The Stallion Read online

  As her breathing quickened, she tweaked at one breast. Her head fell forward as her hand cupped her breast higher. With her tongue she licked at the soft flesh. She loved the feel of it, the silky gloss of her own skin. Moaning in selfish rapture, she slid slowly down to impale herself on him, her vulva sucking the man into her hot interior.

  At first her movements were slow as her inner lips adapted to the intruder. Around its rim, her nerve endings tingled as their power increased. She clenched her buttocks and tightened her stomach knowing that he, too, would feel the constriction in her muscles. Below her he moaned, his breathing heavy and increasing in tempo as she rode him faster. Her breasts leapt, almost of their own accord, as she gasped her pleasure.

  Suddenly, just as if she had dug her heels into her mount to spur him on, she increased her speed, bobbing up and down as if she had urged to a trot. On this mount, she was impaled. Faster and faster she rode, her pussy making a sucking sound as her juices increased to a flood.

  Her head was back, her eyes still closed, her mouth open as she sucked the air. She imagined being out riding with the wind against her face. And all the time, impaled in place, at one with her mount.

  She increased her speed and fell forwards, her hands either side of his neck. Their lips sucked at each other.

  As her breasts swung back and forth, his hands held them, cradling and caressing them to steady their progress; his thumbs flicked at her risen nipples.

  She felt his pelvis rise towards her; felt the first threads of her orgasm racing like a mass of electric currents to concentrate around one spot. Tension gathered there, congregated like high-voltage wires waiting to explode in one almighty burst of energy.

  She was barely aware of his face, of his existence. Now he was just her mount, an aid to her own rising release. She had her own needs to satisfy.

  As her release came, her voice exploded with satisfaction. She cried her orgasm to the ceiling, pinpoints of ecstasy like medals on her breasts and a violent sunburst between her thighs. With one last thrust she felt him tremble within her, momentous at first, his throbbing diminishing until he was spent. Then they fell and collapsed into a gasping heap.

  Clasped together by a light film of sweat, they lay motionless. On cue, his fingers began to feather downwards along the indentation of her spine. Her smile was hidden. She awaited the question that he had not yet asked.

  ‘Did you go to bed with him?’ He rushed the words, and she detected jealousy.

  ‘Who?’ She smiled as she said it, her mouth and her eyes hidden in her tumbling hair. There was a wicked satisfaction in keeping him in suspense. He had no right asking as far as she was concerned. He didn’t own her. She was her own woman. She sensed his irritation.

  ‘Him. Alistair thingummy.’

  She smiled at his offhandedness with the name.

  Half a sigh seeped from the corner of her mouth. It was hard to admit her disappointment, even to Mark.

  ‘We didn’t do anything very much.’

  There was a pause. Again she knew what he was thinking, knew what he would ask next, but offered no crumb of knowledge to free him from his query.

  ‘Suck? Hand job?’

  She raised her head. Her eyes met his. They were blue like her own, but not fringed with the same dark lashes as hers were.

  His mouth was twitching a little at each corner and he was frowning slightly. Suddenly she felt sorry for him. She was leaving him. He didn’t want her to go, yet she had to. They were still friends and would remain so, but there was a world beckoning – a career in which she excelled. She had to go.

  Gently she kissed the tip of his nose. She saw his nostrils dilate and knew he could smell himself – his sex on her lips.

  She smiled suggestively, but in an affectionate kind of way.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a kiss. It was all very polite. Very businesslike.’

  His bottom lip dropped open. He was as surprised as she had been.

  But she didn’t tell him that. It was irrelevant. Her path was marked out and she’d signed a contract. She couldn’t go back on that. They both needed new pastures.

  She turned on to her back and threw her arms above her on the pillow. She stared at the ceiling for a while and prepared herself for Mark’s next question which she was positive would come.

  ‘Do you think he’s queer?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Typical!’ She laughed.

