And, as always, there was her hand,
which forever burdened even the simplest tasks.
He came to her rescue, and she froze at the touch of his large
strong hands on hers. And before she had to even consider
retracting her flawed hand, he moved her aside and set about
unfastening the girth and removing the saddle, leaving her to
just stand there and watch, holding the flower.
Time stopped. Even Mighty Boy was still. His stare was on her
again, but she willed her gaze to remain fixed on the hay-strewn
floor. If she looked up into his eyes, there was no telling what
would happen. Yet she made no effort to alter what was happening.
Instead she shut her eyes, and tried not to think about how much
time was passing between them without words. What were his
thoughts? Were they the same as her own? What were hers? She
could not focus on any of these blind musings. Unaware of her own
action she had raised her head, as though all of him would become
clearer if she trained her closed lids in his direction. She
opened her eyes. Nothing in her mind could prepare her for what
she faced. The emerald intensity of his eyes pierced through her,
instantly warming her neck, her nipples, her loins.
"Come," he said, motioning to her with one hand, the other flat
against the horse's side. "Feel this."
She allowed him to lift her right hand and pull her closer.
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