Page 47 of The Bossy Billionaire

“Easy, boy,” Huxley says, rubbing his hand down its nose, the horse sniffing him and pushing his nose against Huxley’s hand.

“He is all ready for you, sir,” one of the stable hands says, passing over the reins and stepping back.

“Nervous?” Huxley looks at me, a cheeky grin on his face.

“He’s big,” I say, wary of the animal. “I have never been up close to a horse like this before. Well, if you don’t count the one time I had a pony ride at the regional fair just outside of Baltimore when I was eight. It was my parents' attempt at getting away from the bookstore for the day, even though it was our entire life and where we spent ninety-nine percent of our time,” I tell him, finding it so easy to open up to him about everything now. I am not sure when that happened. The trust I now have in this man far exceeds any I have with anyone else.

“You can handle it,” Huxley says, his eyes shimmering. He is taking too much delight in my apprehension of horse riding today. Ever since I met him, he has pushed me to the edge of my boundaries. Whether it is in the shop, when he talked me into charging for coffee the first time he came in, convincing me to dance the night of the gala, and getting me to enjoy myself for the first time in a long time. Or now as he looks at me with pure challenge in his eyes, pushing me to get on this large black beast.

I bite my bottom lip absentmindedly as I look at the horse.

“That fucking lip…” he growls, his voice shimmering down my body, landing between my legs as he cups the back of my head and slams his lips onto mine. He kisses me passionately before pulling back, leaving me panting and in a little shock as he goes back to the horse, checking the saddle.

I watch him manage the horse diligently. I know he would never put me in harm’s way. I trust him, and I know he also trusts me, just purely for the fact that he gave me full access to his cell phone earlier. Unheard of by men these days.

“Right, get on,” he says, looking at me expectantly.

“Excuse me?” I ask, too lost in my own thoughts and startled.

“Grab on to this, put your foot into the stirrup, and pull yourself up,” he says, showing me what to do.

“I don’t think…” I start but he cuts me off.

“You can and you will,” he says, his full bossy self coming out. He grabs my waist and turns me so I am facing the horse. I reach out and pat it a bit, feeling the silky hair under my fingers. My heart is racing, not quite believing that I am about to do this.

“Okay, boy,” I murmur, wondering if I am the craziest person on the planet right now. I look at Huxley. “We could just go for a walk, right? We don’t have to get on the hor—”

“Get on.” He doesn’t give me an inch. My brothers would have a heart attack if they knew I was getting onto a horse of this size with my leg not yet strong enough.

“Go,” Huxley says sternly, slapping my ass cheek, and I yelp a little.

“Fine.” I grip on to the saddle, put my foot in the stirrup, and pull myself up. My thigh clenches immediately, but my grip is tight, and my arm muscles work overtime trying to pull myself up. Huxley's hands grab onto my ass, pushing me up with ease, and I throw my leg over.

“Oh my God… I did it.” My voice wavers as I look, wide-eyed, at Huxley and see nothing but immense pride on his face.

“I had no doubt, now shuffle forward.” He copies my move and throws himself up, positioning himself behind me, his pelvis sinking right into my back. His large, strong thighs cover mine, one of his hands gripping the leather harness, the other resting on my hip, pulling me back into him, and I fit like a Lego into his chest.

“There. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it,” his voice murmurs in my ear, then kisses my neck, and my nipples pebble. I feel him hard at my back, as he is clearly enjoying this as much as I am.

“Not as hard as you right now,” I murmur, grinning, so happy that I was able to get up and excited about our day ahead.

“Something you can fix for me later.” Kissing my jaw quickly, he urges the horse forward and we exit the barn. I take a deep breath as we slowly make our way out into the paddocks, leaving the civilized world behind us, Huxley’s house getting smaller and smaller.

“This is so pretty out here,” I say quietly, my leg doing okay, my eyes darting around everywhere. There is so much to look at.

“We have a large dam over that way. The forest goes for miles over there.” Huxley points around, and I take in everything he is telling me. “I’m going to take us over this ridge and around the corner and we might find some of those chamomile flowers your mom loved so much.” I melt a little. My mom would have liked Huxley. My dad too. It is kind of him to take me to see the flowers and maybe pick some. He remains silent, looking over his property as I investigate the forest, the trees so large, they must have been planted years ago. All symmetrical, all in line. It looks equal parts peaceful and like something from a horror film.

The sun is high in the sky as we make our way over the ridge and around the corner, and my breath catches. “Is this all chamomile?” I ask him in awe. The field is full of it. I have never seen it grow on a farm in real life. It is fluffy and bushy and everywhere.

“Yep. It has grown a bit since I was last here. The workers usually come and pick it for the locals or their families,” he says, bringing the horse to a stop and jumping off, before leaning up and grabbing my waist. I slide off the horse, it ignoring me completely as he buries his head into the grass, probably enjoying the break from having us on his back.

“Wow, this is so pretty.” I try to take it all in but feel overwhelmed. Stepping forward, I brush my hands across the bush, looking at the small, pretty flowers. I bend down, smelling them, and a sense of calm comes to me instantly. “Did you plant them?” I ask, looking back at Huxley, who is watching me intently.

“Years ago, when I first purchased the property, there were a small few bushes here, and over the years it has just grown. I planted a few extra ones, and it has just taken off since then. It’s a pretty flower. Your mom had good taste.” Walking toward me, he starts picking the flowers.

“She did.” I sigh, thinking about her. “She used to drink chamomile tea every night before bed. Said it was the only way she could sleep properly. My dad used to get the best tea for her, boil it every night, and serve her a hot cup in the armchair while she read her book,” I tell him, my mind wandering off, thinking about those days.

“Is that what you do? Have your cup of tea in the armchair and read your book every night?” he asks as he bends over, picking the flowers.

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