  In her experience, it was the first assumption in any strictly heterosexual male. Mark, she knew, would never turn down an opportunity to have sex with her or any other likely looking female and found it difficult to understand that someone else might not feel the same.

  Nevertheless she thought about it for a moment before she answered properly. On reflection, she remembered the eyes of Alistair Beaumont when she had been removing her clothes. The steely grey eyes had become brighter as each article had left her shoulders and cascaded from her limbs.

  ‘No.’ Her voice was low, almost secretive. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  3

  SHE FELT NO clinging affection or pangs of guilt about leaving Mark or the place where they’d lived together for nearly a year. Love had become a habit; and sex, although still enjoyable, was getting near that time where familiarity had replaced red-blooded passion.

  Apprehension sapped her concentration as Gorgeous Sir Galahad, the chestnut gelding, and Flamboyant Flame, her dapple-grey mare, were loaded into the box. Soon all three of them, her and her two horses, would be in their new home.

  Excitement had coloured her preparations since early morning. No matter how Mark might feel about her going, she could not hide her enthusiasm for joining the team at Beaumont Place. Facilities were the best there and, if what Ariadne had to say was anything to go by, the social life was pretty good, too.

  Limbs stiff from an over-abundance of sex the night before reminded her that she would miss Mark’s hard body covering hers. But, she told herself, he was not irreplaceable.

  All the same, Beaumont’s not taking her sexually still grated on her mind. There was a niggle inside that asked whether he had not thought her good enough for his taste. It rankled and made her feel slightly insecure.

  And yet it seemed even stranger that he had not taken advantage of Ariadne. Who could fail to be knocked out by her apple-ripe breasts and available pussy? But now the wager was struck and her curiosity aroused, it didn’t matter. Now it was up to her to rise to the challenge. What kind of man was it who could watch other people enjoying sex and not indulge himself, she asked herself? It didn’t matter. She would do her best. She smiled to herself as she slid the bolt into the lock of the tailboard. Pleasant thoughts came to mind.

  Perhaps, she thought, his tastes had become jaded, suffused with too much of the sensuous – a quality readily available to the man who could afford everything. Beaumont had a business empire that straddled the Atlantic, offices in London, Boston and New York, plus subsidiary companies in Australia, South Africa and South America. He was one of those men whose lives are dominated by their business interests. Yet still he found the time to fund the stabling, training and all the other costs incurred by those so unwise as to be immersed in the world of showjumping.

  For the last time she looked around her old stable yard where mice had chewed through the wooden walls, and yellow-headed weeds pushed through the cracked concrete.

  Goodbye to all this, she said to herself, looking one last time at the strident growth of the elder tree that had started as a rigorous sapling and was now taking over the yard, its virile roots splintering the concrete into smaller pieces. Strange, but she’d become almost fond of it, of all it represented. It was against its trunk that she and Mark had made love the very first time, its splintery bark scratching like blunt fingernails over her naked behind.

  No matter. Mark and all this were behind her now, but she still managed a little smile for the man who had made her happy, and might even do so again in the future.
Mark, like any rejected male, had put on a brave face, but she couldn’t tell if he was sad or merely impatient to bury his regrets and his cock into her replacement.

  She turned away. Like precious stones, she folded her memories away. Her life was about to take on a whole new course, even though she had some regrets about leaving his hard body and his very satisfying prick behind her.

  The tailboard was finally bolted up. The horses nickered gently, snorting as they pulled hay from the temporary nets fastened inside. They sounded to her ears as though they were urging her onwards, telling her that pastures new – where grass was more numerous than weeds – would be welcome to their tender palates.

  She turned back to Mark. Their goodbye was brief, though she did detect a hint of jealousy surge momentarily.

  ‘Never mind,’ she whispered as he nibbled a last time at her ear. ‘Jackie will look after you.’

  Over her shoulder, green eyes looked out from a mass of bubble blonde hair and full breasts strained against a black jersey. Jackie, her understudy for the past month, she guessed was already contemplating the pleasures to come now Penny, her rival, was out of the way.

