The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(37)

“You won’t even know I’m here.” He pulls an imaginary zip across his mouth.

“Not likely,” I mutter to myself, facing my fear and walking forward. I stop before him when he doesn’t move, cocking my head and fighting back the want consuming me. I knew this would happen. I just knew I would wind up wanting him again. It doesn’t make much sense to me. “Excuse me,” I say politely.

Josh steps back, opening up my path, and I make quick work of collecting Spearmint’s tack before escaping the stable. The huge horse isn’t the only thing taking up all the space. It is also the thick chemistry, and it’s overpowering. I scuttle to the tack room, holding everything in my arms tightly to avoid revealing my trembles. Christ, why him? Why does his mere presence have my heart racing like a pathetic little school girl with a crush?

“You look fuckin’ awesome in your riding gear, by the way,” Josh says casually.

I dump the saddle on the saddle horse with far less care than I should, and loop the tack over a hook hanging from the ceiling. “Thank you.” I wander over to the sink and fill it with warm water.

“Want some help?” Josh appears next to me, brushing my arm with his, forcing me to put some space between our close bodies.

“You want to help me clean tack?” I ask, amused, grabbing a sponge and plunging it into the water. I squeeze it out and make my way to the saddle horse, Josh on my tail.

“Yes, I want to help.”

I start to wipe over the leather, my eyes dancing between the saddle and Josh, who is roaming the room with his hands buried in his chino pockets, casually looking around. “What do you know about horses and their care?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he admits, turning his eyes onto me. They’re bright blue today. I could melt under that gaze. Quite easily. “But you can teach me.”

I laugh, looking away from him before I do actually melt, and concentrate on cleaning Spearmint’s saddle. “You want me to teach you about horses?”

“Yes. Seems fair, since I gave you a few lessons last night.”

My working hands pause, and I look at him. Don’t ask! “Lessons?”

His smile is smug and victorious. “In submission, Your Highness.”

“Excuse me?” I choke.

“You heard.”

“I think I heard.”

“Oh, you heard.” He meanders over to me, placing himself on the other side of the saddle horse. There is a huge wooden stand between us, but it still feels like he could be touching me, and my skin erupts in tingles. He smiles, like he is aware of my condition. “The notoriously headstrong Princess of England is submissive,” Josh whispers. “Who would’ve thought?”

“I am not submissive,” I argue weakly, remembering how I succumbed to his every demand, how I took everything he dished out to me, and how I willed him on, begged for it.

Loved it.

The sense of freedom, the weightlessness, the relief of surrendering control. Of not having to think, just do. Of being at someone’s mercy, and most significantly, wanting to be. The whole time I was lost in Josh Jameson, bending to his will, I didn’t feel the stifling containment of my everyday existence. I was free. I want to feel free again.

I swallow and glance down, disturbed by my revelation. I have never once considered submitting power to a man in the bedroom. Why would I when I fight so hard to keep it in my life? But I guess, now I am enlightened, I should ask myself if it is built into me, or whether my apparent subservient nature is reserved only for Josh Jameson. “What do you want to know about horses?” I ask quietly, my mind sprinting.

“Everything you can tell me.” He fondles with the bridle hanging from the ceiling hook, and I just know he is imagining tying me up with it, maybe even whipping my arse with it. I swallow and shift in my stance, feeling my tight jodhpurs rubbing at my sensitive bottom. “What’s this?” he asks.

“That is a brow band.”

“And this?”

“A throat lash.”

Josh’s eyes widen, and I hear the thrash of my belt connecting with my upper thigh. “Lash,” he whispers.

I make a hasty getaway from his suggestive gaze, tossing my sponge in the sink, grabbing the pot of saddle soap, and swiping a clean sponge around the inside of the container. “Anything else?” I rub at the leather of the saddle like a madwoman.

“What’s this?” he asks, fingering a metal piece of the tack.

“A bit. It goes in the horse’s mouth.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Oiling the leather.”

“With?”

“Glycerin.”

“Oh,” he says, drawing out the word on a long exhale as he swipes a fingertip across the seat of the saddle. “Like lubricant, right?”

I stop and inhale, straightening and facing his cheeky smile. He’s adorable in the most annoying fashion. “Yes, like lubricant.”

“Wow. Throat lashes, mouth bits, lubricants.” He gazes around the tack room languidly, before dropping those starry eyes onto me. “A sexy princess, too. I think I might like it around here.”

I breathe out on a laugh, astounded by his front. “You are a cocky American arsehole, Josh Jameson.”

He’s around the saddle horse in a flash, seizing me and pinning me against the nearest wall. I don’t get a moment to gather my bearings, or to warn him off. Not that I want to. His hard body is flush with mine—touching everywhere—and it feels amazing.