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My anger surpasses my rising panic. As seconds pass, I notice the steady rhythm of his heart right against my back. He’s really not scared, although we’re racing past the landscape so fast we can’t see a thing.
And Marius Goltz loves himself too much to be suicidal, so if he’s no afraid for his life, he truly can control the monstrous beast that I was stupid enough to admire.
Before I even will my body to obey, my breathing has calmed down. I’ve stopped yelling.
Marius’s strong hands tighten the reins as his strong thighs press mine behind me. Taking the cues from his body, the horse does slow down enough for us to see the luxuriant green fields around us.
My heart’s still beating too fast, but it’s not fear pumping through my veins anymore.
A laugh slips out of me, either because I survived the insanely terrifying run, or because this pace is amazing.
“Better?”
“You’re still a fucking asshole,” I tell him.
He only snorts in response. “Take the reins.”
“I don’t think so,” I quip.
I like horses, but I’m never ever trying to ride one myself.
“I’m dropping them in three seconds. You can take them or let them down.”
Holy shit, he can’t mean that can he?
But Marius does exactly as he threatens, dropping the reins. I yelp and grab at them, before it occurs to me that if he’s letting them go, it’s because he doesn’t need them to control the animal. Still, I squeeze them in my fingers, terrified of the idea that the horse could start racing at full speed again.
Professional horse racers are insane, and possibly suicidal.
“Isn’t life so much easier when you listen to me?”
“Only because you make it unbearable when I don’t!” I snap.
The dick laughs. “I need my hands to make you enjoy the ride.”
Before I can ask what he means, his arm moves down from my waist, and his hand tugs the waistband of my pants.
“Marius!” I hiss.
He completely ignores me, fingers sliding underneath the layers of fabric, seeking my heat.
I can’t let go of the reins, either because I’m still not certain dropping them might make the horse go crazy again, or because his middle finger’s curving inside me while his other hand eases under Vi’s polo to cup one of my breasts. I gasp.
“Marius, you can’t—”
“We’re on Carmichael land,” he tells me. “There’s no one for miles.”
I can’t tell if he’s reassuring me that we won’t be seen, or warning me that no one can help me if I choose to cream.
Knowing him? Both.
37
SARAH
The first time a man touched me, I didn’t like it. He was disgusting, and old, and stank of stale booze. The second and third times weren’t much better. But then there was Lynne. I might not have initiated any of our interactions, but I didn’t dislike them, and they showed me that certain touches felt pretty damn good.
By the time I moved into the Clarks’, I was quite fond of masturbation, and pretty good at it.
