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I nodded, and then I pulled him down onto me, his chest to mine, and I held his face and kissed him while my cock twitched deep inside.
“I love her, too,” I said.
I’m not enough of a dreamer that I could ignore the inevitable. I’d known when I took the sperm donor’s offer that my summer plans for Samson would be largely kicked to the kerb. It’s not that I didn’t care. I did care. We’d worked hard, Samson and me, months and months of training and trust to get his form up enough to compete in cross country events this season. He was in good condition, but with the reduction in hours at my disposal, my ambitions would have to drop a gear.
I was ok with that. We’d have another year. Samson wasn’t young, but he was still in his prime. We’d get our time, he and I, so I’d shoved my eventing timetable in my dressing table drawer back at home, and pushed it out of my mind.
Until Verity pinned up the Cheltenham Chase cross country leaflet on our team noticeboard that Friday.
She’d formed a little gaggle of horsey girls around the office, and there they’d stood in a thrumming little huddle before work kicked off, enthusing over who was competing and how they were going to smash it. I’d kept my distance, pretending to be busy on my phone while they gushed over their horse’s form and who was signing up and who had the edge. Verity was competing her latest acquisition, a 16.2HH warmblood competition mare calledFleetwood Fancy. Fancy was right, over fourteen grand’s worth of cold hard cash after negotiation by all accounts, but that was nothing for the Faverleys. Pocket change.
I should have let it go, I mean, who cares what stupid fancy horse Princess Verity is dicking about on for the summer? She’d be bored of the mare before the season was out, and I’d normally have let it go. Normally.
But right there, with my coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, watching those horsey bitches mouthing off about who’d be kicking whose ass around that course at the end of August, I found I cared quite a lot.
Fleetwood Fancy had form, but Verity wasn’t as dedicated as she liked to think she was. She was all about the image, not about the substance. She didn’t take the time for the foundation work, didn’t want to put in the hours of warm up and preparation. Why would she? She had people to do all that shit for her. As a result, she’d be riding a horse that was still new to her, and sure, that horse had the scope to carry her through almost anything, but she’d never hit peak, not in time.
And that gave me a shot. Not a big one, but enough to send a thrill up my spine.
I mean, we’d never win, Samson and I, not the whole event, but that didn’t matter, just so long as we beat that arrogant little cow. Just so long as we had a chance.
There was that cold scaly feeling in me again, and my heartrate picked up as I watched her. She thought she had it in the bag, that she’d hop up on Fleetwood Fancy and the mare would carry her to victory without even breaking a sweat. I doubt I’d even crossed her mind, not with my budget auction horse that she’d never have given a second glance. She had no idea how far we’d come, Samson and me, no idea that we’d hit that sweet spot where we worked as one, trusted each other, knew each other by heart.
She’d never had that. She’d never stuck with a horse for long enough.
I’d been keeping my money safe towards Jack’s rent, but I clicked ontoHorsecluband checked out their cheapest horse trailers. There was one locally for just under a thousand. It would get me there. My rust bucket would tow it just fine, and sure, it wasn’t slick or special, but it would do the job. There was a niggle in me, a niggle that I should be saving and focused, not running away with some stupid quest of pride to get one up on Verity. Like kicking her ass in the office wasn’t going to be enough already.
But I never spent money, not on me, not really. And I’d never had a trailer before, not one of my own, and I’d use it, definitely, when I had the time again. It was an investment. A useful investment. A sensible investment, even.
So, I bought it.
PayPalled the cash without even viewing, and it felt good. It felt really fucking good.
And then I signed Samson and I up for the Cheltenham Chase.
It was becoming comfortable so easily with Rick and Carl. I’d fallen into a routine nothing short of heaven, travelling to the office and back with Carl every day, lunching at the bagel joint, then zipping over to Samson with Rick of an evening while Carl spent his hours on extra work shit. We’d eat and laugh, drink sometimes, then shower and fuck and suck and fuck some more until I fell asleep in my spot between two hot bodies in their kickass bed.Myspot. Yeah, it was my spot. How fucking sweet.
I’d almost forgotten our arrangement — the fact that they were paying me for my time — because in truth, it didn’t feel like that. Not anymore. I would have been there anyway. I’d have told them as much, and I considered it, but I still had a dream to pay for, and with Jack up against it and the yard on the line, that three grand a month was money I needed. It didn’t sit easy, but it was the truth, and come the weekend I was conscious that this was my billable time, as per our arrangement.
It made me feel like shit when I threw on my crappy clothes to go pick up my new trailer, and I aimed to play it down, say I was nipping out for a couple of hours but would be back before they knew it. Only it wasn’t that simple.
Carl was frying bacon when I stepped into the kitchen, and Rick was pulling a face at the smell, wafting his hands around his nose and fake retching.
“Firemen don’t eat bacon,” Rick told Carl. “You know why?”
“Enlighten me,” Carl said.
“Smells like burning human flesh.”
Carl turned to face him, spatula in hand. “An advert for cannibalism if ever I heard one. Yum yum fucking yum.” He saw me in the doorway and looked me up and down. “Morning, Miss Horsey. Fuck me, I do love a woman in jodhpurs.”
“Hey, pretty lady.” Rick smiled. “Carl’s cooking pig. Want some?”
I took a seat at the island, and Rick leaned in to kiss my neck over and over. Wet sloppy kisses that made giggle, and then he blew a raspberry and I squirmed, poked my tongue out at him.
It felt so shit to say it, but I said it anyway. “I’ve got to go out. I won’t be long, I promise.”
Carl turned and stared at me, but he didn’t look pissedoff. “Samson?”