  Mark patted her bottom with as much pleasure as he did his prize stallion. Penny wriggled against it, savouring the pleasure for the final time. Then he helped her up into the rattly Bedford horsebox. His hand cupped one cheek of her bottom, which was tightly enclosed in her dark-blue breeches. Then his hand slid to the cleft in between as he pushed her up into the cab.

  She wriggled against it and murmured with pleasure – after all, it might be some time before she got the opportunity to have some of that, though of course she had no intention of letting the grass grow under her feet.

  ‘Hope this old crate gets us there,’ she said as she turned the key.

  ‘Last time,’ he answered in an offhand, sarcastic kind of way. ‘Mr Beaumont will no doubt have your new box already waiting for you with his company name emblazoned along the side. And all you have to do for it is your very best.’ He smiled sardonically. Suddenly she knew she’d have to work hard not to miss him. Either that or swiftly find her own replacement – singular or plural.

  As the engine sprang into spluttering life, she took a deep breath and put on her own brave face. She smiled down at him and winked.

  ‘I will,’ she said as she thought of Ariadne and everything she had told her. She was unable to control the spreading smile that made her cheeks bunch into pink apples. ‘I most certainly will.’

  Foot to floor, she pulled away, eyes straight ahead. On this occasion, at this moment in time, she could not look back.

  Suddenly the seduction of Alistair Beaumont was of great importance, like going after a new trophy, a whole new wedge of prize money. A new life and new experiences beckoned. And now, she reckoned, she was ready for them.

  ‘Alistair Beaumont, I’m coming for you,’ she muttered to herself as the old horsebox rumbled out of the gate.

  Built in warm, red brick at the latter half of the nineteenth century, the stable yard at Beaumont Place was entered through a curved archway surrounded by rich boughs of drooping purple wisteria.

  The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as the horsebox came to a stop in the middle of the yard. Penny’s eyes surveyed her new surroundings as she turned off the engine and pulled on the brake. Blank windows stared back at her. Those, she guessed, hid offices and storerooms behind their dusty facade. The other three sides were given over to loose boxes, a tack room and a hay store, numerous buildings all catering for the competitive world of equestrianism. At the far end of the enclosure was a large barn and next to it what looked like an indoor riding-school.

  What a difference to her own place, she thought enviously, as her eyes took in the scene of gentlemanly opulence. There was no sign of neglect here; no sign either of lack of funding. Here there was money. Here also, she reminded herself, was Alistair Beaumont who was both a man worth waiting for and worth having. She remembered him from that day strolling through the lunch-time crowds, that classic patrician profile set on a firm neck and shoulders that bore both responsibility and confidence with easy geniality. Just thinking of him made her moist against the crotch of her white cotton knickers. He was a handsome man, besides being a powerful one.

  In the middle of the yard was a fountain; perhaps of earlier construction, from the time of the Prince Regent when the main house was built. Around it was a circular trough into which a bronze cherub peed from a green copper spout. The water tinkled like light laughter, sparkling like falling diamonds into the dark greenness of the pool.

  ‘Nice little guy.’ She smiled to herself, referring as much to the cherub itself as to the appendage he so copiously peed from. It was bigger than normally associated with classic statutary, and certainly exhibited the sort of length normally associated with an aroused adult male rather than a rotund little boy.

  So involved was she in studying the rich opulence of the stable yard and its buildings, that she did not at first notice Alistair strolling over to where she had parked. Her heart thudded and she ran her hands nervously over her slim hips. A fire ignited and simmered gently between her legs.

  He looked as good as that day when she’d walked beside him through the streets with all the beauty of her body teased by the soft touch of the coat lining. His shirt looked to be silk, his pullover pure lambswool and his breeches and high brown-leather boots hand-made purely for his well-muscled frame.

