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And that was all just way too many waves of emotion to process in a three-minute period, so I stuffed my panties with toilet paper and then came to the kitchen to make lunch.
Followed by sitting down and staring aimlessly at my turkey sandwich. Yeah, this is turning out to be a real winner of a day so far. Can I have a free pass and just go back to sleep? Maybe claiming cramps will get me out of all the bullshit? Does this work like P.E.?
“Come with me.” Xavier takes my hand, drawing me out of my chair. Then he leads me up the stairs, all three flights.
“Lie on the bed,” he orders.
What? “Look, if you can just give them to me, then I’ll go downstairs, take care of it, and we can get back to lun—”
“On the bed.” The furrow between his eyebrow appears at my equivocation.
I let out a huff of air and throw up my hands but do as he instructs.
“You’re in a mood,” he says as he comes back, tampon in hand.
I close my eyes and throw my hand over my face. Oh my God, is he going to do something kinky with a tampon?
He pulls off my boots, then draws down my pants. I’m surprised he hasn’t responded to my dramatics with the arm over my face, but I don’t move it.
Let him ‘punish’ me or do whatever the hell it is he’s going to do. Not like I have a choice in it anyway.
I feel the bed shift when he gets up and then he returns a few moments later. Then he pulls down my panties and his hands are at my most delicate place, removing the no doubt bloody toilet paper from between my legs. I’m glad my arm is over my face because I have no doubt I’m going beet red.
Oh my gosh, some things were meant to be left private.
But no, there he is, just barging in. I try to squeeze my knees together. Naturally, he just spreads them right back apart. Then I feel him running a warm wash cloth methodically all around.
I have to bite my lip against tears at how gentle he’s being.
Why?
Why is he doing this to me? And what the hell is this anyway? He seems to want something more than a baby. Or maybe it’s that he just wants to have me completely under his thumb before I’m allowed the honor of carrying his seed?
Goddammit, going in circles trying to figure him out will make me crazy.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my bottom lip even harder. It’s just hormones. PMS stuff. And being locked up in this place with nobody but him to talk to for three weeks. Him and the damn horses. I’m bound to go a little nuts.
Still, I can’t help the strange flutter that goes through my stomach when I feel the gentle probe of the tampon as he slides it carefully into my channel.
There’s nothing inherently sexual about the act.
And when he leans over and I feel the press of his lips right over the hood of my clitoris, I feel more like he’s giving me some sort of blessing or it’s something spiritual for him rather than trying to excite me, for once.
Which makes my emotions go haywire all over again. I lift my arm from over my eyes and peek down at him, dark head bowed right over my womb.
Is he sad I’m not pregnant? Or is this something else? How can I live day in, day out with this man, sleep by his side every night and yet know so little about him?
“Thanks,” I say, squirming away from him and his bowed head. “We should get back out there. It’s time for the afternoon feeding.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and slide my underwear and jeans back up my legs. I’m just pulling on my first boot when his voice rings out firmly.
“No.”
I pause, mid-boot, and look over at him warily. “No?”
He shakes his head decisively, leaning against the backboard of the bed and observing me. “Since you aren’t with child, it’s time to get you up on a horse.”
My foot slides into the boot at the same time my stomach drops through the floor. “Oh, that’s not necessary.” I wave my hands. “They’re perfectly happy as they are. They don’t need me bumbling my way—”
“Part of getting to know a horse is riding them. That’s where relationships are truly forged. You’ve been teaching the horses to trust you by feeding and grooming them. Now it’s your turn to prove that you trust them.”
I can only stare at him open-mouthed for a long moment.
Trust a horse? With my life?
Does he hear himself?
“But they’re two thousand pounds!” I protest.
“Sugar’s only about fifteen hundred,” he says mildly, a twitch at one side of his lips like he’s amused by me.
