Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (29 page)

They followed Essa to the arena, preparing to watch her compete in her event. Sitting in the stands, his elbows to his knees and chin in his hands, Slate leaned forward and watched as tiny Essa raced her horse at full speed out of the darkness of the alleyway and into the brilliant sunlight shining down on the arena. She deftly moved him in a cloverleaf pattern around the barrels, using her heels and hands to guide him into each turn and pivot point with precise movements. Riding fast, but skillfully, she cleared the final barrel. Leaning far forward and over his neck, she rode like hell out of the arena whooping, laughing, and fanning him with the reins.

Stunned by the sheer brilliance of her athletic grace and confidence, Slate sat still for a moment, listening as the announcer called her name for best time. They met her back at the trailer, and before she slipped
off the horse, she looked down, locked eyes with Mason, and said, “Okay, you win. I choose him…Slate.” Dismounting, she unsaddled the gelding quickly, starting to work on grooming him.

Mason looked between Slate and Essa, asking casually, “Mind telling me why?”

Essa kept working on the gelding, responding to Mason with, “He’s already seen me in my underwear.”

Slate’s head fell back and he groaned at her words, knowing it would bring Mason down on his ass. Sure enough, Mason’s hands formed fists as he looked at him and asked, “What the fuck, Slate?”

Fuck me
, Slate thought, and he quickly responded to Mason, “It’s not like that, Prez. She was in the trailer with the door wide open, and I stuck my head in to see if there was anything I could do. She was changing. All I did was close the door.”

Tossing a coin in his head, he fed Mica into the Mason-maw by letting him know she had been unguarded for a time. “It was about then that Mica gave me the slip, risking her life for fucking cotton candy.”

Mica glared daggers at him, and Mason looked between them, laughing. “Seems like everyone had an interesting day. What do you say, Mica? Let’s go home.”

Much later, Essa and Slate were winding down after eating and finishing chores. They’d walked the fairgrounds, and she’d introduced him to a few of the entrants she knew well, explaining to him they’d all practically grown up on the circuit over the years.

He spent a few dollars winning her a cheap stuffed animal at the baseball throw, and then laughed with her when the carny admitted to giving him the easy balls and target. They shared cotton candy and a turkey leg, and then Essa stole a sip from his mug in the beer tent. It was comfortable, feeling safe and familiar, and Slate knew it was dangerous.

Back at the trailer, he waited outside as she changed, entering once she called out she was settled in the bunk. He pulled out a couple of blankets to pad the floor, arranged a bag of feed as a pillow, and took off his shirt before lying on the floor.

Calling a quiet good night, he listened for her response, smiling to himself when she sounded annoyed. She was tossing and turning on the bunk, the narrow mattress doing little to hide the noise as she rolled restlessly. Even though they’d had fun tonight, Essa still wasn’t happy he was there, not just because she felt a babysitter undermined her efforts to be self-sufficient, but also because he was in her space, and the living quarters weren’t that big.

Listening to her move, Slate clenched his teeth; the restless sound alone was enough to have his cock hard and straining against the button fly of his jeans.

He rolled the events of the day around in his head, thinking about her stunning ass covered only with thin panties, her breasts round and full, her calling him hot, and watching him out of the corner of her eyes...
God.
He had to think about something else. She’s a kid, barely eighteen.
Fuck me,
he thought,
I’m old enough to be her father.
She was fucking off limits, and Mason had made that crystal today.

The noises continued from the bunk, and he took a breath in, catching a hint of musk. Taking in another breath, he broke the silence, his voice husky and rough. “Tell me about Breezy. Is he yours?” There was a little light that leaked around the door, hardly enough to allow outlines of dark against black, but he saw the silhouette of her head pop over the edge of the bed. He wasn’t sure she could see him; it was dark where he was on the floor, but she hung over the edge like that for a few seconds, holding still and looking down where he laid.

She began speaking confidently, “Yeah, he’s mine—well, my daddy’s, but I bred him. He’s out of my favorite mare and a good stud from Missouri.” She eased out of sight, lying back down. “He’s been mine since he first dropped to the straw in the stall, and I’ve trained him too. I’m proud of how well he’s doing; he’s gonna make a great college event horse. I plan to bring his full brother out on the circuit next year. Summer Storm, he’s a year younger than Breezy, but he’s not cut, so I am not sure if I’ll trailer the both of them, or just the one. Studs are trouble sometimes.”

God, her voice was so sexy, sounding low, intelligent, and strong. She paused and moved again, and he was drawn back into his memory of her standing in the trailer earlier today—facing away from the door and bent over, that ass right there in front of him. Fuck, he was hard, his erection begging for release. In this low light, he was confident she couldn’t see him, even if she tried. He slid a hand down his front, adjusting himself; then he grasped his cock through the fabric of his jeans, and pressed down firmly with the heel of his hand. His cock was throbbing, and it twitched at the attention.

Stifling a groan, he swallowed hard, running his hand down the length of his cock again, cupping his hand over the head and stroking slowly through the thick fabric. He wanted to hear her voice again, and asked, “Have you been riding barrels and poles long? Is there anything specific that you enjoy about the competition? What do you like about it?”

There was a smile in her voice, “I’ve been riding since before I could walk; horses have always been part of my life, and I love it all. With the competition, what’s not to like? You work in collaboration with an elite, equine athlete, testing both your skills against the pattern and the clock, again and again.“

As she spoke, he remembered pulling her into Mica’s kitchen, besting her physical reaction and pressing her up against the wall. He’d been hard, pressed against her ass; remembering it now, he shifted the hard length of cock to a more comfortable position, sliding it sideways across his hip.

She continued to move, and he heard her turn over, tossing her blanket off her body and against the back wall of the bunk. “It’s not a competition against the other riders, other than how they can get under your skin and into your head. It comes down to training, emotional resiliency of horse and rider, skilled event riding, composition of venue, and the luck of the draw.”

