Night Tide

by Anna Burke

  The barn smelled like horse and hay and fresh pine bedding. Rubber mats lined the central isle, reducing the chill of the cement and the sound their boots made as they walked past stalls of drowsing, munching, and curious horses. Noses thrust over wooden doors, for the pastures had turned to mud and the barn manager had elected not to turn the horses out for fear of losing too many shoes to the sucking, icy muck. Gentle whickers of greeting followed them. Even the overhead lighting was soft, which she appreciated. The fluorescent bulbs were not as harsh as some of the barn lights she’d endured over the years, and the stable radiated warmth and cleanliness. Freddie recognized her footsteps and poked his head over his door. His ears pricked forward and his lips twitched as if he could already taste the treat she’d brought him.

  “He’s a huge baby,” she said as Freddie bobbed his head in anticipation. She pulled an oat cake out of her coat pocket and handed it to Lillian, who, holding her palm out flat, smiled as Freddie lipped it up. That smile banished the lingering chill.

  Lillian stroked Freddie’s muzzle and scratched the wide, flat plane of his cheek. “He’s gorgeous.”

  Freddie bumped Lillian’s chest, and, laughing with unrestrained pleasure, Lillian scratched the itchy spot beneath his forelock and let him rub his eye against her. He’d learned to be gentle over the years, and while some horses might accidentally knock a human over while vigorously using them as a scratching post, Freddie knew his own strength.

  “I’d love to watch you ride,” said Lillian.

  Ivy looked down at her jeans. “I’m not dressed for it.”

  “People ride in jeans.” Lillian looked her up and down with a boldness that left heat lingering in its wake. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing you in breeches.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Please do.”

  They were the only people in the barn, save for one of the ubiquitous teenage girls that barns attracted mucking out a stall at the far end, and Ivy took advantage of the quiet evening. She pushed Lillian against the stall door with her hips and gripped the bars on either side of her head, the bite of the metal cold even with her gloves. Lillian glanced around them once, then hooked her fingers into Ivy’s belt. Ivy’s breath caught on a groan as Lillian kissed her. She still couldn’t believe they were doing this, whatever this was, and how good it felt to lean into Lillian’s mouth. Freddie retreated into his stall and resumed browsing for missed stalks of hay.

  The slam of a car door broke them apart. Color highlighted Lillian’s cheekbones, and her dilated pupils reflected Ivy’s.

  “I was serious about watching you ride.”

  Ivy had ridden competitively most of her life, and yet no hypercritical judge or disdainful competitor had ever made her stomach swoop with nerves the way settling into the saddle with Lillian Lee looking on did. Freddie twitched his skin in a warning that if she didn’t pull herself together, her nerves would make him jittery. Deep breaths. She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, gathered her reins, and urged him into a walk with her seat. He complied and set off at a working walk with an ear cocked back, waiting for her next command.

  The butterflies subsided as she warmed up, though she was still hyperaware of Lillian, who sat on the small risers on the far end. Freddie’s strides loosened with each pass. She moved him through his gaits, as usual checking for signs of stiffness or lameness, and, satisfied, decided it was safe to show him off.

  She did not jump him anymore, but a part of her was glad of it as he bowed his neck and came onto the bit. She asked for turn-on-the-forehand and hindquarters, half-pass, shoulder in, piaffe and passage. Freddie was built for dressage, and she thrilled at his responsiveness. He came alive between her seat and legs, carefully contained power rippling through his haunches on the pirouette. His gait, always smooth, was nearly flight in extension, and while she knew the years and years of training that had gone into this moment, as they passed along the mirrors, she appreciated how effortless his movements appeared.

  Breathing hard, and not wanting to bore Lillian, though hacks like this made her want to ride forever, she slowed him to a walk, scratched along his mane, and raised her eyes to meet Lillian’s across the wall separating the risers from the arena. The sheer admiration on her face almost convinced her to repeat the whole thing over again.

  “I’m not a horse girl, but that?” Lillian waved at the ring. “That was . . . wow, Ivy.”

  She stroked Freddie’s neck again and bit her lip to keep from smiling too widely at the compliment.

  “I didn’t see your hands move at all. How did he know what you were telling him to do?”

