Unbridled Page 4

  I realize she’s asking me—not telling me—to allow her control. No one has done that before—ask me for control. It feels strange. I waver.

  “I was looking forward to working with you,” I said, lowering my eyes and voice at the admission. I regret it immediately because my gaze falls on her breasts, and my mouth waters at the sight of her nipples straining against the thin fabric of her shirt.

  She places one long finger under my chin and forces my eyes up again. Her mouth twitches with only a hint of a smile, but amusement shines clearly in her eyes. “You will. I can learn more about your potential by watching as Alex instructs you.”

  “You’ll be watching?”

  “Yes. I will.”

  I glance over at Alex, who has suddenly found something interesting in the paperwork on the desk. I lean close to Marsh, lowering my voice to a whisper even though Alex is close enough to still hear. “I don’t…I mean, I prefer women…teachers…exclusively.”

  She raises an eyebrow, but I straighten my shoulders and raise my own eyebrow in challenge. We both know I’m not talking about equestrian lessons, and I’m not going to let her pretend otherwise.

  She bends to place her mouth inches from my ear and stage-whispers. “Alex is my brother’s husband. He prefers male…students…exclusively.” This explanation draws a wide smile from Alex, who continues to pretend interest in his paperwork.

  A hot flush suffuses my neck, traveling up my cheeks. I clear my throat to recover my voice and a bit of my dignity. “And after I’ve covered the basics with him?”

  Her blue eyes glitter like sapphire shards. “Then we’ll see if you’ve shown enough potential to advance further with me.”

  * * *

  Marsh shadowed my lessons for the next two weeks. Alex was a very knowledgeable instructor, and I’d even begun to enjoy his company. Sometimes, the lesson would be nearly over before I would feel her eyes on me. When I’d turn to glance her way, I’d find her propped against a tree, her eyes following my every move. The sight of her heated my skin as I tried to concentrate on my lesson and fueled my dreams later that night.

  I raced through the groundwork, hanging around the stables after my lesson to watch others being schooled and picking up more tips. I pored over equestrian books and studied every piece of equipment in the tack room until I was nearly an expert on saddles, bridles, and bits, and how to put them on a horse. But I faltered once I was astride a mount.

  As a runner and a biker, I’ve learned to find my rhythm and adjust my pace. An equestrian must find the horse’s rhythm and adjust to the horse’s pace. It was like helping someone learn to lead when you dance. I was never any good at either leading or following.

  “Keep your hands steady. Don’t saw the rein back and forth if you want her to keep a steady gait.”

  “She keeps speeding up. That’s why I’m pulling back. Then she goes too slow, so I’m lifting my hands and giving her rein to speed up.”

  “Your legs have to say the same thing your hands are saying.”

  I drop the rein, which thankfully isn’t a split rein so it doesn’t fall to the ground, and throw my hands up. My mare—better trained than me—slows to a stop. “I can’t sit her trot without gripping with my knees, and she takes that as a signal to speed up. It’s an endless cycle.”

  This is hopeless. I should just invite Marsh to dinner and shamelessly throw myself at her. Maybe if I dance on the table naked, she’ll sleep with me. The mare and I both hang our heads at my inadequacy.

  “I’ve got this, Alex. Do me a favor and go check the feed shipment they’re unloading to make sure Hurley’s isn’t shorting us again.”

  I venture a glance at Alex, but my shame is too great to face the disappointment I expect from Marsh. He gives me a wink of encouragement and a smile. “Sure, Marsh.”

  I await judgment as Alex’s footsteps fade, and the clang of the riding ring gate closing breaks the silence between us. I’m bouncing between quitting and walking away with a tiny bit of my dignity and begging for her to let me try again. I don’t expect her hand, warm around mine, lifting and measuring my fingers against hers.

  “Do you write your novels longhand, or do you type?”

  She knows about my books? I relax a tiny bit. “I type everything.”

  “Are you thinking of each letter as you type? Or even each word?” Her fingers entwine with mine and gently squeeze.

