Chapter 6
six
. . .
Wayne
Showing Judy how to feed the horses is a mistake.
I knew it the second I suggested it, but I did it anyway.
Because I'm a masochist. Because I can't stop finding excuses to be near her, to touch her, to watch her body move.
It's been two days since our ride, two days of catching her eyes on me when she thinks I'm not looking, two days of jerking off in the shower like a fucking teenager, imagining her tight pussy around my cock while I empty myself into my fist. Two days of pretending I'm not counting the minutes until I can see her again.
Morning light filters through the barn windows, catching the dust motes in golden beams. The familiar sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, the smell of hay and leather, should be calming.
Instead, my heart's pounding like I've run a mile, because she's walking toward me in those cutoff shorts that make her legs look a mile long and another one of my flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up, tied at her tiny waist.
Christ, she's beautiful. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, tendrils escaping to frame her face.
Cheeks flushed pink, either from the walk to the barn or from seeing me—I hope to God it's the latter.
Those wide hazel eyes looking up at me with trust, eagerness, and something else.
Something that makes my cock stir behind my zipper.
"Morning," I say, voice gruff. "Ready to learn something new?"
She nods, all enthusiasm. "What are we doing today?"
"Feeding time." I nod toward the feed bins. "Not complicated, but each horse has different needs. Different amounts. Have to get it right."
I lead her to the storage area where I keep the various grains and supplements. She follows close, too close, her scent—something floral mixed with soap and pure girl—making my nostrils flare.
"Watch first," I tell her, measuring out feed for Thunder. "Then you'll do the next one."
She stands beside me, attentive, eyes tracking every movement of my hands. I'm hyperaware of her presence—the soft sound of her breathing, the slight shift of her weight from one foot to the other, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Your turn," I say when the demonstration is complete. I guide her to the next feed bin. "Start with two scoops."
She reaches for the scoop, and I move behind her, ostensibly to supervise. In reality, I just want to be close to her. To feel the heat of her body. To breathe her in.
"Like this?" she asks, measuring out the grain.
"A little more," I say, reaching around her to adjust her grip on the scoop. My chest presses against her back, my arms caging her against the feed bin. It's unnecessary—I could easily show her from beside her—but I can't resist.
She tenses momentarily, then relaxes back into me, her soft ass brushing against the front of my jeans. My cock responds immediately, hardening against the curve of her backside.
"That's it," I murmur, voice dropping lower. "Now add the supplement. The red scoop. Just level."
My breath stirs the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. She shivers, hand trembling slightly as she reaches for the supplement bin. I don't move away. Don't give her space. Keep her trapped between my body and the feed bin.
"Good," I praise when she gets it right. "Mix it together now."
She stirs the feed, her movements causing her body to shift against mine. Each small motion drags her ass across my growing erection. It's torture. Exquisite, self-inflicted torture.
"Now we add a little oil," I continue, reaching past her for the bottle. My forearm brushes the side of her breast as I pull back. Not an accident. Her breath catches.
"Sorry," I lie.
"It's okay," she whispers, voice smaller than usual.
I pour the oil over the feed mixture, still pressed against her back, then set the bottle down. I should step away now. Should give her room to breathe, to think. But I don't. Instead, I place my hands on the edge of the feed bin, one on either side of her, fully caging her in.
"Now stir again," I instruct, mouth close to her ear. "Make sure it's all mixed properly."
Her hands are shaking as she complies. I can feel her heart racing, her back expanding with each quick breath against my chest. She's affected. Good. I want her uncomfortable. Want her aware of me, of what she's doing to me, of what I could do to her.
"Wayne?" Her voice is barely audible, uncertain.
"Hmm?" I don't move.
"I can't…I need to..." She tries to turn around, but there's nowhere for her to go. She's pinned between my body and the bin.
"What do you need, angel?" I ask, letting a hint of growl enter my voice.
She turns her head, looking up at me over her shoulder. Our faces are inches apart. I could kiss her. Could capture that soft mouth with mine, taste her, devour her. Her eyes drop to my lips, then back up, pupils dilated with what can only be desire.
"I don't know," she admits, honest even in her confusion.
The innocence of it hits me like a punch to the gut. She doesn't know. Doesn't fully understand what's happening between us, what I want to do to her. But she feels it. Responds to it instinctively.
"You're testing me, little one," I warn, voice low. The endearment slips out, another claiming. "Standing here, smelling like heaven, looking the way you do."
Her lips part. Pink tongue darts out to wet them. Fuck.
"I'm not…I don't mean to," she whispers, but her body says otherwise. She's leaning back into me, ass nestled against my hard cock, head tilted to expose the slender column of her throat.
She nods, cheeks flushed crimson. And then, so subtly I might have missed it if I weren't watching her so closely, her thighs press together. Seeking friction. Relief.
Holy hell. She's turned on. Wet for me.
"Finish the mixing," I say, not moving an inch. "Then we'll feed Stormy."
She turns back to the task, stirring the feed with renewed focus. But her breathing is uneven, her movements jerky. When she's done, I finally step back, allowing her to pick up the feed bucket.
The small distance between us feels like miles after being pressed together. My cock throbs painfully behind my zipper, demanding attention I can't give it. Not yet.
I watch her walk to Stormy's stall, the slight sway of her hips, the way my shirt hangs off her shoulders. My shirt. Marking her as mine in some primitive way that satisfies something deep and possessive inside me.
She's getting bolder. More comfortable with her power. With what she does to me.
And my control, already paper-thin, is hanging by a thread.
One more lingering touch. One more innocent brush of her body against mine. One more look from those wide hazel eyes, and I'll snap. Take her right here in the barn, hay in her hair, dust on her skin, my name on her lips as I fuck her into oblivion.
It's not a matter of if ianymore.
It’s a matter of when.