Inside the Lines: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel (11 page)

That gets his attention. “Wait, this is for me?” He holds up the neatly wrapped, lacy bag containing his purchase.

I grin. “Of course. Who else would it be for?”

He makes a show of turning around to go back in.

“Where are you going?” I ask, laughing and grabbing his arm.

“I’m exchanging it for a smaller one.”

Chapter 13

Behind the Barn Door

It’s been two days, and I miss him. Terribly. I’m pathetic, I know. But Fin’s like no one I’ve ever been around: easy to smile, honest, and without guile. It doesn’t hurt that he’s completely infatuated with all things Lux Trace, I admit. Unlike previous partners, he has his own interests and passions, and he shares them openly and with gusto. I actually
look forward
to hearing his thoughts, and while it’s only been a couple of weeks, I find myself thinking of excuses to text him, call him, or even better, see him in person.

Which is why I’m driving down a dusty back road right now, praying I don’t ruin my rented car’s paint job with the flying gravel. I’m somewhere outside the city, heading north. The mountain ranges loom, stark and foreboding. Or at least, I’ve always seen them that way, with their rocky hides and foggy silhouettes. I don’t know where I am. I pull over to review the map, then recheck the address he gave me for the horse farm he works at. And because I’m a total teenaged girl, I reread our texts.

I miss your cock.

You have no idea how much I miss that pale skin and hot mouth of yours.

Even now, my skin is no doubt pink with delight.

Hm…You should tell me more about that.

You mean the part about how I feel like a god when I have my cock inside you? Or the part where I want to pleasure you with my mouth, my tongue buried between your thighs?

I sigh. That was all from yesterday. Or was it two mornings ago, after the night we initiated the new vibrator? I squeeze my legs together at the instant arousal from my memory of the evening. Regardless, I had clients the last two nights, and we’ve been relying on sexy messaging to get us through. So this morning, he sent me this.

I cannot go another day without at least tasting you, smelling you, feeling your skin against me.

We should do something about that. :)

I’m working. But you are welcome to visit.

I felt weird about that, so I’d replied:

It’s okay. I can see you later.

I’ve seen you at work. Turnabout is fair play, right?

Given that this is one of the few Saturdays I’ve had off in my career as a Dom, it isn’t like I had other pressing things to do. Besides…my hands were shaking, and my stomach fluttered up near my throat at the idea of seeing him again. We won’t even talk about the state of my underwear. Dammit. How the fuck did this happen so fast? How did I go from mildly interested to seriously hung up?

My inner diva whined, but my sex drive hummed happily. We know who’s going to win this argument, right?

So here I am, driving out to God’s country on the outskirts of bumfuck, pulling up to a farm that is nothing like what I’ve imagined. I guess I always pictured farms and cows together. This farm has acres as far as the eye can see, with fenced off sections, some with horses grazing and others bare of life. The barns run in long lines that seem never-ending from the entrance. A manor house sits at the far end, surrounded by signs of children and the detritus of life lived quietly.

I study the trucks and cars parked across from the barns, but I have no idea what Fin drives or where to find him. What the fuck am I doing?

I park, my economy rental the odd man out amid the BMWs, Escalades, and Chevy trucks. I was smart enough to wear flat boots (original Doc Martens, for the win), but I went a little crazy on the outfit, complete with ponytails and cherry lip balm. And I probably should have thought more about the environment before I did so I realize as I shade my eyes from the blaring sun. It’s a rare Northeast fall day, where the temperatures are almost seventy degrees, as though summer is having one last temper tantrum before giving in. I survey the grounds for a glimpse of Fin. No luck, so I reach for my phone, turning so I can see the screen in the bright noon light. Mid-texting, I feel arms around my waist.

“Hello there,” Fin whispers in my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive spot along the bottom of my hair line.

I turn to find his mouth seeking mine, and for the moment, there is nothing more right than being in his arms, his lips hungry against my own. His hands seek purchase lower and discover my short skirt hides little else underneath.

“What’s this? Did ye forget yer knickers, lass?” he teases as he trails kisses over my jaw and neck.

