She looks up at me, one skeptical eyebrow raised. I stare back defiantly for a long second but can’t keep up the façade. I laugh and confess.
“I went to an all-girls school, and the other girls were happy to always let me lead. I just never got the hang of following someone else’s.” I dismount but keep my hands on Fancy’s flank to steady my wobbly legs.
“That’s your problem, Lauren.” Marsh’s breath warms my ear. “You have to let go a little.”
Holy mother. I freeze as my arms pebble with gooseflesh. God, I want her to press me against this horse, lick the sweat from my neck, and slip her long fingers into my breeches. I almost whimper at the loss of her heat when she steps back.
“Give her a good wash,” Marsh says, her voice still low. “She’s pretty sweaty, so be sure you scrub between her thighs or she’ll chafe.”
I nearly groan because the image her words conjure has nothing to do with a horse and everything to do with Marsh between my thighs. Maybe after Fancy’s bath, I’ll turn the water to cold and hose myself down.
* * *
Fancy is silky clean and happily munching her dinner in her stall, but I’m a mess of dirt, hay, and dried sweat. Even that isn’t enough to keep me from finding out if Marsh has dinner plans. She retreated to the barn office after our lesson but left the door partially open. I take it as an invitation, since she normally keeps it closed against the dust in the rest of the barn.
“Hey,” I say, waiting in the doorway to be invited inside. She looks up from the laptop where she’s entering information. Alex has warned that working on the business’s quarterly taxes sometimes puts her in a bad mood, but she waves me in.
“What’s up?”
God, what isn’t up? My need to have her mouth on me, my neck, my breast, my… I mentally shake myself from those lascivious thoughts.
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
She points to the computer. “Paperwork. There’s a local show Saturday, and I’ve got to finish registering the kids from our stable who want to compete. The event is a fund-raiser for a program that arranges pony camps for underprivileged kids, so we encourage as many as possible to sign up.” She grimaces. “Their parents write the entry-fee checks, but I have to decide which classes they’re qualified to enter and fill out all the registration forms. Then I have to get started on the quarterly taxes.”
Wow. That does seem like a lot. I’ve never thought about all the work that goes along with running a show barn. But I’m selfishly not ready to end our time together today. I bend over and massage my right calf.
“Well, darn. I was hoping to buy you dinner in exchange for use of your therapy room and maybe get that massage you promised me before.”
Marsh’s nostrils flare, and her blue gaze practically scorches my backside. I feel no shame for taunting her like this.
She clears her throat. “Your offer is enticing, but I’ve already called Alex. He’s bringing me a sandwich from the roast he and Harrison are having for dinner. And this paperwork has to be done tonight.”
I straighten. The child in me pouts that I’m always at the back of the line. The grown-up in me, however, recognizes we are adults with adult responsibility. The shoe would be on my foot if she were inviting and I was up against a book deadline. “I understand.”
Crap. With her at a show all day Saturday, I probably won’t see her again until my lesson on Monday. I want to say more, but Marsh has returned her attention to the laptop. I turn to leave.
“I’m free for dinner tomorrow.”
I pause mid-step, nearly stumbling, and my sulk vanishes like mist in the sun. “I’m also free tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
I pull my Lexus next to Marsh’s truck and put it into park. We had a wonderful dinner at one of the few five-star restaurants in town, talking easily about horses, books, movies—anything but our pasts or families—over an amazing five-course dinner. Now we sit in my car, outside Marsh’s home, and I want more. More time with her. More of her rare touches like her hand on my back as we wove between tables to our intimate booth in the back of the restaurant. I want to warm myself against her leather blazer and sneak my hands under it to caress the cashmere V-neck that’s the same blue as her eyes. Damn, she is so sexy, I can barely contain myself.