  But today, it wasn’t just him that filled her eyes. He was not alone. A few steps behind him walked another man. He seemed with him, but slightly apart, and although Alistair still dominated her vision, she could not help but stray to this other presence, this very tall man with very blond hair that curled in satin drifts over his naked neck. Her breath caught in her throat, and a numbness stilled the flames that Alistair had ignited in her. This other man was beautiful in the same way that a woman is beautiful, or an angel, or even Michelangelo’s David. His features looked almost sculpted. Angelic, she decided, was the best description. High cheekbones; high forehead beneath the luxuriant fringe of white blondness; wide mouth and profiled chin: all these gave the appearance of him being somewhat etherial. His eyes were brown and seemed to look straight ahead as though they were looking beyond her, as if there must be something else more profound than the red brickwork, the tangled wisteria or the yellow gravel of the stable yard.

  It was strange, but even though she was still sat in the cab of the rattly old Bedford horsebox, she had the oddest urge to cover her breasts and her lower regions with her hands as if she were naked, as if he could see her bare flesh and it was somehow lewd for him to do so. It was almost, she thought, as if she were in church and he really was a creature etched in stained glass, complete with white wings and gold halo.

  The feeling passed. She swallowed her sudden breathlessness and turned her attention back to Alistair. If he had noticed her interest in the man at his side, he did not mention it. He did not introduce him either. Mature lines that enhanced his character crinkled at the side of his bright, grey eyes.

  On the mild breeze his aftershave wafted towards her, mingling tantalisingly with his most obvious maleness. Maleness was a smell she had always noticed. It was aftershave, it was sweat, it was wood smoke, damp grass, and even the faint trace of tobacco. Men had those smells, completely unlike the sweet and salty mix that women seem to have; bouquets of flowers mixed with female perspiration. Men most definitely smelt different from females, and the difference excited her.

  His handshake was warm and sent shivers of expectation up and down her spine. His smile became even warmer and she thought it the sort you could drown in.

  ‘Miss Bennet. So pleased to see you.’

  She took the offered hand as she stepped down from the box. The palm was warm, the fingers firm. Just to look at him sent shivers of pleasure coursing like cold water down her spine and into the deep valley between the cheeks of her bottom. For the moment, the ‘angel’ was forgotte
n.

  ‘Glad to be here,’ she replied, breathless with enthusiasm. Her stomach was still knotted with excitement, her mind still tossing and tumbling the intrigues and stories she had heard about this place. She awaited an introduction to the tall man whose navy-blue jersey had a boat-style neckline that exposed the strength of his neck and the outline of his collar-bone. His flesh was tanned, as warm in colour as clear honey. He was not introduced. His eyes flickered over her for a moment, then stared guiltily ahead, and even though she smiled at him, he did not smile back.

  The ‘angel’ tossed his head, throwing back the sleek blond fringe that covered his forehead. The rest alighted in soft waves around his bare neck.

  Suddenly, she felt hot and her lips seemed dry. This man was something she had not foreseen. She could feel the blood pumping to her cheeks and knew they were becoming as pink as almond blossom. Lust oozed like honey in her hidden love-nest. She felt in great need.

  But Alistair was speaking. With effort, she concentrated on what he was saying. After all, he was the man she had come for; the man who would pay her bills and fall to her charms if she played her cards right.

  Alistair indicated the range of buildings around her, but made no obvious attempt either to introduce or bring the tall blond man into the conversation. Silently the man walked behind them – three paces behind – like some Oriental wife or harem eunuch. It was, she thought with rising curiosity, as though he were not there as a person, only as an item – something Alistair had paid for. All the same, he was beautiful to look at in his navy sweater and his pale-blue jeans. To see him move was enough for her to imagine what might be underneath.

  But she listened attentively as Alistair spoke. His looks, even his voice, demanded her attention. The very tone of his voice and the smell of everything expensive and masculine held her attention. This, she told herself, was a man to behold and to have. In time, she said inwardly. In the meantime, she was still curious to know the name of this blond Adonis who walked three paces behind them. Would he introduce him soon, she asked herself, and what was his job around here?