Page 36 of The Seven Month Itch
I’m sifting through my closet for an outfit to wear when it hits me. There’s not a panty in my suitcase that won’t hibernate in my crack.Emma. I lean back on my heels to yell at my considerate best friend, “Remind me to kill you later for only packing thongs!”
Is there such a thing as third-degree burn from thong chafing?
She shouts back from her room, “Thank me after a man helps you take them off!”
We’re behind the resort by three o’clock. The snow on the trees glitters in the sun’s rays. The valley is gorgeous. Cold, but gorgeous. Here’s hoping I still feel my legs after I spread these thighs over a horse for the next ninety minutes in jeans and a thong.
Terrence and Madison aren’t part of the small group forming, and that’s fine by me. As much as I try not to care about their inevitable hookup, it will take an act of God to block it from my mind.
When it’s time for instructions, a man I’ve never seen before makes his way to the center of our group. His name is Preston, a moniker that doesn’t match a person who works with horses for a living. I don’t know many Prestons, but I imagine someone behind a desk in a corner office, or a guy with a pompous attitude and a closet full of navy blazers and brown boat shoes. Like that Thurston Howell III fromGilligan’s Island, which my grandma loved to watch.
This Preston is nothing like that.
He’s tall, with olive skin and a muscular frame that’s fit but not bulky. The confidence in his voice pulls you in to listen and take note. After his speech, he and the staff assign singles to horses. Preston walks my way with a purposeful stride.
“Hey, I’m—” My thoughts sputter like an overheating engine. Good God, the man isfineup close.
His cognac gaze locks me in a trance, one that starts with heart eyes and ends withyes, Daddy. The corner of his lips quirk to reveal another surprise. Hello, dimples.
“Ride me.”
Nope. Not what I wanted to say.
My eyes dart to the ground in search of an emergency exit. Do I yell “April Fools!” in the middle of January? My gaze rises to his broad chest, which is wrapped in black-and-white plaid, then drops to his muscular legs pressed against rugged jeans.
I wipe my mouth as a precaution. If I’m not drooling now, I will be. “I mean, I’m ready to ride a horse.” His eyes are still on me when I look up again. Back to the ground mine go. “My name is Justice.” At your service and ready to faint.
He keeps his cool for a man with a bumbling idiot in front of him. “Justice.” My eyes meet his, and he smiles. “Nice to meet you. I’m Preston.” Soft hands enclose mine when we shake. No calluses. Huh. The pine scent is there in its woodsy glory. “Have you ridden before?” His voice is a soft lullaby, coaxing me to stare into his gaze. The dimples are back. “A horse, that is.”
Oh my.
At least he has a good sense of humor. It’s been a while, and this hotel should not let men like this out among single people unless we have the thumbs-up to straddle their saddles.Look at me. Thirty seconds in front of Preston, and I morph into Emma. He must have a degree in the dark arts of sexual wizardry.
Hocus pocus, coochie focus.
Preston leads me to my horse, a gray beauty named Stella. Her size proves to be a challenge in my failed attempts to mount her. Even at five foot six, I’m no match.
Lucky for me, my knight in shining plaid doesn’t miss a beat. “May I?” Preston waits for permission to touch me.
“Yes, please,” I say in a pant. A flutter builds in my stomach and stretches to my chest. His eyes sharpen and trail down my body, causing my breath to quicken. I tighten my grip on Stella’s reins in fear my knees will give out.
Don’t fall, don’t fall.
“Stand behind the stirrup. Keep one hand on the rein and the other on the horn. Yes, the pointy part,” he says with a smile. “Now put your foot in the saddle.”
Preston crouches down, his chocolate hair ablaze in the sun’s glow. He wraps a hand around my calf in a soft yet powerful grip and pushes me up with a burst of energy. My leg propels over Stella and finds the other stirrup. “Good girl,” he says in a whisper that skates through his hand, which is now moving from my thigh and up my back.
If I stick around this man much longer, I’m going to need more than a thong to catch the arousal between my legs. Holy praise kink.
He looks me over. “Better?” His gaze settles on my mouth.
I bite my lip, overwhelmed and breathless. “For now.”
Who am I?
He smiles. “Let’s go, Justice.”
Forty minutes into our session, I’m in love. The view of snowcapped peaks surrounding endless trees is an experience I’ll never forget. The sun is on my face, and the air has a bite to it but brings peaceful blue skies. The pain of my thong riding my crack no longer registers.