Normally, it would have been my hand on her back, guiding her to our table. I’d issued the invitation and picked her up for our date. But Marsh has a natural aura of command to which I instinctively, unconsciously, and willingly submit. That’s why I’m hesitating now when all I want to do is draw her to me and kiss her senseless. She seems to sense my dilemma, her eyes darkening to a royal blue as they hold mine.
“Come inside for a nightcap.” She’s unbuckling her seat belt and putting her hand on the passenger-door release as she issues the invitation Marsh-style—not a question, but not a command.
Every fiber in me wants to scream yes, but I call on my last thread of control. “I will.” Reassured by the calm I manage in my voice, I add, “As long as that nightcap isn’t Jägermeister.”
Marsh doesn’t answer, but before I can unbuckle my seat belt and reach for my door handle, she’s out, circles to my side, and opens my door for me. She holds out her hand, and although I don’t need assistance, I give her mine. Her warm fingers loosely clasp mine, clearly not an assist but a gallant courtesy. I shiver when she drops my hand to unlock the door and wrap my arms around myself. Although the days are still pleasant, autumn has begun to chill the nights. Her warmth immediately returns, and the hand is back—on my elbow this time to guide me inside.
She flips a switch that bathes the living room in soft light, and then another that ignites the gas logs in the fireplace. “Have a seat.” She indicates the living-room grouping that faces the fireplace. “I have a very good Napa brandy I purchased last time I visited the West Coast,” she says, going over to a beautiful oak cabinet to extract the brandy and two medium-sized snifters. “Are you a brandy drinker?”
“Mostly wine,” I say. “But brandy is a liqueur, isn’t it? Sort of like a condensed wine, right?”
“It’s not concentrated wine, but it is a liqueur,” she says, sounding pleased that I know, well, guess that.
“I drink Fireball.”
She laughs as she shakes her head. “You are such a contradiction—a rich debutante who drinks Fireball.”
“I’m not a debutante.” I poke my lips out in a mock pout.
“Forgive me. Socialite, never a debutante.” She tilts her head and gives one nod, but her amused expression discredits her polite concession. “I can see where you could mistake it for a liqueur or a wine concentrate. Brandy is made from a blend of fruit and spices. Fireball is cinnamon-infused whiskey.”
My cheeks heat, even though her correction is gentle, not ridiculing. “Am I about to get a lesson in brandy?”
She pours a generous serving in each glass and hands one to me as she joins me on the sofa. She crosses her long legs in an uncharacteristically feminine gesture and sits at an angle that allows her to observe me. I like being reminded that she’s a woman, no matter how handsome she is or how much power she exudes.
“I spent more than a few summers when I was younger working and learning from an equestrian master in Germany. Horses were her passion, but exporting and importing liqueurs was her family’s business.”
I was intrigued. “That’s why you’re fluent in German?”
“And French. I’m passable in Spanish and Italian. I also know enough Greek to order in a restaurant, ask for the ladies’ room, or swear at a taxi driver.”
“Wow. You didn’t say anything before when I was bragging about speaking all the romance languages. And I’ve never studied Greek. You’re making me feel like a rube.”
Marsh cocks her head, her expression assessing. “I don’t know a word of Russian, like you do, and I’m a horribl
e speller in any language. You certainly are not a rube, as you say. I’m completely in awe of your novel-writing talent, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It does.” Her compliment warms me more than the fireplace, and my heart goes from a walk to a trot when she puts down her glass and edges closer.
She takes my glass from me. Is she finally going to kiss me?
“This is the way you hold a brandy snifter,” she says, placing the glass so I cup it in my hand rather than hold the stem with my fingers. “Your hand warms the glass, therefore the brandy, which enhances the taste.”
She picks up her glass again, and her eyes hold mine as she lifts the snifter to her nose and inhales. I mimic her action, then hold mine out to swirl as I would to judge a wine. Her hand on my arm stops me.