  “Uh, no. I, uh, just think of the sentences, and my fingers find the right keys. I’ve been typing for so many years I don’t really have to think about it.”

  “Riding will eventually become the same way. Like shifting gears in a car. When you first begin driving, you have to think about which gear to use, but soon it becomes second nature. You push the clutch, shift the gear, let off the clutch, and press the gas, all without thinking of each individual move.”

  “I can drive a stick shift.” I look into her beautiful eyes and want to believe her. Wanting, however, won’t make it so. “But I’ve never really mastered dancing with a partner.” Maybe it’s a left-brain, right-brain thing.

  “You’ve never danced with me.”

  I fight the overwhelming urge to close my eyes and immerse myself in this new vision…my hand in hers, her other hand pressing against my back to draw me closer as we glide and twirl in a slow, sexy, graceful pattern. Then I ruin it by stepping on her foot.

  She releases my hand and trails hers down my thigh. I remind myself to breathe. “You simply have to get your legs in rhythm with your hands.”

  Oh, God. My brain instantly jumps to a new vision—my legs hooked behind her thighs and flexing to sync her thrusts with my hands as they massage her breasts.

  She strokes my thigh, stoking the fire building in my belly. I worry that I’m leaving a wet spot on the saddle as she steps back. “Dismount and bring your mare over to the gate.”

  I swing my leg over and pull my foot from the stirrup to drop to the ground. Neither of us comments on my wobbly legs as Marsh steadies me for a moment. I follow her to the gate, where she replaces my mare’s saddle and pad with a woolen pad with stirrups attached. She gives me a leg up to remount, then leads Fancy to the fence and vaults easily from the middle board to settle behind me on the mare’s broad back.

  Heat races through me as Marsh presses her long frame against my back and rests her hands on my thighs. Her faint scent of leather oil and spice envelopes me. “Okay. Start her off at a walk, counter-clockwise.”

  I lift my hands and the mare walks forward. As we move with the motion of the mare’s gait, Marsh’s hips push closer until I’m almost sitting in her lap. Her long legs come up so that her thighs press along the outside of mine, and I shudder. Even though morning holds a preview of autumn’s chill, perspiration trickles along my jaw and down my neck.

  “Nudge her into a fast walk with your knees, but don’t keep up the pressure, and don’t move your hands.” Marsh’s thighs gently tap against mine, indicating how I should signal the mare.

  Our pace picks up, and when I instinctively tighten my grip on the reins, Marsh’s hands are immediately on mine. “Relax. Don’t tighten up.” Her breath is hot on my neck, her voice smooth in my ear.

  I close my eyes and imagine another place. We aren’t on horseback, but in her office.

  “Again. Signal her to trot.”

  I’m naked. She’s naked.

  “Don’t keep squeezing. Keep your legs open and relaxed. Rest your weight on your hip bones as you sit tall, straight up and down, but not stiff.”

  I straighten to sit tall and smile when my aching crotch finds the mare’s hard backbone under the thin wool pad. Legs open. I visualize her reaching between them. Marsh’s fingers bite into my thighs. “No. Stop moving your hips. A sitting trot requires discipline. Let your weight help you match the motion of the horse. That’s better.” Her grip loosens. We go all t
he way around, then slow to a walk and turn back in the opposite direction to do it again.

  Thirty minutes later, the seat and thighs of my riding tights are soaked from horse sweat and arousal. So are Marsh’s jeans. I’m weak from wanting her, and my stomach muscles ache from the extra half hour of sitting-trot exercise.

  I groan as I slide to the ground, and my leg muscles scream at having to bear my weight. Marsh takes the reins from me.

  “I’ll take care of Fancy for you. I want you to go home and have a good, long soak in the tub.”

  I start to protest. It’s my responsibility to water, groom, and turn out the horse I’ve ridden. Her raised finger stops me before I can speak.

  “That’s not a request.”

  “But…”

  She moves her finger closer to my face. I close my mouth and nod.

