The Unbreakable Trilogy. Primula Bond

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СКАЧАТЬ be riding. I lower myself gingerly, lean slightly sideways to take the weight off my sorest buttock. The leather feels warm beneath me, as if it has only just been lifted off a sweating mount. It creaks as if it’s speaking.

      Damn Dickson for abandoning me here. Damn Gustav for ordering him to do so. If he’d just hung around another few minutes, had the courtesy to wait until Gustav pitched up.

      Outside, the wind wuthers round the corner of the building like a damned soul, rattling the stable doors and knocking over a bucket. My heart jolts in my chest. I’m certain there is no-one else here. No way of knowing how long Gustav will keep me waiting. I could die in here. I have no idea how big his estate is. Does he own the whole mountain? The whole forest?

      I’m not threatened by any ghosts, but what if the real thing is here? What if Margot knows we’re coming and is lying in wait up at the castle?

      I wriggle down into the saddle and concentrate on the creaking sound it makes, just as if a muscular steed is trotting smartly along beneath me. I grasp the high rounded pommel at the front with one hand and the back panel of the saddle with the other and slide myself back and forth until the leather heats up with the friction and I start to vibrate with the heat. The smooth fabric of my jodhpurs slides easily across the leather, quickly growing damp with exertion and secret excitement. The smell of the leather grows stronger, mingled with my own sweet aroma.

      I close my eyes, raising myself off the seat as far as the long stirrups will allow me so that the chilly air can get to me. Then I bang myself down onto the seat again, rubbing up and down the saddle, tilting myself so as to feel the heat more acutely, spreading my legs wider so as to press down on the leather surface and rub some more.

      I start to quiver with excitement, driven on by the whistling of the scary wind outside. I am holding onto the saddle to support myself, fingering the high, rounded, phallic pommel. The shape of it is perfect for my private game, and before long the pleasure is growing as I gyrate against it.

      ‘Did you know,’ comes a deep voice into the dusty silence, ‘that pommel means “little apple”?’

      I half-groan, half-laugh at the interruption. ‘So you’ve finally made an appearance.’

      ‘The journey hasn’t tired you out, I see.’

      I can’t look at him. I grasp the pommel, hunching over it as reluctantly I abandon my game.

      ‘Would have been more polite for you to travel with me instead of running off in the middle of the night.’

      ‘We’re not joined at the hip, are we, Serena?’

      ‘I thought that was what the silver chain was all about?’

      ‘Yes. When I choose to attach it. Oh, I have it here, don’t worry. But you’re a big girl now. And Dickson delivered you safely.’ Gustav strides past me. He reaches for a bridle. Despite his rough tone I can see the edge of his cheekbone rising with amusement. ‘Right. When you’ve finished scratching your itch, are you ready for a ride?’

      I blush furiously, turn to glower at him over my shoulder, and nearly fall off the saddle.

      It’s like a different man has just walked in, even though I can only see his back view. The only familiar item of clothing is the dark red scarf.

      Gustav Levi, the well-built, pale, slightly reclusive businessman in Jermyn Street tailoring has been supplanted by a muscular, swaggering, unshaven horseman in unashamedly tight black jodhpurs, long black boots and a black high-necked Belstaff-style jacket. He looks magnificent. The ensemble makes him look taller, leaner, fitter, and much, much younger.

      It’s easy to imagine his body stripped of the black skin of fabric, his clearly outlined buttocks bare, the muscles tensing under my tentative touch, flexing under the skin, pulling back ready to thrust himself between a pair of willing thighs.

      Wind your tongue in, Polly would say. You’re ogling the guy.

      I shove my finger into my mouth to keep from giggling.

      ‘Loving the Equestrian Ken motif, Gustav. We match, see? I’m your Barbie doll, all in white. Madame Crystal has sent us forth dressed as two sides of a negative.’

      ‘That’s why I hire her, Folkes. She sticks to her brief.’

      I wriggle into the saddle, wishing he’d turn round. If Gustav’s jodhpurs reveal his fit physique, then every dip and curve of my soft, lazy bod will be on display, too. Let’s see if he is similarly inflamed by lust when I present myself for inspection in all my snowy splendour.

      My teeth nip my finger harder than I intended and the tiny jab of pain flares deep down between my legs. It was definitely worth flying over half of mainland Europe to catch an eyeful of Gustav Levi in tight black jodhpurs.

      I can’t take my eyes off him as he runs a cloth over the tack. The black hair falling over his eyes, the sequence of muscles rippling through his body, the inviting curve of his bottom, the fine bulge of muscle in his thighs, the strong jut of his knees as he lifts the saddle off its moorings.

      What did Crystal say about him? Deep, not distant?

      But is he goading me? Is he parading in subtle yet skin-tight clothes to tease me? Crystal would tell me not to be so ridiculous. She’d retort that these are the requisite protective garments for horse riding. Slim-fitting, but supple. And she would be right. Nevertheless I intend to feast my eyes because this is as close as I’m going to get to seeing my lord and master naked.

      He turns to face me, the saddle in his arms, his mouth open as if he’s about to say something. His black hair has caught on his eyelashes. I long to sweep it away so that I can see how bright his eyes are, what’s going on in those black pools, how steadily they are staring at me. His face is pale, but there’s a strong growth of dark stubble chiselling his cheeks and chin and making him look more devilish than debonair.

      My hand feels automatically for my camera. I want to capture Gustav’s new rugged, restless energy. My Alpine Zorro.

      I take a quick shot, because he’s standing so still. I play back the image to make sure it was in focus and there he is, a modern-day musketeer staring at me in the same mesmerised way I’ve been staring at him. I glance at my trapped specimen, and then at the real thing. His black eyes are half closed with what? Attraction? Amazement? His wide lips are half smiling, biting back an exclamation of what, admiration? Or amusement?

      A fine specimen indeed.

      I swing my leg over the saddle rack and jump down.

      ‘I’m not sure my bottom will take a rough ride after last night.’ I smooth my own trousers and tug the puffed jacket down. ‘And I don’t see any steeds.’

      He laughs softly and saunters towards a far door, kicking it open. The air whistling in from the yard behind us is bitterly cold, but when I stump after him I find myself in a bright modern corridor of loose boxes. Brightly lit, centrally heated, and smelling cosily of straw, oats and equine sweat. Grey and chestnut and black noses poke over the doors, waiting for attention. I pat each horse as I pass, but it’s the Arab chestnut mare with the huge Bambi eyes who draws me back.

      ‘This one’s my favourite.’

      ‘Her coat matches your hair,’ Gustav remarks from inside the furthest stable. ‘And СКАЧАТЬ