Page 38 of Sinners Retreat

“No.”

Before she can hop on, I grab the saddle horn, put my foot in the stirrup, and hoist myself onto Sophia. The horse’s muscles tighten beneath me, and she takes off, ripping the reins from the man’s hands. I’m stuck atop a bucking bronco, and I’m too English for this very American sport.

I’m flung forward and backward as I grip with my thighs and try to stay atop the bloody psychopath. I’m in the air as all four feet rise with every pissed-off buck.

Just when I think all my years of riding have made my rear sticky enough for a rank little mare, I fly over her shoulder and land on my back. The mare stops bucking the moment I come off, and I lie in the sand as I struggle to catch a breath. All the wind has vacated my lungs.

Kindra comes over and stands above me, and now my dignity hurts more than my body.

“You can have her,” she says with a smirk. She reaches toward me and helps me to my feet. If looks could kill, Chuck would be dead.

“That could have been her!” I say, pointing to Kindra.

The stable master slips Fynn’s reins into my hands, grabs Sophia’s, and leads her back to the stable. He returns with Aspen, a dead-broke gelding I’m actually familiar with. Regardless, I hand the reins of my beloved Fynn to Kindra. He’ll take care of her like he takes care of me, and I can trust the big gray quarter horse to behave when I’m on his back.

A masked man leads our selected Cattle toward our horses. My selection wears his pink jumpsuit, and Kindra’s wears red. They squirm and try to scream, but the sound is a muffled plea barely heard over the crash of water against sand.

Plus, their mouths have been sewn shut.

The masked man takes out their knees and wraps a chain around each of their legs. The chain connects to the saddles via aspecial hook system so that the restraints don’t impede or injure our horses. The Cattle, however...

We mount up, and it’s much less eventful this time. Kindra looks like a natural seated atop Flynn. With her dark hair and dark eyes, she looks like she was made for that horse.

I look behind us and smile. Our Cattle strain and writhe against the restraints as the whites of their eyes show within widened pink lids. I hope they suffer worse than their victims.

“Ready?” I ask Kindra.

She nods, and I squeeze Aspen’s sides. The horses take slow, even steps while the Cattle bounce behind us. Kindra and I laugh at their muffled screams.

They’ll fall silent soon enough.

“Can we trot?” Kindra asks.

“We can do whatever you want, my pet.”

Kindra squeezes Fynn, and he steps into a trot. Aspen, afraid to be left behind, begins that pace on his own. Kindra posts the trot, lifting herself out of the saddle with each rise of Fynn’s massive shoulder. She looks incredible, and I’ve never wanted to be a four-legged creature more in my life.

Our baggage bounces and spins, their bodies banging against every ridge of sand or rock we fly over. My Cattle rips the stitches from his lips by straining his jaw as wide as it will go, and his screams ring out among the clop of hooves on sand.

It’s delicious.

A sign with an arrow guides us down a path. Logs lie along the trail. I turn to ask Kindra if she’s ever jumped, but she flies out ahead of me. Fynn effortlessly leaps over the logs, and Kindra’s Cattle flails through the air before crashing down on the forest floor. I follow her, my own Cattle becoming a projectile with every jump.

“Oh god, please, stop!” he yells behind me.

“I’m sure your victims said the same thing!” I shout. “And you didn’t stop, did you?”

The path takes a sharp turn, and the Cattle bash into trees and rock ledges as we round the bend. Mine hits a rock pretty hard. His body audibly scrapes the hard surface, which creates a lovely background accompaniment to his screams. Moments later, he goes quiet.

Damn. I was really getting into the music.

We reach a clearing that opens onto a private corner of the beach. A large red-and-white blanket lies on the crystal sand, with a basket sitting in its center.

“Is that a picnic?” Kindra asks as she brings Fynn to a stop.

“It appears so.”

I dismount and offer my hand to Kindra, but she hops down without accepting my assistance. I need to remember she neither likes help nor wants it, but it’s hard to stop myself from offering. I’ve never wanted a woman to find me useful, aside from my ability to give toe-curling orgasms, but Kindra is slowly changing my mindset.

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