  “It’s dressage. Part of the point is subtlety—and control. The least amount of pressure necessary is the right amount.”

  “I like that.” Lillian straddled the divider, moving slowly so as not to spook Freddie, and perched close enough for Ivy to reach out her hand and brush a gloved thumb across her chin.

  “You should try it some time.”

  “The last time I was on a horse was a friend’s birthday party when I was twelve.”

  Ivy slid off Freddie and uncinched his girth, setting the saddle on the dividing wall by Lillian.

  “What are you doing?” Lillian asked.

  She didn’t answer, and, glad to see Freddie had hardly broken a sweat, she swung on to his bare back. It was a trick she’d taught herself years ago that required momentum and upper body strength to execute. The fact she succeeded today in front of Lillian, after an extended lapse in practice, was a small mercy.

  His warm back soothed the muscles of her thighs. She rarely rode bareback, these days, but it was bliss in the wintertime. Freddie leg-yielded at her command until he stood parallel to the wall.

  “Get on,” she told Lillian.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Please?”

  “I don’t have a helmet.”

  She unfastened hers and passed it to Lillian, who took it and stared at it doubtfully.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “You can’t guarantee that,” said Lillian. Ivy remembered her fear of heights and warred with the desires to push Lillian and to let it go.

  “Please?” she asked again.

  Lillian wavered. Perhaps she didn’t want to back down, or perhaps she, too, had remembered their very first meeting. Or, and she hoped this was the case, perhaps Lillian had thought about how it would feel to sit with her arms around Ivy’s waist.

  “Okay.”

  “Slide on behind me. He won’t move.”

  Freddie twitched an ear as Lillian draped a leg across his back and then with a muffled whimper settled into place. The arms around Ivy’s waist closed, vise-like.

  “Breathe,” she told Lillian. “We won’t move until you’re ready.”

  Lillian took a shaky breath and Ivy suppressed a laugh. Freddie waited patiently.

  “Don’t do anything crazy.” Lillian’s breath tickled the back of her neck.

  “I just want to show you what it feels like.”

  She took them into a walk, her body tuned into Lillian’s seat, adjusting her own position and Freddie’s to keep them centered. “Let your hips move with him, and with me. Yeah. Better.”

  “God, we’re high.”

  “I’ve fallen more times than I can count.”

  Lillian stiffened. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “It doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. And I haven’t fallen in years. Freddie’s pretty chill these days.” She decided not to recite statistics about riders who’d ended up paralyzed or dead after bad falls.

  “Can we not talk about falling?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you breathing?”

  “Yes.” Lillian said the word into Ivy’s ear, and she shivered, wishing suddenly that Lillian was riding her instead of Freddie.

  “There are different types of walks. This is just a walk, but I’m goi
ng to move him into a collected walk. Let me know if you can tell the difference.” She closed her fingers slightly on the reins, tilted her seat, and put the barest pressure on his sides.

  “It feels . . . I’m not sure. Like he’s ready for something?”

  “Exactly. And this is an extended walk.” Freddie lengthened his strides at her request.

  “Oh it’s faster.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Definitely.”

  “He’s extending his stride, that’s all. This is a faster walk.” He picked up a working walk, and she paid careful attention to Lillian’s position. After a half circumference around the arena, Lillian relaxed.

  “Okay, this isn’t terrible.”

  “Want to try a slow trot?”

  “Isn’t that the bumpy one?”

  “The bumpy one?” she teased.

  “It’s been a while since I had to learn this.”

  “Freddie’s trot isn’t bumpy. Breathe, then hold on to me.”

  Freddie picked up a slow, floating trot. Lillian slid to one side but corrected herself before Ivy had to halt, and their hips moved together as she wove serpentines down the arena. Lillian’s arms loosened their death grip on her waist and settled over her stomach, sending a low heat through her abdomen.

  “Horses aren’t usually this smooth, are they?”

  “No. Freddie’s special. Hold on.”

  She put him into a half-pass, and then a leg yield, and Lillian exhaled shakily. “This is a lot harder than you’re making it look, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” No point in lying, even for modesty’s sake, and she wasn’t going to downplay their hard work.

