SWNOVELS A Photo Finish: Chapter 23
WHEN I SEE Cole marching out of the barn, I can’t help but smile. When I get close enough to him, I look away. He’s so beautiful it hurts. He looks like a storm cloud, dark and menacing, and problematic for my panties. But I know better, he’s a big puppy d . . .
I lose my train of thought when he wraps his hand around my wrist and drags me back toward the barn.
“What’s wrong?”
He pulls us into the darkened shed row and then straight into an empty stall. When he turns me to face him, he’s all steely eyes and hard lines. He prowls forward, and I back away. Not because I’m scared. More because I don’t trust myself not to combust under a gaze like that. I can’t believe I was about to call the man a puppy dog. My nipples rasp against my bra, and I press my thighs together as I bump into the wall.
I hold one hand up to stop him. “Cole. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” His voice is low. “What’s wrong is I can’t stop thinking about you. And those perfect tits. And that tight little cunt. And those pretty little lips.”
I moan and feel my face go pink. He may have been vulnerable last night, but this is the Cole I remember. Gruff and filthy, and so damn hot. The man who could push me to my limits—exactly where I want to go.
I try to say something, but my lips just open and close like a fish out of water. Like a girl out of her league.
“Do you have panties on this time?” His intense eyes scan me, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake.
I go pure red, from head to toe, and look around us. The stall is lower than the alleyway with no bedding in it, just rubber mats, and we’re pushed up into the corner behind the front wall. No one would see us unless they specifically came into the stall.
I roll my shoulders back and look him square in the eye, refusing to be shy Violet. I shed that skin a long time ago—at least, in my head I did. “Yes.”
“Turn around.”
“What?” I feel my eyes bug out of their sockets.
“I said turn around.” My blood hums through my veins as I take a shaky breath and turn to face the wooden wall of the stall. “You drive me crazy. Do you know that?” He steps in close, and I feel his heat along the entire length of my back, his breath across the nape of my neck.
“Good,” I reply honestly. “Serves you right.”
His breath hisses out, and he finally puts his hands on me, right where my waist nips in. And then he’s taking fistfuls of my dress, pulling it up, the hemline tickling the backs of my bare thighs as he does. “I should spank you for talking like that.”
I moan and shimmy my ass, brushing it up against the hard bulge at the front of his pants.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I breathe out.
One minute, I’m in my element: galloping toward the finish line, winning a race, waiting on results, and weighing in; the next, I’m bent over and rubbing up on the man I can’t stop thinking about. Getting spanked for being mouthy. His palm lands swift and sure against the bare cheek of my ass, and I can’t help the needy whimper that spills out over my lips. The sting blooms into heat, and I love the feel of it.
Today is a good day.
One of his palms presses between my shoulders, and he kicks my feet apart with perfect authority, complete control. Over himself and over me.
A thrill races down my spine, and I submit under his touch, allowing him to bend me forward. Is it okay for me to be fiercely independent everywhere except when his hands are on me? Because right now all I want to do is exactly what he tells me and just let go for a little while, to not try so hard for a few minutes. It’s addictive. Freeing.
My breath comes in choppy spurts as he lays my skirt across my lower back and hooks his fingers into my lacy panties, dragging them down, leaving them stretched between my thighs. He runs his hands over my ass, giving me an appreciative squeeze. “You look downright edible with a little bit of pink on that ass, Violet.” His voice is quiet, but I feel it in my bones. Like his body is speaking right to mine. “But I’ll save that part for when I get you home. Back in my bed where you belong.”
“Fuck. Yes,” is all I can manage before going completely mindless as he slides a couple of fingers between my legs. I usually feel scrawny when I’m naked, unfeminine, but with Cole’s hands on me, I feel like a different woman.
He groans and I shiver as he slides a finger inside me. “You’re wet already. Dirty girl. You do like that, don’t you?”
“You have that effect on me,” I rasp out as I look over my shoulder.
His eyes hold mine, dark and frantic. “Tell me what you want.”
I don’t even need to think about my response. “More. Always more.”
One hand shoots out to grip my chin roughly. His lips crash into mine as he fumbles with his belt and zipper. He shoves his tongue into my mouth. He’s not searching or asking—he’s taking.
And I’m giving.
I feel the blunt end of his cock slide against my seam and moan into his mouth. Suddenly I’m ravenous. Everything is taking too long. Time is moving too slow. I’m greedy.
I arch my back and push myself on him, feeling him slide inside of me. Hard and fast. Just like the kiss. Relentless and unforgiving, that’s what we are in this moment. Two bodies joined. Two people running at each other without the sense to stop before they crash.
Our mouths part, and I turn back toward the wall, dropping my head as he slams into me. One of his hands grips my hip, and the other slides firmly up over my back. His calloused fingers hover over my neck, right to the base of my skull, before his grip wraps gently around my throat, essentially holding me in place.
Like I might leave him.
I want to tell him that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here. But my mind is mush, and my body is burning. The words don’t come.
When his hand slides across my hip and over my stomach, he pulls me tight to him, shoving me forward into the wall before his fingers move down and press on the perfect spot. I rock in his arms as his fingers circle, driving me higher and higher. Right toward a cliff. I should know better than to jump from such heights, but I’m past the point of caring.
I leap and plunge right over the edge with him inside me. And he follows. I feel him twitch and go still as he covers my body with his. I sigh when he relaxes over me, his lips replacing his hand at the nape of my neck as he peppers kisses down my spine. His breathing is heavy in my ear.
