“Frankie,” I murmur. “Tell me what you need. Please.”
“That’s a big ask, stud.” She crosses her legs, reminding me that I destroyed her pants.
“Shit, let me grab something to clean you up.”
Her arm shoots out to stop me. “Absolutely not. This is my mess now. Your part is done.”
And then for the second time in as many days, Frankie leaves me guessing without a backward glance.
“Ireally don’t think this is a good idea.”
Ronnie sends me the same annoyed expression I’ve already received no less than seventeen times since trying to ditch my first riding lesson. Her small boot taps in the dirt, impatiently waiting for me to grow a pair. Greta would probably stamp her hoof if it wouldn’t spook me. The horse has done nothing wrong except appear so tall. She’s honestly better behaved than most humans. I’m beginning to think I’m overreacting.
But there’s more to it than hoisting myself up into the saddle. “We should save this for tomorrow. It’s supposed to be warmer.”
Ronnie’s lips squish into a more severe line. “The indoor arena is heated.”
“Uh-huh, but it’s dusty.”
“We’re just gonna walk.”
This is how it’s been for the last twenty minutes. Every lame excuse I toss out gets promptly swatted down. There’s no proper way to explain that her daddy rearranged my internal organs with his monster cock last night and I’m still recovering.
I’ve never been pounded that hard. My vagina is throbbing, radiating an ache down my thighs. Don’t even get me started on the chafing Byron’s beard left behind. Good thing he didn’t hoover my basement or I’d still be in bed. But I loved every filthy second of it.
And now, here I stand. Prepared to go for a totally different ride.
I attempt a squat and almost collapse. “Whoa, did you see that? I’m not sure my legs can handle this.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s just like sitting on a motorcycle.”
“How do you know?”
“You bought me a little one for Christmas,” she deadpans.
I deserve her snark for that one. “Why are you so smart?”
“My brain is humongous.”
“That’s such a big word! I bet you get really good grades.”
“Yep!” She beams with pride.
“Can you show me your report card?”
Her features scrunch. “Daddy has it. You gotta ask him.”
“Pass,” I mutter.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” I wave that unnecessary drama away. “As I was saying, let’s go get ice cream. You’ve earned it.”
“We just ate breakfast.”
“There’s always room for ice cream.”
Ronnie doesn’t appear convinced. “After lunch.”