’s mucking.

  “I’m looking for Marsh. Have you seen her?”

  “She was in her office at six this morning.” He scowls. “I know because I overslept a little, and she had me in there chewing my ass.” He forks another pile of manure and tosses it into the cart. “It’s not like this shit’s going anywhere if I’m thirty minutes late.”

  I smile. “Thank you. I’ll check her office.”

  The door is partially open, and I can hear someone moving about inside. My heart pounds as I knock politely and push the door slowly open. Then my heart slows. A handsome man in jeans and a polo that stretches tight over his broad chest and thick biceps turns toward me. I’ve seen him around, teaching other classes.

  “Hey, you must be Lauren.”

  I pause a beat, looking around the office and pointedly toward the open bathroom door. Something is amiss. “Yes. I’m scheduled for a private lesson with Marsh.”

  He rests his hip on the desk and regards me. “Marsh rarely gives private lessons anymore. When she does, she never takes on a beginner. She only instructs advanced students.” His tone is gentle. “And occasionally an intermediate student she feels has real promise.”

  I narrow my eyes at his presumptuous assessment of my skills. “I’m sorry. Who are you?” I have verbally eviscerated many pompous critics of the popular fiction I write, so this horseman is hardly a challenge compared to those wordsmiths.

  “I’m going to kill her,” he mutters under his breath before he stands and holds out his hand. “I’m Alex.”

  I glare at him and ignore his attempt to defuse my building temper. I shove my hands into the pockets of the doe-colored riding tights I’ve carefully paired with a pastel-green polo shirt to entice Marsh.

  “Okay.” He withdraws his hand cautiously, as though I might lunge and bite it off. “I’ll teach you the basics, caring for your horse and equipment, tacking up your horse correctly, ground handling, and then basic riding. Each l
esson will last an hour. How many lessons it requires to master the skills depends on the speed of your progress.”

  I do not like being handled by this man. I was handled by my father, then by male teachers, agents, and publishers until I declared my sexual orientation and achieved enough wealth and following to tell those men to stuff their advice up their asses. Then I hired a cutthroat female agent and demanded a female editor. I will not settle now for anyone except the woman who’s been riding my dreams for the past weeks.

  “I’m sure you’re capable, Alex, but there seems to be a misunderstanding. I arranged to have private lessons with Marsh Langston, not you.”

  “It’s what I’d like you to do.”

  I freeze as Marsh’s warm breath washes over my neck. She steps around me and holds my gaze. My resistance is melting with every second that ticks past. “But—”

  “I thought we had an agreement. You would do exactly as I instruct.”

  Unless you’re prepared to repay me for your four years at Wellesley and you live under my roof, you will do exactly as I tell you.

  My father’s words crack like a whip in my brain. Bastard. Nobody will ever control me again.

  Marsh tilts her head, her expression curious. “I can recommend another excellent riding instructor if you aren’t comfortable with my terms.” She waits a few beats. “It’s completely your choice, Lauren. I will never force you to do something you don’t want.”