  “Good. I also want you to drink plenty of water and eat some protein. Eggs and meat. Stay away from carbs. You don’t want to carb-load after exercise. Bodybuilders do that to make their muscles swell.” I might as well be naked under her hungry gaze. “You’re already perfect. Carb-loading will make you stiff. You need to be flexible for your lesson day after tomorrow.”

  She opens the gate and leads Fancy through it. I trail after them, already feeling stiff and looking forward to a good soak. “Will you be my instructor from now on?”

  Marsh stops and turns back to me. “No. Alex still has to teach you to post a trot.”

  Good grief. I watch her disappear into the stable and then hobble to my Volvo. Maybe it isn’t too late to invite her to dinner and dance naked on the table.

  Chapter Four

  A long soak and generous doses of ibuprofen don’t save me from the agony of sore muscles when I mount for my second hour-long lesson of how to correctly post a trot.

  “Forget the sitting trot,” Alex said over and over. “Posting a trot is entirely different.”

  That isn’t going to happen. Marsh is noticeably absent, her white truck missing from its usual spot near the equipment building. All I can think about is our last time together, her breasts pressing against my back, my ass against her crotch, and her hand flat along my quivering belly as she encourages me to sit tall and straight in the saddle. I squirm with the memory of my sex, swollen and wet, bumping hard against the ridge of Fancy’s backbone with each beat of her trot.

  “Not up and down. The motion of your hips should be forward.”

  But this feels so much better.

  “It’s a two-beat motion. Rise to the outside diagonal. Sit back on the second beat.”

  Alex watches me struggle a while longer, then waves me to the center of the ring. His expression is uncharacteristically stern. “Should we even continue this lesson?”

  I stare down at him from Fancy’s back. I should apologize, but I am sexually and mentally frustrated by Marsh’s absence. “I think my thighs and stomach are still too sore.”

  “If you posted the trot correctly, your calves would be taking all the strain.”

  “What’s an outside diagonal? I don’t really understand what you want me to do.”

  “Because you obviously aren’t listening to anything I’m telling you.” He runs his fingers through his hair and stares across the field for a long moment. “Lauren, if a little pain is an issue, then Marsh won’t be a good fit for you.” He sucks in a deep breath and lets out a heavy sigh. “She was hoping—” He shakes his head.

  “Alex?” He evidently knows something of Marsh’s plans, her feelings.

  “Forget I said that.” He looks up again, his smile forced. “Let’s call it a day, shall we? Take the weekend to recover, and we’ll try again on Monday, same time.” He turns toward the gate.

  Maybe if I’m honest, he’ll be more forthcoming. “Alex, wait.” I dismount, forgetting the soreness in my legs, and jog after him. I grab his arm. “Okay. I am a little sore, but that’s not the problem. I’m distracted because Marsh isn’t here and all I can think about was the last lesson when she took over.” I brush back a stray strand that’s freed itself from my French braid. “Hell. I’m only taking these lessons because of her.”

  “You’re not really interested in riding?”

  I shrug, but heat crawls up my neck as the image forms in my head. I am, but not the equestrian kind. “I am. But, honestly, I’m more interested in her.”

  He studies me, his brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you just ask her out?”

  “It certainly would be easier, wouldn’t it?” I hold his gaze. “But I want her respect. I don’t want to be just a fling.”

  He hesitates before he speaks, and when he does, he seems cautious. “Marsh doesn’t really date…not in the traditional sense.”

  “Good, because I really hate the dinner-and-a-movie thing.”

  His smile is slow and lights his eyes. “She’s in Germany, looking at a stallion she might buy a share in. She should be back early next week, but she hasn’t booked her flight yet.”

  My heart soars. I have a local book-signing engagement on Saturday. That will help pass the weekend. “Monday morning. I promise you’ll have my full attention. I’m going to get this right so I can show Marsh when she gets back.”

  * * *

  I stand and push my chair under the table, edging away from the middle-aged billboard for designer clothing who is chattering excitedly about my latest novel I’ve just autographed for her. All I want is a strong drink and quiet. I’ve been signing books for hours, and my hand aches. I wasn’t prepared for the crowd waiting for me inside and the line snaking deep into the parking lot of the Barnes & Noble bookstore.

  After nine increasingly successful mid-market novels, this book is a blockbuster hit. I’d thought it risky and almost didn’t let my agent have it. Fuming over a malodorous reviewer who said he could only tolerate my bland characters because of my thrilling plots, I made this heroine a bisexual detective with dominatrix tendencies. I had no idea of the reception it would generate.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I say again. I look helplessly at the store manager, who hovers nearby. She immediately takes the woman by the arm, steps in front of the table, and raises her voice.

  “I want to thank everybody for coming today and Ms. Everhart for so patiently signing books way past the time she agreed to be here. For those of you who arrived too late, we have some copies that Ms. Everhart signed earlier at the cash register.”

  I smile and give a little wave as members of the crowd applaud, then race to the cash-register line. I bend to grab my ever-present messenger bag in hope of a quick exit, but one last book slides under my nose.

  “You can sign one more, can’t you?”

  I rise slowly, pheromones instantly recharging my batteries, and dive into those pools of blue. “Marsh. I’m so glad you’re back. Was your trip successful?”

  “Yes. It was.” She smiles, her gaze roving over my face. “I went to buy a share in a horse but ended up buying another stallion entirely. He’ll ship to the States as soon as his paperwork clears. It was a better deal.”

  “Wonderful.” I pick up the book. “You shouldn’t have bought this. I’d have given you one if I knew you wanted to read it.”

  “Oh, I’ve already read your book. Alex bought it the day it released. I read his copy.”

  “But—”

  She gestures to a tall boy standing at the end of one row of books, and he walks hesitantly forward. As he draws closer, I realize I’m not certain he’s a boy at all. Nor am I certain he’s a she.

  “This is Jules Ransom, a fan of yours and a former student of mine. I sort of promised to use my influence to get your autograph to repay a favor.”

  “Of course.” I smile at Jules, searching the clean facial lines and lean body angles for some clue. My writer brain is cataloging each nuance. I’ve found my next character.

  “Thank you,”
Jules says, the voice also gender-ambiguous.

  “I guess Marsh told you I’m taking lessons from her, too.”

  Jules glances at Marsh, who nods. “Yes, she did mention it.” Amusement flickers in Jules’s eyes. “She’s mentioned it several times.”

  “You’ve got your book,” Marsh said. “Off with you.”

  Jules smiles for the first time and holds up the book. “Thanks for the autograph. Can’t wait to read it.”

  I shoulder my messenger bag, and we also head for the front of the store. It’s still early, and I’m not ready to let Marsh go. She must be tired from the time change, but she’s gone to the trouble of finding out when and where I was signing books, then flying back soon enough to catch me here. That realization erases the last of my fatigue. I’m about to ask her to have a drink with me when I step awkwardly off the curb and groan when it pulls at my sore muscles. Her hand is instantly around my arm, steadying me.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I feel foolish and clumsy. “I pulled something the other day and stepped wrong just now.”

  Marsh frowns. “Alex said he stopped your lesson yesterday because you were too sore.”

  “You know how men exaggerate.” I wave my hand dismissively, hoping he hadn’t told her what a pouty bitch I’d been. “I’m fine.”

  “Some hydrotherapy and a massage would help.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I have a treatment room attached to my cottage.”

  “Treatment room?” My writer’s imagination and my heart rate kick into overdrive.

  “I got banged up a lot when I rode professionally, so I installed my own equipment.” We stop at her truck, and she props her hip against it, resting her arm along its side.

  “You did?” I turn to rest my shoulders against the truck, just below her arm, and look up at her with an expression I hope is playful and flirty.

  “I’d had enough of doctors and therapists,” Marsh said. “I know my body well enough to be aware of what I need.”

  I make a show of looking down her long frame and back up, practically licking my lips. “Do tell.”