God, she was amazing, there was an incredible intelligence and analysis revealed in her outline of what she did. He smiled, thinking that he wanted her to keep talking, so he urged, “You make it sound technical and scientific, and then say something like ‘luck of the draw’?”

It’s dark in here
, he reminded himself, brushing across his cock with the heel of his hand again.
She won’t know, she can’t see
. He unbuttoned his jeans soundlessly and took his cock in hand. He stroked slowly, holding it loosely in his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the head and across the tip.

“Yeah.” she breathed softly, startling him by speaking from right over his head. “For some horses, running too early in the day is tough, and others don’t do well waiting around. So when you draw for your positions and run times, it really can be the luck of the draw.”

She continued, shifting away from the edge of the bunk again, “Some riders don’t do the head game very well, and they amp their horses up unnecessarily, either by tacking up too soon, or not following a good, predictable routine.”

He was stroking himself
slowly, changing his grip and tightening it as he slid his hand from root to tip, again and again. Concentrating on keeping his breathing under control, he listened as she continued talking, “Or they don’t pay attention to fatigue levels, and work their horses when they are too tired. It’s hard on the horses to be trailered for long distances, so you have to give them time to recover before working them hard. Um. Are you jacking off, Slate?”

At her question he froze in place,
how did she know?
Taking in a short, light breath, he asked softly, “Why?”

Her voice came from the bunk, directed towards the ceiling, but very soft and low. “Because the sound of your hand moving up and down the length of it is pretty sexy sounding, and your breathing has gotten shallow and fast, and that’s sexy as hell, too.”

Slate debated lying to her, but then opened his mouth and groaned, “Yes,” while he kept stroking his cock slowly, root to tip.

He heard a smile in her voice as she whispered, “I thought so,” and the sound of that smile nearly pushed him over the edge.

He could imagine it on her face as she looked over her shoulder at him, while he drove into her from behind. He tipped his hips forward and upward, fucking hard through his fist for a few long strokes. He was listening to the noises he made with his movements, knowing she was listening too. “Talk to me, Essa,” he urged her quietly, wanting her voice again.

She was at the edge of the bunk again, right over his head, and when she spoke, her voice came from bare inches away, her breath stirring the air around him. “Does it matter what I say, Slate?”

Fuck me
, he thought,
she has no idea how sexy she can be
. “Yes, it has to matter to you. I fucking love the passion in your voice when you talk about all this.” He reached down with his other hand, pushing his jeans open further as he arched his back, gritting his teeth.

He thought he’d ruined it for a few seconds, because she was silent and moved away from the edge of the bunk, gaining distance between them, even in the small space.
Please
, he begged silently,
talk to me
. He was listening so closely for her voice it took a second for him to recognize the sounds she was making. There was a brief, wet, sliding noise, and her breath caught in her throat.
God, she’s…
There was the noise he had heard again. He almost couldn’t believe it, but he had to know, so he whispered on a breath, “Essa, are you touching yourself?”

She answered soft and low, “Yes.”

Slate groaned quietly, stroking himself harder and faster, and felt himself come closer to the edge. He realized he couldn’t care less about the noises he made. He had to know about Essa though, had to know how aroused she was, asking her, “Are you wet?”

There was a soft rustle of clothing, and she answered with a hitch in her voice, “Yes.”

Oh, fuck me
, the vision of her body from today was burned in his brain. He could still see the dark shadows between her thighs that had been barely covered by her panties, and he
had
to know if she tasted as good as she looked. He released himself, sitting up and reaching for the edge of the bunk as he groaned, “God, Essa, I want to taste you. Let me...let me touch you, have a taste of you. I need to know if you are as sweet on my tongue as your scent is in the air.”

Reaching out, he wrapped his hands around her thighs and hips, pulling her body to the edge of the bunk and inwards towards him. Positioning himself between her legs, his shoulders held her legs apart as he rested back on his heels, feeling his cock bump against his bare belly.

He never took his hands off her, wrapping his fingers around her legs, smoothing slowly down and then back up the inside of her thighs. “If you don’t want this, you need to tell me, little girl. It’s your decision, baby, but you have to tell me yes or no.” Bending his head, he trailed soft kisses against the inside of her knee, working her flesh with his lips and hearing her groan in response to his touch.

He slid his hands up, following them closely with his tongue; she was so femininely muscular, so strong. Her thighs were corded and taut, and he ran his hands over every inch of them on his way to his goal. He paid close attention to every reaction to his touch; he wanted to learn what pleasured her, and he loved her vocal responses of moans and gasps. Slowing, and then stilling, he waited for her answer. “Please, Slate, don’t stop,” came from the shadows.

He sighed in relief, and then kissed and nibbled up the inside of one soft thigh, taking in the scent and flavor of her skin; her hips were moving impatiently on the bed as he moved to pay the same attention to the other. He framed the apex of her thighs with his hands, using his thumbs to stroke the crease where they met her lower lips, but deliberately not touching her most sensitive places. He smiled gently as he heard the quiet sound of disappointment she made, holding her hips to the bed as she attempted to arch up against his touch.

Running his hands across her belly, he spanned her smooth skin from hip-to-hip, stroking and kissing along that line, and then back downward, finding no fabric barrier in his way. “You took off your panties,” he groaned harshly against her, rubbing and dragging his nose across her belly hip-to-hip again, then kissing and licking along the crease between her hip and her thigh.

Her fingers were uncertain when she first reached down, tentatively touching his head, then she pulled her fingers gently through his hair. She tugged at his hair lightly, cautiously urging him. He let her guide him, angling his tongue towards her clit, but just avoiding the engorged bud peeking out of its hood.