Page 18 of Reining Her In

“Great work.” That foreign full smile breaks over my face again. I think I need to get used to this new look because around her, I’m like a kid in a candy store.

“I just walked her around.” She shrugs off my compliment. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I disagree. You did more than you can imagine. You will learn to listen in new ways, to see what I see. Ruby was talking to you that entire time and you were talking to her. It was a beautiful dance and trust me, you did a great job.”

I swallow, wanting to tell her more, tell her how beautiful her tits are, how I can’t keep my eyes from tracing down her curves to that magical triangle between her legs that screams my name.

“Come on. You must be starving.” Taking care of her means all of her and she needs nourishment.

“I am hungry. Hospital food for even a day has left me with a knot in my stomach.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve arranged for the kitchen to prepare a private buffet for us at my house. How does that sound?”

“Just call me Pavlov’s Dog.” I watch her swallow and jut her chin out playfully, and I’m stuck on the way she plays with the horseshoe pendant which dangles just at the top of her cleavage. I want to carry her off, pin her against the wall...

But I’m not even sure that I can. Physically, I mean.

A flash of embarrassment flushes over me. I know how to work with my leg in my regular daily tasks, but what if I want to lift her up, clutch at her around my waist? Will my leg hold? I hate the doubt that stabs in my heart. I want to give her everything she deserves, and I’ve never tested my leg in the ways I want to test it with her.

I’ve made peace with the constant pain. The limitations of my physical disability. But this? Can I be the man she needs? The man she deserves?

I push away the insecurity. The ways she turns me on are making me crazy – every little movement of her hands, the rise and fall of her chest. She brushes her hands down the fronts of her thighs, her britches showing off every contour and curve. She stomps the dust from her tall black boots and every movement is like magic.

“Let’s go. I’ll drop you at your place so you can change and clean up if you like. I’ll be back over in an hour to pick you up.”

“Pick me up? I’m like next door. I can just walk over.” She steps closer to me and my heart skips a beat.

We fall into step down the hallway of the barn. The sound of my cane tapping on the cement under our feet seems louder than usual.

“No. You will not just walk over. You deserve to be escorted. Just come out on the porch when you’re ready. I’ll be there waiting. The first time you come into my house, I want you to be on my arm. Call me old-fashioned.”

I want you to call me a lot of things, but we can start with old-fashioned.

Her cheeks brim with a blush and my dick jerks upward. I step forward to open the passenger door on my pick-up. It’s an old Ford 1976 two-tone brown classic, and I’ve had it since I was sixteen. I named her Brown Sugar back then. She’s what I drive around the farm, but I keep her immaculate, like new. I don’t believe when something breaks you throw it away. This old truck has been with me for a long time, and I take care of what’s mine.

Constance

I toss a pair of black skinny jeans on the floor and stomp on them. I start grabbing at the other articles of clothing.

“Stupid. Stupid. Dumb. Doesn’t even fit. Why did I bring it? Ugh.”

It looks like my suitcase has vomited all over the floor of the bedroom in my little guesthouse. Everything I pull out to wear over to dinner is stupid. I’m a horrible packer. When I got home from the hospital, I was in such a hurry, I don’t even think I brought underwear. Which is a problem because the pair I have on is shot thanks to the close proximity to Reed over the last few hours.

I walk back into the bathroom in a huff. The place is neat and cozy. The bathroom is all white, with a classic marble sink and shower. The fixtures are original but kept like new. Already it feels like home. Someplace that is mine, even though it really isn’t, but I pretend for a moment. I’ve dreamed of moving out of my parents’ place for the last year, feeling free like I do now.

I rub a pie-sized clear spot on the steamy bathroom mirror, then pin my hair up. I don’t own much make-up, but I manage to stroke some mascara on my lashes without getting it all over the place and I have some sheer pink lip gloss, so I give that a spin across my lips.

Images of Reed’s steel-gray eyes and the way they make me feel like he’s touching me wherever they land play over and over in my mind. He may have just become my trainer, but it’s still a position of authority and he’s like an icon in this world. To have him as my own private trainer is a dream come true, let alone have him show interest in me beyond that capacity.

I just hope he’s not one that beds every young, wide-eyed hopeful that comes his way. That thought hadn’t really crossed my mind until now, but now that it’s here, my stomach sinks to my toes.

What if I’m just a conquest? I mean, look at him. Not just how he looks but who he is. Riders from all over the world would give almost anything to be under his tutelage. Why me? I’m not even a real professional. And look at me, I’m all filled out, more than most of the female riders anyway. They keep themselves lean and willowy, while I’m more sturdy Oak.

I pull on the only skirt I brought that fits and I don’t hate. Why do I pack things I know are too tight? I have this miracle hope that just because I want something to fit suddenly it will.

Besides my riding britches, I’m normally a skirt girl, mainly because finding jeans and slacks that fit me right has been a nightmare since my body decided to puff out above and below the waist. I button the sea-foam green, lace skirt at my back and reach over into the chaotic mass of clothes on the bed, deciding on a simple sleeveless, high-neck ivory sweater, and slip on a pair of low-slung wedges.

I don’t want to look too eager. But I don’t want to frump around in my britches and polo either.

I groan with one more look in the mirror. I peeked out onto the front porch of the small house a half hour ago and Reed was standing there already. Tall and straight, his cane centered in front of his massive form, hands layered on each other and his fresh-shaved face calm and distinguished. The sight of his square jaw and intense features made me flush with sweat. So I tiptoed back into the bathroom for another quick hop in the shower.

That’s the other thing, our age. He’s at least ten years older than me, but unlike most girls my age, I find him far more attractive than the boys that fumble around with their false bravado and overexcited sexual innuendo.

I gulp down my nerves, make my way to the front door and twist the knob. As soon as the door opens a few inches and he sees me, a visible quiver shakes his wide shoulders and I see him draw in a sharp breath and grip his cane until his knuckles turn white.

“I’m ready.” I shut the door behind me. I’m not sure what to do with my hands. They feel like dead fish hanging at my sides so I cross my arms over my chest.

“So am I,” he says, extending his bent arm for me to latch on. He’s so formal, it’s comforting. “Shall we?”

Yes. Yes we shall.

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