  Eventually, after showing Lillian a few more dressage moves, she settled into an easy walk around the arena and enjoyed the warmth of Lillian’s body against her back and the press of her knees into her thighs. Lillian trusted her enough to get on a horse, despite her fear of heights. She wasn’t sure which thought warmed her more: the trust, or what it might imply. Their first meeting came back to her. She smiled at the memory of Lillian’s eyes flashing behind her bulky glasses. Would Lillian have climbed the ropes if she hadn’t goaded her?

  And here she was again, pushing Lillian out of her comfort zone. She wondered if she should feel guilty before discarding the thought. Let people like Brian and Morgan coddle Lillian Lee. She knew better. Lillian wanted to be pushed.

  • • •

  Her legs shook when they hit the ground. I just rode a fucking horse. Freddie’s back seemed even higher now that she knew what it felt like to sit astride it, but she didn’t have long to ponder her feat of bravery. Ivy dismounted after her and tangled a hand in the hair at the back of her neck, Freddie’s reins in the other, and kissed her deeply. Her body responded to Ivy’s tongue with an immediacy that demanded they leave the barn at once.

  Ivy pulled away too soon. She gasped, and Ivy grinned, nodding toward the exit. “Grab the saddle?”

  She complied. The saddle pad was cool to the touch, chilled from its time away from Freddie’s back. He’d been pleasantly warm and surprisingly comfortable. His spine hadn’t dug into her seat, nor had he been painfully wide. And Ivy—she glanced over at Ivy, who was watching her out of the corner of her eye. Ivy had felt strong and solid in her arms, totally in control in a way that might have pissed her off even a few months ago but instead made her want to bite the skin above her collarbone. Ivy was hot on horseback. The total concentration on her face as she’d put Freddie through his paces and the obvious trust the horse had in her hands was hypnotic. She could have watched Ivy ride for hours.

  Ivy took the saddle from her and rested it on the saddle rack by Freddie’s stall door. Freddie stood in the crossties, large brown eyes liquid and gentle.

  “Here.” Ivy handed her a curry comb. Remembering a few things from school, she moved it in circles over his hide while Ivy followed behind her with a bristled brush. His dark bay coat gleamed beneath the attention.

  Once he’d been groomed out and put away, Ivy grabbed the saddle, bridle, and tack box and led the way down the hall back to the tack room.

  “It’s heated,” she said as the door shut behind them.

  “So is the indoor,” said Ivy. “Which is why I’m boarding here. The barn is pretty well insulated, too, so it doesn’t get that cold, especially with the horses in.”

  The tack room was spacious as well as warm. Trunks and saddles gleamed with polish, and the smells of leather and saddle soap replaced the smells of hay and shavings. She hadn’t examined Ivy’s saddle closely while carrying it. Now, comparing it to some of the others, she could tell it was high quality. Ivy slipped a cloth cover over it, wiped the bridle and bit down with a cloth, and hung it on its hook. Her tack box went into a trunk. Lillian stopped her from shutting it to peer inside.

  Leg wraps. Saddle pads. Ointments and salves. Fly spray. Fly mask. Horse shampoo. More brushes and combs. Spare barn boots. And, lying on top of a sheepskin saddle pad, a riding crop. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” said Ivy.

  “Like what? This?” She took the crop by the handle and brought the leather tip up to rest beneath Ivy’s chin, tilting it. Ivy’s lips parted in a sharp inhale.

  “Take off your coat.”

  Ivy unzipped her jacket and set it on her trunk, her eyes never leaving Lillian’s face. Her sweater clung to her curves, and she trailed the crop down Ivy’s throat, tracing one collarbone before letting the tip dip into her cleavage. Lillian could feel her trembling through the shaft as she followed the curve of breast to ribcage and back. Ivy’s nipples hardened beneath the cashmere.

  She put slight pressure on the center of Ivy’s chest with the crop and pushed. Ivy sat on her trunk, gazing up at Lillian in silence, though her lips were parted and flushed. The sight thrilled through her. Carefully, afraid of hurting Ivy even as a part of her fantasized about what it might be like to bring the crop down across her bare ass, she flicked Ivy’s left nipple with the leather tip. Ivy’s hips jerked on the trunk and she leaned back, bracing herself on her hands and giving Lillian more room to maneuver. She repeated the motion, surprised at how good it felt to stand over Ivy with what was essentially a weapon in her hand.