“While there are two schools of thought on this, I was taught that swirling brandy breaks down the flavors to escape into the air. That explains why brandy is served in snifters. The larger bowl of the glass allows for cupping it in your hand to warm the brandy, but the mouth of a snifter narrows to keep in the flavors.” She brings her glass to her nose again. “Unlike some wines, brandy doesn’t need to breathe. You should drink it as soon as it’s poured.”
I’m mesmerized by her knowledge, by the flare of her nostrils when she inhales, and entranced by her mouth as she tilts the glass to take a sip. She closes her eyes for a long second before swallowing, and then her lips part, and her chest rises with a deep inhale. I lick my dry lips, and my own throat convulses with my urgent need to also taste that brandy, but on her lips and on her tongue. Hell, on her tonsils. I reach to cup her cheek like she cups the snifter, but she stops me.
Marsh folds her hand around mine to gently restrain it. Her eyes are bright. “Sip your brandy, Lauren. Hold it in your mouth to fully experience the flavors before you swallow. Then part your lips and inhale to let the air ignite the flavors across your tongue.”
I do as she instructs, just as I’ve seen her do. I hold it, thick and smooth on my tongue, then swallow. The burn comes with my inhale and leaves the distinct flavor of… “Orange peel. And a hint of cinnamon. No, ginger.”
She smiles and takes my snifter to place it on the coffee table next to hers. “Maybe I should taste for myself.” I watch her lips form the words, barely comprehending before they brush against mine. Her tongue bathes mine when I open to her. The burning isn’t on my tongue or even in my throat now. It’s in my belly, lighting a fire in my sex. God, I want her. I reach for her, but she withdraws an inch, her breath still warming my face and filling my nose with the aroma of oranges, ginger, and Marsh’s own earthy scents of leather and fresh-cut hay.
“I can see you’re used to taking what you want, but that’s not what you need, Lauren.” She captures my hands in hers and holds them.
“What do I need?” I’m still breathless from the kiss and my desire to have her mouth again.
“You need to trust yourself.”
What? Trust myself? I trust very few people, but I count myself at the top of the list.
She picks up a remote, and the room fills with a soothing piano waltz. She holds out her hand. Bedroom? Yes. To hell with sipping. I pick up my glass and throw back the rest of my brandy, then lay my hand in hers. She leads me around the sofa and out of the furniture grouping to the open floor between the fireplace seating and the kitchen. Then she pauses, turns, and draws me to her. I go willingly into her arms. I’ll be happy if she just marches me into the bedroom and tears my clothes off. But this slow seduction has my heart tripping over itself.
Instead of her lips, I get her hips pressed against mine. She begins to sway, her hands on my hips keeping me tight against her while the pressure of her hips guides mine in a slow, sexy, swirling motion.
“See? You can let someone else lead.”
God, her mouth is so close to my ear. If she will just bend her head a little and suck that sensitive spot on my neck. I close my eyes when she lays her cheek, soft and warm, against mine and sink into her long, lean body that fits so well against my curves. Our movements widen with the music washing over us, and then our feet are moving. My eyes pop open.
We are dancing and I panic. I try to concentrate, to anticipate her movements and pray I won’t…damn. I step on her foot. I mean really step squarely on it. And stumble. Marsh, of course, catches me before I mutilate her other foot.
“God, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? I warned you I can’t dance unless you…unless you let me lead.” My words start out in a fast jumble, then trail off because she’s staring at me with an expression I can only describe as hungry. She is a wolf about to swallow the canary who is singing nonsense.
“Wait here,” she says, and disappears.
I stare after her. She finally goes into the bedroom but doesn’t take me with her. My plan to get her naked body next to mine isn’t going well. I’ve worn my sexy silk blouse and fine linen pants—not to mention my sexiest underwear—for nothing. God, she might as well turn that damned music off. My agitation swells, and I start to look around for my purse. Clearly, the spell is broken and the evening is over.
Then the music changes, and Norah Jones purrs for me to come away with her as Marsh emerges from her mission.
“Turn around,” she says.
