Change Rein (Willow Bay Stables #1)(22)
“I don’t need your thanks.” He leans back into his seat, the perfect display of confidence over cockiness. “I just need you.”
When the material skims the middle of my thigh, I sneak a hand up my dress. “Hmm.” My lips form a pout as I hook my fingers into the edge of my thong and shimmy my hips from side to side, letting the barely there lace slide down my legs. “What kind of game are we playing?”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” He searches my face for an answer to my change in demeanor.
“You won’t kiss me.” My voice has a little whine to it, and if it weren’t for the flash of lust in his eyes, I’d be a little embarrassed by my brash behavior.
“I will—when I think you can handle it,” he rumbles. “If this is a game, angel, I’m playing for keeps.” His voice deepens to a husky whisper, and my body involuntarily shivers.
Lifting my legs one at a time, I step out of my panties before bending over the car door. “In that case, Mr. Tucker,” I hum, “let me remind you that, while you’ve made it clear you don’t like to share”—I stand, folding the lace where he can finally see it—“neither do I.”
As I tuck them into the front pocket of his dress shirt, I’m rewarded with the low growl rumbling from his throat.
Handle that, handsome.
While it was indeed a move that would cause even the sinners in Heaven to blush, it was so fulfilling in its boldness. In what could not even be considered a full day together, Branson Tucker gave me pieces of myself I’d thought were surely gone forever, and in return, I gave him my panties and what I assume is my heart.
After blowing him a kiss, I pull the pillow off his hood and sway my hips for his benefit as I walk into the barn.
“Mine!” he calls out gruffly.
It would seem so.
“Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”
Poking my head out of the tack room, where I’ve just about finished putting away the obscene amount of leather Charlotte brought, I roll my eyes at Aurora. She’s bringing the last horse through the barn aisle, which will wrap up the morning turnout.
“Maybe don’t ship off your slave labor with potential serial killers if you don’t want to do all of her work for the afternoon,” I sass. “Just a suggestion.”
“Oh yes.” She comes to a halt in front of the door, a stunning chestnut-brown racehorse likely a few years past his prime flanking her right side. “I left you alone with the hunky urban cowboy. Please forgive me. Such an injustice!”
The gelding snorts in response as Aurora flails one hand in the air to dramatically prove her point.
Leaning against the doorway, I wince a little as I laugh at her. Then I change the subject, looking over her shoulder at the horse. “Who’s this?”
“This here is Gentleman Jack.” Her voice lowers, and he twitches his ears in response to her tone. “Charlotte said he belongs to Katie, whoever that is.”
“Branson’s niece,” I say, rubbing his forehead with my palm.
She fans herself in excess. “Branson, eh? Well, how ’bout that.”
“Oh, shut up,” I reprimand her, but it’s all in good fun. She’s never had much of a chance to tease her big sister about a date, and truthfully, I don’t mind all that much.
Aurora’s always been the more romantic of us girls. She frequently has men falling at her feet, and she always picks the ones most damaged. Not because she wants to fix them in some twisted way, but I think she’s simply curious about them is all. Our family suffered tragedy, and we came out on the other side with a different view on the world. Occasionally, I wonder if she’s looking for someone who sees that in her too.
“Well, if you could toss me a bone, that would be great,” she huffs. “I didn’t do all of your chores yesterday just so you could come back and go all Secret Garden on me. Spill.”
“He was”—I pause, searching for the words—“amazing.” While I’m not a gusher by nature, I can’t help the way the words fall from my mouth, although they do no justice to the man I am utterly enamored with. “He’s . . .”
“London!”
Aurora and I both wince as the shrill sound of a woman’s voice shrieks through the barn. Before I have a chance to open my mouth, she yells again.
“London!”
Looking past Gentleman Jack, I see Charlotte barreling up the center aisle, looking like she jumped right off the pages of Horse & Rider magazine. Perfectly fitted, beige riding britches, black, knee-high boots, no scuffs, and a crisp, pale-pink polo.
“Yes?” My voice sounds annoyed yet professional. Then I wait to see what could possibly have her so worked up as to break one of the few rules every barn is accustomed to working around.
No Running.
No Yelling. She is definitely yelling.
No Smoking.
The first two are for the horses. They spook easily, especially thoroughbreds, which are notoriously high-strung, so we move slowly and consciously around them. The third is for the property. We are coming up on the end of summer, so everything is very dry in Alberta. It would only take a spark to set fire to the dry hay and, subsequently, the wood in the barn. It is, if possible, the most important of the three, and not tolerated in any way.