She tries again. This time I boost her, my hands sliding up her ribs as she swings into the saddle. She lands with a startled sound, fingers white-knuckling the horn.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
“I’m breathing.”
“You’ve been holding your breath for the last thirty seconds.”
She exhales shakily. Captain Winky’s ears flick back, then forward again.
“Good. Now, I’m going to adjust your stirrups.” I move around the horse, shortening the leathers until her feet sit properly. My hands brush her ankle, her calf. I let them linger a half-second longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of her skin through the denim. She goes very still.
“The reins.” I come back to her left side and reach up to position her hands. My fingers close over hers, and I hear her breath catch. “Hold them like this. Loose grip. You’re not trying to control him—you’re communicating.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Control is force. Communication is trust.” I look up at her, and our eyes lock. “He needs to know you won’t yank on his mouth when you get scared. That you’ll stay calm even when things feel out of control. That you won’t abandon him just because it gets hard.”
The words hang between us. We both know I’m not talking about the horse anymore.
“Daniel.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“I shouldn’t have blindsided you.” The apology scrapes out of me, rough and inadequate. “Yesterday. In the diner. You deserved better than that.”
She’s quiet, searching my face. Then: “But you’re not sorry you did it.”
“No.” I hold her gaze. “I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’m sorry I didn't give you a choice in how it happened.”
Her throat works as she swallows. She looks away, out over the round pen, and I force myself to step back. Give her space.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s walk.”
I lead Captain Winky in slow circles around the pen, talking her through the motion—how to move with the horse instead of against him, how to keep her heels down and shoulders back. She’s a quick learner, her body gradually relaxing into the rhythm.
“You’re doing good,” I tell her.
“My survival instincts are having a meeting,” she says wryly.
My mouth twitches. “I know. You’re doing it anyway. That’s what counts.”
After twenty minutes, I stop Captain Winky and move to her side. “Now we’re going to try something harder. I’m getting up behind you.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“Captain Winky can carry us both. I want to show you how it feels when someone else has the reins—when you have to trust instead of control.”
“That’s—” She stops. Swallows. “Fine.”
I swing up behind her in one smooth motion, and we’re suddenly pressed together—her back against my chest, my thighsbracketing hers, my arms coming around to take the reins. She goes rigid.
“Breathe,” I murmur against her ear.
“Stop saying that.”
“Stop forgetting to do it.”
I nudge Captain Winky into a walk. The motion rocks us together, her ass pressing back against me with every stride as I steer us out toward the pasture. I lock my jaw to keep from groaning. I’m getting hard—no way to hide it, not with her seated right against me—and I wait for her to stiffen, to pull away, to call me out.
She doesn’t. Just keeps breathing, keeps moving with the horse. Keeps trusting me even though I probably don’t deserve it.