“That was . . .” I can’t put it into words. Inappropriate? Unprofessional? Super fucking hot?
“Yeah,” he replies, sounding just as breathless as me, as he leans down to pull my panties up and smooths my dress back down over my bare legs. His touch is warm and reverent as he sets me to rights. And when he spins me around to face him, he kisses me sweetly, longingly.
Cole is a man of dichotomies. Hot and cold. Rough and soft. Intense and relaxed. Confident and uncertain. He’s multifaceted. And in the weeks I’ve spent around him I’ve come to realize that I like every facet. Love them? Maybe. But that sounds like the ramblings of a lovesick girl swept off her feet by a rich older man who she’s been lusting after for years. And I don’t want to be that girl. So, I don’t let myself go there.
Instead, I kiss him back with all the feeling I can muster. All the longing, the affection, the acceptance—I want him to feel it all. That I’m here for him. Just the way he is.
When he smiles against my lips, I wonder if I’ve succeeded.
“Can I come to your place tonight? Once I finish up down here?” I ask quietly.
He offers me one of those rare soft, panty-melting smiles as he cups my head in his palms and gives me one of his quintessential one-word answers. “Yep.”
I let out a giggle as he pulls me into his embrace, wrapping me inside his steely arms, and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.
Cole Harding is way more romantic than he lets on.
“OPEN THE GATE.”
Cole stares back at me, bulging biceps twisted together across his chest, legs wide. I chuckle internally. When Billie calls him G.I. Joe, this is what I envision. Army green joggers and a black T-shirt that is being downright abused by his muscles.
Just like I have been for the last couple of weeks. Every time we’re not working, or in public, we’re naked. Together. I like to think of it as making up for lost time.
“Are you sure?” I know he wants to tell me no. I know he worries about me riding. I know his father’s death haunts him. He doesn’t need to have told me explicitly for me to have pieced it together. You can’t live in fear of these unexpected tragedies, though. And the only way I can prove this to him is to have him hang out with me and the only horse he likes. I want him to see the fun—the joy—riding a horse can bring to his life.
I’m sitting on Pipsqueak’s back, and he is being a literal gatekeeper. He doesn’t want me to take her out into the fields even though I’ve spent the last couple weeks getting her started in the arena. She’s walking, trotting, and cantering under saddle now. The steering still leaves something to be desired, but that will come.
Plus, steering doesn’t matter much in a big open field.
“Very sure.” I give him my best serious look, trying to instill confidence, though I’m sure I just look like a mischievous child trying to pull a fast one. The fact is, I’m not very sure. You can’t be sure of anything in life. That you won’t die having baby number four. Or on horseback. Or in an IED explosion. There aren’t any guarantees. I mean, hell, if someone told me two years ago I’d be the jockey for the world’s most popular racehorse, I wouldn’t have believed that was possible either.
But here I am. Living. Taking life by the horns. Exactly like I promised myself I would. My dad couldn’t stop me, or my brothers, and definitely not Cole. I want him around me for the long haul. And I need him on board if that’s going to happen.
He still doesn’t look sure, but he unlatches the gate and holds it open so I can steer Pippy onto the driveway. The hills near the barn look so lush and green this time of year. I love running races on the track, but galloping across an open field takes me back to my roots. Back to Alberta’s foothills where I grew up kicking cow ponies across the range. British Columbia is beautiful, but I miss that prairie feeling sometimes. Less polished, more country, endless flat land.
I walk past him as Pippy’s ears flick around. Her neck comes up higher now as she looks at her surroundings. She’s sweet and calm, but even she can feel that something else is happening right now. That’s the biggest question mark with this filly. Is she too mellow to run?
“Good luck,” Cole bites out, every part of him tense as he watches me go.
I look over my shoulder, wink, and blow him a kiss, trying not to let myself linger on his ashen face, the way it matches his gray eyes. He looks sick, and if I let myself stare at him for too long, I’ll hop off and hold him instead. So I turn my game face onto the field ahead of me. Time to find out what this little filly has under the hood.
Once I hit the edge of the grass, I give her ribs a gentle squeeze, urging her into a trot. Her head is still swiveling around and when she senses we’re heading out of her bubble, she lets out an excited whinny.
I wince. Such a pretty horse. Such a terrible sound. We go down a gentle slope and then all that’s before us is the freshly cut hay field with a big hill at the end of it—same one that Billie conditioned DD on. In case my brakes fail, my plan is to use that to slow down if needed, like one of those runaway lanes for semi trucks on the highway.
I run the leather reins through my fingers, shortening them, and adjust my feet in the irons, wanting to be as stable in the tack as possible before I let Pippy gallop for the first time. At my change in position, her back comes up, and I feel her haunches go tight. Like she knows what’s coming.
When I slip one leg behind the girth and give her a little nudge, she breaks into a comfortable canter, still feeling a little uncertain. Like she doesn’t know what I want from her. She’s such a people pleaser. It doesn’t surprise me at all. It’s like she doesn’t want to put one hoof out of place.
I move up in the tack, getting off her back, and loosen my elbows, letting my hands float higher up her neck. Her ears flick back in question, so I give her a squeeze with my legs and a firm cluck. She bursts forward almost instantly. And then I smile.
Because I’ve got a racehorse on my hands.