Page 68 of Holding Penalty

“She,” Marco answers. “Her name’s Milly.”

I gasp when she moves her head toward me while I pet her pretty neck. She’s so tall, too. I have no idea how I’m going to make it into the saddle.

As transfixed as I am by interacting with this beautiful animal, my curiosity about how the staff treated Nash is still pinging in my head. So, I say to Marco, “Everyone here seems to really like Nash, huh?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Marco answers, the enthusiasm in his voice only making me wonder even more.

“Please, call me Piper,” I say. “Does Nash spend a lot of time here or something?”

“No, he doesn’t, unfortunately. We’d love to see him more.”

“Then … okay, this might sound like a funny question, but why does everyone like him so much? I know my husband can be a little … prickly.”

Marco laughs. “Maybe so, on the outside. But after he took over this place and saw what the previous owners were paying us, he doubled everyone’s salary instantly.”

A light feeling winds through my chest, hitching my breath. Is it … admiration?

I think it is. I think I admire my husband’s generosity and selflessness, traits no one really even knows he has. Except those on the receiving end of them.

“I’m back,” Nash’s low voice announces.

When I turn to him, a tender smile pulls on my face. I take in the sight of my husband, looking at home next to a horse stable with his blue jeans and tucked-in checkered shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and somehow looking a little … different in my eyes, knowing what I just found out.

That sense of admiration mixes with another feeling that’s a little harder to describe, bringing a sweet but unsettled sensation to me, that almost feels like …

“Ready to get on her?” Marco asks, interrupting my thought, keeping me from searching for a name to assign to that feeling. Probably for the best.

“Can I?” I ask.

Marco nods. “Sure. She’s a good girl. She’s nice and gentle, and takes well to new people. I can give you a leg up.”

“I’ll do it,” Nash says. His voice is firm as he strides toward me, almost as if the thought of another man helping his wife into the saddle instead of him makes him jealous. The idea of his feeling that way is a little too appealing.

Nash sinks to one knee. The sight of my husband kneeling in front of me has heat dancing all over my skin. I chase away the dangerous thoughts that start to bloom in my mind, featuring Nash on his knees in front of me for entirely different reasons.

“Grab the saddle,” Nash says, his voice raspy and direct as he gives instructions. “Put your foot in my hands, and I’ll lift you up.”

I do as he says. Something about having my leg crooked so close to Nash’s face makes my pulse stutter. Looking down, having my foot resting in the cradle of Nash’s hands like this is far too close to the sight of my leg resting on one of his broad shoulders.

Nash’s gaze brushes over the spot between my thighs, and a pang of want stabs into me.

I yelp when Nash lifts, levering my weight up like it’s nothing. I swing my other leg over the horse’s back and land in the saddle. I feel higher up than I really am, almost dizzy with the sense of height. Maybe that has something to do with the heat curling through my stomach from being manhandled by my husband.

My temperature only shoots up when Nash wraps his strong hands around my calves and positions my feet into the stirrups. He’s gentle with that movement, in contrast to the explosive power he generated hoisting me up.

I bet Nash is really good at knowing exactly when to be rough and forceful, and exactly when to be gentle.

My breath catches when Milly starts to move underneath me. It makes me feel giddy. I hold on tight to the reins, and Marco strolls her around. I laugh as I adjust myself to the saddle, moving my hips with the horse’s gait. This is fun.

I look at Nash, who’s standing with his arms crossed, but an amused look on his face.

I can’t help myself. “I’m pretty good at riding, huh, Nash?”

Blush splotches beneath his week-old stubble. He clears his throat. “Seems that way.”

I’m still far too amused at making my husband lose some of his composure.

I wonder just how much of that composure I could make him lose, if I really tried. That might be a dangerous thought.