My fingers twine in his hair, the heat of the sun nothing compared to the inferno blazing through me. “Last I checked, Scottish men wear nothing beneath their kilts, so I figured it would be disrespectful to go against tradition.”

His mouth silences me, and I nip the fullness of his bottom lip and am rewarded with a growl.

“Jesus, woman, ye’re killing me.”

“That’s my job.” I smile up at him.

With a finger, he traces my cheek, the tip falling into my very prominent dimple before reaching my chin. “Ye’re good at it. But I probably shouldn’t ravish ye here. Can I show ye around?”

“Sure. I’m curious.”

He eyes my clothing, his gaze wandering over my white, button-down shirt atop my pleated, red plaid micro-skirt, finished with black thigh-highs and garters. “Ye might make a bit of a stir in the barn.” He smiles, his light eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aye, ye’ll definitely make today...interesting.”

Taking my hand, he walks beside me, pointing out the paddocks, the main barn, and the auxiliary barns, along with several other sheds and such. He points out his own apartment, located over one of two old garages, and while it isn’t fancy, it looks well-kept. His accent, always pronounced, becomes even more so as he describes what they do, his passion for it ebullient. Eripio Farm is, simply, a rehabilitation farm. Horses who have either had trauma or have behavioral issues—or both—come here for treatment. John Littes, Fin’s mentor, is world-renown for his work with troubled horses and his unique methods of building relationships with them.

Fin guides me inside, introducing me to a few farmhands that nod politely.

“I was about to work with Nellie, if ye want to watch.”

“Please. That would be great.” The smell of the animals, manure, and hay combined with the indulgent odor of leather, is surprisingly pleasant. Relaxing, even. And I find myself drawn to the velvet noses that peek out as I wander while I wait for him to get Nellie out of her stall.

“Here, give them this.” A boy, around age eight, hands me a couple of greenish brown cubes. They barely fit in my palms, but I examine them.

“What are they?”

“Alfalfa cubes. They love ‘em. They’re treats,” he explains, his expression suggesting he finds me a bit dumb.

I juggle the cubes into one hand, then hold out the other. “I’m Lux.”

“That’s a weird name.” He eyes me curiously, then shakes with a grubby paw. “Will.”

“Good to meet you, Will.”

“Willie-boy, aren’t ye supposed to be in the house? I heard yer mum calling for ye, didn’t I?”

The boy glances up as Fin approaches with a huge tan horse tethered beside him. “Yessir.” And Will jettisons off.

“Little bugger. He likes to get me in trouble as he tries to hang out with me whenever I’m working.” Fin smiles. “But he’s a good kid.”

“Seems like it,” I agree, then hold up the cube. “What do I do with these?”

The horse’s ears immediately prick forward, and she raises her nose.

“Ye’ll have Nellie’s undying affection if ye offer her one. Here.” He takes my hand, places one in my palm, and directs my hand to Nellie’s nose. With surprising delicacy, her big lips pluck it from my fingers.

I laugh. “She’s quite the lady.”

“Aye, she is. When she wants to be, isn’t that right, girl?” He scratches her ears, and I offer her another cube. “Ye’ve not been around horses much then?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I petted one at a fair one time, I think. Come to think of it, I might have even ridden it. But this is probably the first time in my life I’ve been on any kind of farm.”

“T’is a crime. Come. Let me show ye what Nellie here can do.”

We walk to a round pen made of metal fences set in a circle, with one large gate that’s open. He leads Nellie inside, closing the gate behind them while I stand on the outside.

“What is she?” I ask, unsure if that’s the right way to ask about her pedigree. “I’ve never seen a horse that looks quite like her.”

He offers me one of his cockeyed smiles. “This girl’s a quarter horse, which is common enough. If ye’re asking about her coloring, she’s a buckskin.”

I don’t know what any of that means, but I nod as though it makes sense. He removes the lead and halter from her head, giving me the terms as he moves around the horse. He attends to her slowly, guiding his hands over her barrel and flank, and when he stops at certain spots, her ears flatten against her head, her back feet shifting ominously.

“What happened to her?”

He’s unflustered by her mannerisms. He pulls a funny looking grooming instrument out of one pocket and rubs it over her hide. “She was with someone who should never be around animals. Used to beat the tar out of her and shove sharp fingernails into her when she didn’t obey. It took years for someone to report the cruel woman. So now Nellie’s here, and we’ll retrain her so she can be adopted through the rescue program.”

“That’s amazing.”

He has an ease around her, despite her wariness, and after ten minutes or so, Nellie visibly relaxes. Eventually, he backs up, clucks to her, and tells her in a soft voice, “Walk, Nellie.”

He steps forward a bit, angling his body, and sure enough, Nellie starts to move. I jump when she bucks, kicking her legs out towards him, but he dodges her easily and follows her as she begins to circle him at a jagged speed around the pen. He tells her to walk again, but she ignores him, ears pinned back and nose flared, her mouth salivating wildly as she gallops the perimeter as though demons are chasing her. And I realize, they very well may be.

I wonder that he’s safe, but he’s completely unaffected by her. “Easy, girl,” he coos, his “girl” coming out as “gehl,” and seems soothing enough to me. And after her initial bouts of fear, Nellie calms to a nervous trot. After a few more minutes, his soft syllables—too quiet for me to understand—ease her temper, and she finally slows to a walk.

Eventually, she turns and walks up to him, facing him with her head cautiously dropped.

“Wow, you
are
a horse whisperer. What did you say to her?”

He lifts his hand, scratching her neck with slow strokes. “Oh, that? Nothing, actually. I just whispered an old Gaelic lullaby my gran used to sing. There’s nothing I can say that will shake her terrors, Lux. Just patience, and letting her know that I’m here, ye ken? And when she comes into the ring like this,” he moves around her now, sliding his hands over her, “it means she’s ready to work.”

I admire the thick ropes of muscle that harden his forearms as he passes those strong arms over Nellie’s back and side. She stands still, her ears twitching, but by far the most relaxed she’s been. When he moves into the working portion of her exercise, they communicate with nothing but bodies and words, his shifting and stepping with spoken commands, and Nellie speeding up and slowing down along the edge of the ring. At times he has to stand still and ignore her rebellion to get her to listen to him, but the session proceeds with minimal drama. It’s fascinating to see this strange, intimate connection.

When she’s fully lathered in sweat—as is he—he allows her to come into the center with him again, and he redresses her in her halter and lead.

‘That was incredible,” I say, and I mean it. “How do you do it? How did you get her from bucking bronco to obedient?”

He grins, pleasure over my compliment lighting his face beneath the grime from the ring. “Ye know, it’s not about obedience. Not really. It’s more about creating a relationship. A partnership, if ye will. She outweighs me by more than fifty stone or so. I’m not going to win against her in a fight, ye ken.” He nods to the big horse. “And she would like to fight me, no doubt to work off some of the cruelty of her past. When she submits, like ye saw her do, it’s then that she acknowledges our equality, ye see. We come into that moment together, nurturing the relationship.”

What he says makes sense, but there’s a strange keening inside me at his words. I stay quiet and walk back to the barn with him.

“Would ye like to get some lunch? There’s a barbecue stand down the road a few kilometers.” He looks down at his filthy jeans and t-shirt. “I’ll get cleaned up, and we’ll go if ye want.”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

I walk the barns while I wait, fascinated by the alternate world that exists so far outside of the bright lights and showy world of the city. I’m also a bit embarrassed by how I’m dressed, so I avoid treading anywhere that I hear voices. I end up in an old office, where faded show ribbons hang from the walls, collecting dust, and black and white pictures mingle with color images. All of them have horses and riders, and they represent something I’ve never experienced before—competition. Playing odds you could lose. And it occurs to me that perhaps that is what is bothering me lately. My life, despite the daring that others perceive it has, is safe. I am always in control of my interactions and sexual escapades. I choose, and while I’m not sure I always make the right decisions, there is no risk involved, either. Of course, with Kinked, all that is changing.