darkish room anyway, approaching her sophisticated looking desk.
Stacks of invoices lay in neat piles near a keyboard, although the computer was dark. Knowing little about computers, he didn't even consider turning it on.
He opened the small filing cabinet standing against one wall and ran his fingers over the tops of the folders, looking for ... something. His name. Armstrong. Maybe he could find the papers Henry had tricked his father into signing all those years ago. He didn't know how that would help, and it was unlikely they'd be here in his daughter's office anyway, but the same desperation he'd felt for years when he thought of what Henry had done bit at him now. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he just wanted to find it. Something. Anything.
When the files yielded nothing of interest, he shut the drawer and proceeded to the bookcase. Perusing the shelves, he found books on accounting, books on business management, a bunch of annual and quarterly reports for Ash Builders ... and a small red volume with no words on its spine. Out of place, it caught his attention.
He slowly ran his fingertip down its edge; he didn't know why. Yet it felt as smooth as silk and had somehow invited his touch. He pulled the book from the shelf and opened it at random.
He saw dark ink, handwriting with a precise, feminine flair. Lauren Ash's handwriting; he knew it as surely as he knew his father would take a drink today. Reluctantly drawn in, he lowered himself into an easy chair against the wall and began to read.
Chapter Four
I ride a horse, traversing a long ridge, empty but for an occasional tree jutting above the tall grasses waving in the breeze. The sun is sinking, the air pink and dusky around me, and the valleys that fall away on either side are wooded and dark.
A man rides behind me; his warmth presses into my back. When his strong hands come to rest on my hips through my thin skirt, I don't respond, I don't speak or glance over my shoulder. I simply keep riding and let his touch spread through me like tiny pins delicately pricking my skin.
Soon, I realize he is bunching my skirt in his fists, slowly, methodically gathering the fabric. It glides smoothly up over my knees, thighs, exposing my skin to the warm twilight breeze.
"Lift up, " he whispers, his voice like a thick blanket, covering me. I pull myself up in the stirrups just long enough for him to free the skirt from beneath me, and when I sit back down, my naked flesh meets the saddles warm leather. His hands drift over my bare hips and thighs beneath the skirt until I am burning for him to touch between my legs, parted across the saddle. Instead, he continues caressing me, teasing me, venturing tortuously near the crux of my desire with smooth fingertips.
Just when I fear I'll go mad, he whispers once more.
"Lean forward. "
As I angle my body toward the horse s broad neck, his palms mold to my rear, pushing me even farther. The juncture of my thighs presses firm against the saddle horn at the precise moment he enters me from behind. I cry out, aware its the first
sound I've made, but the combined sensations are too stunning for me to hold it in. His strokes take on the same rhythm of the horse's slow, steady gait, each echoing through my body like the beat of a drum as the saddle horn vibrates against me. The sun is sinking quickly now, seeming to move faster as his thrusts increase in speed, as well. I watch it falling,falling, before my eyes, a hot orb of glowing orange that I am chasing with each powerful stroke.
As the last burning bit of sun drops below the horizon, I fall with it, in a shattering release that pulses through me with maddening intensity and leaves me weak.
But then his arms close around me, and as the night shadows deepen and the darkness around us grows more complete, I know nothing can hurt me and I am safe.
Nick stared at the page in numb disbelief. Long, empty seconds passed as he tried to absorb what he'd just read.
Stacks of invoices lay in neat piles near a keyboard, although the computer was dark. Knowing little about computers, he didn't even consider turning it on.
He opened the small filing cabinet standing against one wall and ran his fingers over the tops of the folders, looking for ... something. His name. Armstrong. Maybe he could find the papers Henry had tricked his father into signing all those years ago. He didn't know how that would help, and it was unlikely they'd be here in his daughter's office anyway, but the same desperation he'd felt for years when he thought of what Henry had done bit at him now. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he just wanted to find it. Something. Anything.
When the files yielded nothing of interest, he shut the drawer and proceeded to the bookcase. Perusing the shelves, he found books on accounting, books on business management, a bunch of annual and quarterly reports for Ash Builders ... and a small red volume with no words on its spine. Out of place, it caught his attention.
He slowly ran his fingertip down its edge; he didn't know why. Yet it felt as smooth as silk and had somehow invited his touch. He pulled the book from the shelf and opened it at random.
He saw dark ink, handwriting with a precise, feminine flair. Lauren Ash's handwriting; he knew it as surely as he knew his father would take a drink today. Reluctantly drawn in, he lowered himself into an easy chair against the wall and began to read.
Chapter Four
I ride a horse, traversing a long ridge, empty but for an occasional tree jutting above the tall grasses waving in the breeze. The sun is sinking, the air pink and dusky around me, and the valleys that fall away on either side are wooded and dark.
A man rides behind me; his warmth presses into my back. When his strong hands come to rest on my hips through my thin skirt, I don't respond, I don't speak or glance over my shoulder. I simply keep riding and let his touch spread through me like tiny pins delicately pricking my skin.
Soon, I realize he is bunching my skirt in his fists, slowly, methodically gathering the fabric. It glides smoothly up over my knees, thighs, exposing my skin to the warm twilight breeze.
"Lift up, " he whispers, his voice like a thick blanket, covering me. I pull myself up in the stirrups just long enough for him to free the skirt from beneath me, and when I sit back down, my naked flesh meets the saddles warm leather. His hands drift over my bare hips and thighs beneath the skirt until I am burning for him to touch between my legs, parted across the saddle. Instead, he continues caressing me, teasing me, venturing tortuously near the crux of my desire with smooth fingertips.
Just when I fear I'll go mad, he whispers once more.
"Lean forward. "
As I angle my body toward the horse s broad neck, his palms mold to my rear, pushing me even farther. The juncture of my thighs presses firm against the saddle horn at the precise moment he enters me from behind. I cry out, aware its the first
sound I've made, but the combined sensations are too stunning for me to hold it in. His strokes take on the same rhythm of the horse's slow, steady gait, each echoing through my body like the beat of a drum as the saddle horn vibrates against me. The sun is sinking quickly now, seeming to move faster as his thrusts increase in speed, as well. I watch it falling,falling, before my eyes, a hot orb of glowing orange that I am chasing with each powerful stroke.
As the last burning bit of sun drops below the horizon, I fall with it, in a shattering release that pulses through me with maddening intensity and leaves me weak.
But then his arms close around me, and as the night shadows deepen and the darkness around us grows more complete, I know nothing can hurt me and I am safe.
Nick stared at the page in numb disbelief. Long, empty seconds passed as he tried to absorb what he'd just read.
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