the rapture on his face as I worked his dick with my fingers. Watched the way his eyes glazed and his mouth dropped open.
And I felt it all, felt him.
“I love you,” I said, and his eyes snapped into focus.
“I fucking love you, Carl, so fucking much.”
We stared at each other, through each other, and there was so much unsaid.
The unspoken hung heavy, thick and deep. The need that never left, that never eased, that never relented.
“I love her,” he said. “She’s the one.” His voice was barely a whisper.
I nodded, and then I pulled him down onto me, his chest to mine, and I held his face and kissed him while my cock twitched deep inside.
“I love her, too,” I said.
I’m not enough of a dreamer that I could ignore the inevitable. I’d known when I took the sperm donor’s offer that my summer plans for Samson would be largely kicked to the kerb. It’s not that I didn’t care. I did care. We’d worked hard, Samson and me, months and months of training and trust to get his form up enough to compete in cross country events this season. He was in good condition, but with the reduction in hours at my disposal, my ambitions would have to drop a gear.
I was ok with that. We’d have another year. Samson wasn’t young, but he was still in his prime. We’d get our time, he and I, so I’d shoved my eventing timetable in my dressing table drawer back at home, and pushed it out of my mind.
Until Verity pinned up the Cheltenham Chase cross country leaflet on our team noticeboard that Friday.
She’d formed a little gaggle of horsey girls around the office, and there they’d stood in a thrumming little huddle before work kicked off, enthusing over who was competing and how they were going to smash it. I’d kept my distance, pretending to be busy on my phone while they gushed over their horse’s form and who was signing up and who had the edge. Verity was competing her latest acquisition, a 16.2HH warmblood competition mare called Fleetwood Fancy. Fancy was right, over fourteen grand’s worth of cold hard cash after negotiation by all accounts, but that was nothing for the Faverleys. Pocket change.
I should have let it go, I mean, who cares what stupid fancy horse Princess Verity is dicking about on for the summer? She’d be bored of the mare before the season was out, and I’d normally have let it go. Normally.
But right there, with my coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, watching those horsey bitches mouthing off about who’d be kicking whose ass around that course at the end of August, I found I cared quite a lot.
Fleetwood Fancy had form, but Verity wasn’t as dedicated as she liked to think she was. She was all about the image, not about the substance. She didn’t take the time for the foundation work, didn’t want to put in the hours of warm up and preparation. Why would she? She had people to do all that shit for her. As a result, she’d be riding a horse that was still new to her, and sure, that horse had the scope to carry her through almost anything, but she’d never hit peak, not in time.
And that gave me a shot. Not a big one, but enough to send a thrill up my spine.
I mean, we’d never win, Samson and I, not the whole event, but that didn’t matter, just so long as we beat that arrogant little cow. Just so long as we had a chance.
There was that cold scaly feeling in me again, and my heartrate picked up as I watched her. She thought she had it in the bag, that she’d hop up on Fleetwood Fancy and the mare would carry her to victory without even breaking a sweat. I doubt I’d even crossed her mind, not with my budget auction horse that she’d never have given a second glance. She had no idea how far we’d come, Samson and me, no idea that we’d hit that sweet spot where we worked as one, trusted each other, knew each other by heart.
She’d never had that. She’d never stuck with a horse for long enough.
I’d been keeping my money safe towards Jack’s rent, but I clicked onto Horseclub and checked out their cheapest horse trailers. There was one locally for just under a thousand. It would get me there. My rust