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I’m still grinning fit to burst, and so is she.
* * *
By the time we come up on a fence far out on the edge of the ranch, toward the foot of the mountains, I’m panting and so are the horses—but the air between us is easier.
We pull Frost and Plath to a prancing halt, slowing down to let them breathe.
The moment the world stops blurring by, though, I realize where we are.
We’ve reached that distant mountain pass.
Only it’s more of a road, built into a natural cut-through.
It’s real old, never paved.
Looks like it used to be a wagon trail or something from ancient patterns in the grass grown through the ruts. I guess the rest of it used to sprawl across the plains before it fell out of use, and eventually, that road became a forgotten thing of the past.
I can barely make it out past the overgrowth, including the tangled bushes and grass that have almost completely taken over the fence.
Which is odd in of itself.
From what I’ve seen, Libby’s fierce about keeping her place up, every nook and cranny.
All the other fences are clear and well-maintained, everywhere else but here.
I guide Plath up to the fence before pulling to a halt, looking out over the narrow cut through the mountains, steep palisades of stone rising up to either side, jagged and dotted with little trees.
“This is the pass through the range, isn’t it?” I ask. “Cuts right through. Saw it on the survey map when we were looking at places to pave a road.”
Libby’s just a little too slow to turn her head toward the road, a sort of forced bewilderment like she didn’t even realize it was there.
“Oh, yeah…that,” she whispers.
She swings down off Frost’s back, catching his reins—and I realize why she stopped here when she leads him toward an old manual pump tucked against the fence.
She grips the handle and strains to work it, but it’s rusted in place. Even though the muscles in her arms tighten sweetly against her tanned skin, it’s not budging. She’s going to scrape her hands to hell and back if she keeps it up.
“Here,” I say, vaulting down from Plath quickly. “Let me.”
She makes a sour face at me as I shoulder her gently to one side, then grip the pump handle in both hands, bracing my feet and wrenching it up.
The rusty bastard squeals like an animal—but it moves.
I manage to give it a few good hard pumps, fighting against the rust and grime clogging the workings, before it sputters to life.
First it spits out a clot of mud.
Followed by reddish water spraying out in a spurt that quickly clears, darkening the dry earth around it.
With a cluck of her tongue, she beckons Frost over. The Vanner snorts and thrusts his nose under the spray, splashing us both.
I chuckle, holding up my hands to ward it off. Libby gently grips his head and holds him back so he’s forced to drink slower.
“Go easy, guy,” she murmurs, and there’s a softness in her voice I’ve never heard, velvety and sweet. “Drink it nice and slow or you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Here. They can share.”
I catch Plath’s reins and guide her over, and she thrusts her head under it, too.
Soon they’re just making a mess everywhere as they lip at the water and shake their muzzles until their manes are speckled in droplets—and so are we.
It’s like the whole universe conspires to make it impossible to peel my eyes off Libby.
Everywhere those droplets land on her shoulders, arms, and thighs, those tiny beads of water catch the light and make her shimmer like she’s covered in gold dust.
They speckle her shirt, soaking in, making me painfully aware of just how thin the fabric of her tank top is. Wet spots spread, clinging to her skin in a luscious second layer that makes my tongue ache to taste her.
On her cheeks, they shine like freckles made out of tiny diamonds.
And where they dot her lips, they make them gleam in shimmering red curves so goddamn lush my cock twitches just thinking about how they’d feel against mine; how her mouth would go softer and hotter the deeper and harder I kissed her.
Fun fact: I’m bad at resisting temptation.
The more I try not to think about it, the more I fucking want to.
She’d be gorgeous with her thighs around my hips, riding me like I’m one of her steeds.
Fuck.
Thank God she’s not looking at me now because I’m probably staring at her like a starving wolf.
I lick my lips and look away, focusing on that half-hidden stretch of road out past the gate.
“I think,” I say, “this puts a hold on at least one plan.”
Her head jerks up from watching the horses, her hands steady on both of them while they drink, stroking their noses. “What do you mean?”