  Well, maybe she shouldn’t have been that surprised. They’d fought for most of their relationship. All is fair in love and war.

  She drew a line between Ivy’s nipples. When she reached the right nipple, she circled the taut skin, memory erasing the fabric barrier. Ivy’s breath hitched when the crop touched her. Lillian flicked it over the tented fabric. She clamped her jaw shut on a groan as Ivy’s head tilted back, the long line of her neck exposed and her mouth open. She flicked her again, harder this time, and Ivy’s hands tightened on the edge of her trunk as her legs fell open.

  Lillian hadn’t done anything like this with Brian or any of the other men and women she’d been with. She’d had good sex, but nothing that soaked her instantly in a barn tack room. What am I doing? She thought, but the sound of Ivy’s ragged breathing made it impossible to second-guess herself or feel self-conscious. Ivy’s eyes dared her to go farther. To risk. To live fully in the moment. She flicked her a third time, relishing the way Ivy’s body responded, lithe and coiled and as contained as her horse had been.

  Her eyes followed the leather as it trailed down Ivy’s hip, and she used the crop to lift the hem of her sweater. The undershirt beneath had been tucked into her jeans for warmth. Rude. She travelled along the edge of Ivy’s belt and watched her stomach tighten through the thin cloth. Pausing at the buckle, she tapped the clasp. Ivy shuddered and bit her lip to keep quiet. She tapped it again, wanting to watch Ivy struggle for control. A whimper escaped Ivy’s lips. Rewarding her—or me, if we’re being honest—she dropped down along Ivy’s zipper until the tip of the crop lay against her center. Ivy’s eyes were half-lidded, and the sound of her breathing filled the room. Lillian traced the seam of her jeans down to her knee, then her calf, the
n back up and over the spot where her clit lay and down the other leg.

  “Lil—”

  She tapped the tip of the crop against the denim. Ivy bucked. Her own breathing was equally ragged now, and she couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone the way she currently wanted Ivy. She’d be willing to risk a charge of indecent exposure just to touch the crop to Ivy’s center, watching her wet the leather. The image stole her breath. She hadn’t thought she was into things like this, but she’d fuck Ivy Holden with the thick end of the crop right now if she asked. And those eyes didn’t just ask. They begged. She stepped closer, pulling the crop up and away to tease her nipples again, noting the flush spreading across the exposed skin of Ivy’s chest. She pulled the fabric down and watched, shamelessly, as the crop dipped into Ivy’s cleavage.

  “Fuck,” she said under her breath.

  Ivy’s shaky laugh was all the answer she seemed capable of giving. The swell of breast against the dark leather and the stray lock of blond hair falling over Ivy’s shoulder printed themselves indelibly on her mind. Ivy had a freckle above her right nipple. She memorized this, then caressed Ivy’s cheek with the crop before flipping it so that she held the shaft instead of the handle. She wanted to touch Ivy with her other hand, but something about the way Ivy sat, nearly prostrate before the touch of the crop, stayed her. Instead, she brought the handle down between Ivy’s thighs and swore, reverently, as Ivy closed her legs around it and moaned her name. She pressed it into her. Ivy’s hips moved with the slow rhythm, and then her eyes flew wide open as the latch on the tack room door lifted.

  Lillian dropped the crop and stepped back, pretending to examine Ivy’s saddle cover while Ivy tried to look like she was putting on her shoe. A middle-aged woman and her daughter entered and waved cheerily at Ivy. She smiled in a passable attempt at normalcy.

  “Good to see you, Jean,” Ivy said as she stood and grabbed her coat. “Ring’s all yours tonight.”

  Lillian avoided eye contact and fled the room after Ivy. Outside in the empty aisle, Ivy collapsed against her in a fit of silent laughter. Lillian felt like they were sixteen, nearly getting caught making out in an empty classroom, and the laughter that bubbled out of her throat was lighter than any she’d heard leave her own lips in years.