I protest. “Maybe I should go before I mutilate your other—”
“Lauren.” Her fingers press against my lips to silence me. “I let you invite me to dinner, choose the restaurant, and drive us. You were in control. I am in control here. You can choose to leave if you really want, but my foot is not hurt, and I’d like you to stay.” She caresses my cheek with the lightest of touches. “As always, it’s your choice. If you stay, I’d like to teach you something about yourself.”
I tremble at her touch. How can I refuse? I turn slowly to give Marsh my back as she asked. Hands gently arrange my long hair to drape behind my shoulders, and then moist lips trail along my neck. Swoon is no longer just a word I use in my novels, because I feel it to my very toes.
Then everything goes dark.
Chapter Twelve
Complete darkness.
I suck in a surprised breath, and then her lips are on my neck again, her arms wrap around me from behind, and Norah is crooning for someone to take her home and turn her on.
“You’re okay,” Marsh whispers in my ear. “I’ve got you.”
I am okay. I just wasn’t expecting the blindfold Marsh slid over my eyes, leaving me totally in her control.
I clutch at her arms when they loosen, but she only lets go enough to slip around to face me and move down me. Holy Mother. I want to yank open my pants, just in case she’s unsure she has my permission. I’ve been ready for her, hot and wet, since she kissed me on the sofa. I moan my disappointment when I realize my shoes—not my belt and zipper—are her intended target.
“So you won’t be worried about stepping on my feet,” she says as she removes my low-heel ankle boots. Shoes gone, she moves back up me, always keeping some point of contact so I don’t feel adrift. I don’t even try to hold back the impatient grunt when she bypasses my belt again. The deprivation of sight and anticipation of where I’ll feel her next has me throbbing. I’m close to begging for an old-fashioned slam-bam, thank you, ma’am.
She soothes my frustration with a brush of her lips against mine as she places my right hand on her shoulder and takes my left in hers to tuck it against her chest. I can feel the swell of her breast against my forearm. Her free hand presses against my lower back to snug my hips against hers, and Marsh begins to sway with Norah’s bluesy tune. Her cheek rests against mine as we move together. This is so nice.
Then her right hip presses so that I have to take a small step back to keep my balance. I stiffen. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’ll trip and fall in an embarrassing tangle of legs, or I’ll stomp her foot again. Thank God she removed my shoes.
&n
bsp; “Don’t think, Lauren. Just feel. Let me have you. I won’t let you fall.”
Oh, yeah. She can have me all right. On the sofa. On the floor. In her whirlpool. On the massage table. That thought opens the door to a whole new set of mental images that makes me press my breasts against hers and my nose to her throat, where I inhale her scent. The leather of her blazer mingles with the aroma of orange brandy and the smell of soap. I’m puzzling over which soap has that clean, fresh scent when I realize our sway has graduated to small steps, then slightly larger ones, from a small circle to cover a larger area. I start to stiffen, but her lips on my neck again distract me from my fear of tripping.
“You’re a wonderful dancer.” I’m almost startled by my own voice. I can talk and dance at the same time. I am so busy marveling over this discovery that she steps back, raises my hand over my head, twirls me away, and then pulls me back into her arms before I can freeze up. I’m smiling and a little breathless when she does it again.
“You are, too,” she said. “When you stop thinking and give yourself permission to feel.”
It’s then that I realize that, without my sight, I’m responding only to the pressure of her hands and body against mine. I’m not giving a single thought to where my feet go. Until now. Because thinking about not thinking about my feet makes me stumble slightly.
Marsh hums her disapproval and tightens her arms. Her lips cover mine, not a gentle brush as before, but a kiss with purpose. I eagerly open to her questing tongue, cupping her nape to encourage her plunder. Then I’m spinning again, more forcefully than before, and find my back to her front when she guides my return. Nora is still asking for her lover to take her home and turn her on.
“You are a conundrum, Lauren Everhart. So beautiful and spirited, but so hobbled by your fear.”
Unbridled Page 11
