Could’ve used the step stool by the gate. Could’ve let her scramble up on her own. But this? This was way more fun.
She was tight and warm and maybe twenty-four. And it had been a while since anyone made me forget why I swore off women.
She shifted in my lap, squirmed a little. Uncomfortable saddle, maybe. Or maybe just nervous.
Either way, I wasn’t complaining.
Truth was, I could’ve asked Rick for his damn truck.
But then I’d miss this.
I slipped one arm around her waist, steady.
“You good?”
She glanced back. “I think so.”
“Not to be creepy, but I’m gonna hold your waist. In case Shakespeare gets any bright ideas.”
“Sorry,what?”
I grinned.
“Which part do you want me to explain?”
“So…” she said, casually, like we weren’t already halfway out of town on horseback.
“How’d your horse end up named Shakespeare? You some kinda secret literature buff?”
I smirked. “No. Because he likes toshake.”
She twisted slightly in the saddle. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.”
I gave Shakespeare a gentle nudge with my heels. Not a full sprint—just a quick burst of speed. Enough to prove a point, not enough to get us both killed.
She tensed instantly.
Whole body locking against mine. Back pressed to my chest, fists clenching the saddle like it might save her soul.
She didn’t scream.
Which either meant she was braver than she looked… or trying way too hard to impress me.
Or possibly unconscious.
I eased up on the reins.
Shakespeare slowed, hooves muffled against the dirt, rhythm settling back to something manageable.
She didn’t say anything right away.
Her hair brushed my jaw. She smelled like something soft and stubborn—vanilla and wildflowers.
I almost asked if she was okay.
Then she exhaled and muttered:
