Dedication: For Elizabeth Durack..who said she liked a good ABH, though maybe not as much as she likes horses. Hope this satisfies.
Rating: Oh, you figure it out…the Master in tight pants…geez….R.
Category: PWP, ABH, no plot need apply. I repeat…THERE IS NO PLOT. Read "Torn" if you want a plot.
Thanks: To my Jedi...inspiration and...well...everything. :)
Archiving: Wolfie's Den, Temple Library, QJEB, basically anywhere it was posted. It will also be archived on my site templevoices.com.
Disclaimer: The Star Wars universe and characters are the intellectual property of George Lucas. No copyright infringement is intended. Scimitar, however, is mine. :)
Feedback: Yes, but offlist. I'm web-only on everything except JP and QGJDL, and won't see it onlist for a while. I check the archives only weekly or so. celtae@email.com
Would the paperwork never END???
Owning horses was supposed to be fun. Riding horses was supposed to be fun. Teaching others to ride horses…ok, that wasn't always fun, but it was rewarding. Too bad you weren't doing any of those things right now. No, right now you were stuck at your desk. In front of you were the checkbook and the bills; bills for feed, bills for vet care, bills for the farrier; bills, bills, more freakin' bills.
With a sigh, you push the hair back from your face, not even attempting to push it back into the untidy braid that hangs down your back. Not worth the effort. Won't stay, anyway. You pick up the nearest bill – one for feed – and your pen, and move to write out the check…
And immediately drop the pen as a loud, insistent whistle comes from the direction of the stud barn.
"What the hell… no, it can't be," you tell yourself firmly. Scimitar isn't due to be turned out yet, and when he is, you'll do it yourself. For some reason known only to God, the big Anglo-Arab stallion is enamoured of you. No one else even dares to get close.
Again, the whistle, and as you look out your window, you realize that someone has, in fact dared. Dared a lot more then proximity.
"Jesus, Mary, and Bride," you grit as you push back your chair and bolt for the door. Some idiot has Scimitar out in the paddock, apparently not realizing – or believing himself immune to – the fact that the animal was death on hooves for anyone but you.
Your bootheels slip on the floor going around the hall curve and you almost fall, catching yourself a nice clout on the hip as you regain your footing and burst out the back door, pelting hell-for-leather for the paddocks. You vault the first fence – thank God it's only the one around your yard, or you wouldn't have made it - and continue, slowing down only when you realize you're close enough for your approach to spook an already fractious – if beautiful – animal.
Your heart pounding, you approach more slowly – and your jaw begins to drop as you realize that, whoever this man is in the paddock with YOUR stallion –he has the situation well in hand.
Tall – tall enough that you figure he could tuck you under his chin, and you're not short – with well-muscled legs covered with fawn colored breeches, plain – and obviously expensive – black boots, and a simple, long-sleeved white shirt stretched over wide shoulders. His graying brown hair is pulled back in a neat tail.
He has Scimitar partially tacked; bridle with a simple snaffle. He's insane. He's using a snaffle on a stallion – on THAT stallion. Even you didn't ride him without a curb. You walk slowly up to the fence…if you can get his attention, maybe you could get Scimitar away from him before any real damage was done. His control over the volatile animal couldn't last much longer.Could it?
As if to prove you wrong, the man turns away from the horse, deliberately walking away, albeit slowly. Scimitar's ears come up – and to your complete and total amazement, the animal * follows * him. Like a dog. Like a LAPdog. The man turns, and Scimitar nudges his chest playfully. A soft, rumbling chuckle of approval reaches your ears, and a large, long-fingered hand rises to caress the stallion's neck. You find yourself suddenly envious of the horse.
Now where the hell did THAT come from? you wonder.
"I don't know…perhaps you should join us and we'll find out." You raise your eyes to meet his…and find yourself snared in that deep blue gaze.
"Who are you?" you manage to get out. Unfortunately, you don't sound the least bit accusatory. You sound like a child asking after the sun.
"My name is Qui-Gon Jinn." He says this as if it should answer all of your questions – and you find the easy arrogance strangely enticing. He continues the soothing caresses, the sound of his hand moving over the stallion's neck a soft whisper, and Scimitar seems totally entranced. You understand how he feels.
"How…why do you have my stud half-tacked? While we're at it, why do you have my stud at all? Do you know…" You fight to get the words out, but they are not behaving at all. "Dammit, what are you doing with my horse?"
Qui-Gon laughs easily, the sound rippling over you. "He wanted out. YOU needed out. I thought I'd take care of two birds with one stone." With those words – which don't answer a damn thing – he vaults easily to the stallion's back and holds out a hand. "Come on. He won't mind."
There a million and one reasons why you shouldn't do it, and for ONCE in your life, you promptly tell them to go to hell, take the hand, and allow yourself to be pulled from the fence to the horse. No saddle…it seems that Qui-Gon is most assured of his ability to control the animal. Instead, you find yourself nestled between long legs, a little higher on the withers than you would deem totally comfortable, but the only other option is to slide closer into him, and oh, what a dangerous choice that might be.
He chuckles. "You have no idea. Yet." A chirp to the stallion, an almost imperceptible nudge with his leg, and you are off.
It is, without a doubt, the most enjoyable ride you've ever taken. Qui-Gon seems to know exactly where he's going, and Scimitar responds to his every command as if it were anticipated. The horse's smooth gait, the rush of adrenaline that always accompanied riding bareback, the warmth of the body behind you, and the sheer joy of doing something frivolous in the middle of the day is breathtaking, and when Qui-Gon draws rein near the little lake at the far edge of the farm, you are laughing with pure delight. He slides down, and holds up his arms…and you are more than happy to slide into them.
"You should laugh more often, sweetling. You are entirely too serious." His voice is chiding, but his eyes are warm, and he tucks a wayward strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that quite takes your breath away.
"I – you know, you're right," you reply, beaming a smile up at him. "Thank you for reminding me."
"Thank you for letting me."
It suddenly dawns on you that he hasn't released you yet."I don't intend to." You don't have time to answer that, because your mouth is suddenly very busy being kissed, and, for the last time today, you tell the voice screaming those million and one reasons to go hang.
Gentle, teasing nips…smooth slide of a tongue between your teeth to lazily stroke the roof of your mouth…barely-there caresses to your back as he urges you closer. Like much urging is needed; you wind your arms around his neck and return his kiss with a fervor you didn't know you possessed. He pulls away, somewhat breathless, and laughs, tracing a finger down your cheek.
"Relax, sweet one. We have all the time in the world."
Perhaps – but you don't want to waste another second of it clothed. Fingers made strong and nimble by years of handling fractious horses fly at the buttons of his shirt, and, smiling, he helps you pull it free of his breeches and push it off his shoulders. So intent are you on disrobing him that you don't notice the absence of your own shirt and bra until a breeze hits your skin.
Grinning openly now, Qui-Gon slides to his knees, urging one leg up, then the other, pulling your boots off with practiced ease, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your own breeches. With a look he asks your permission, and when he sees his answer in the drugged expression on your face, he pulls them down. You kick them away, and pull him to his feet to work on his. When he is as nude as you are, he drops back to his knees again, a supplicant before you.
A kiss, planted reverently on the skin above your navel, makes you shiver. "So very beautiful," he murmurs, and as you are pulled atop him you believethat it is, for this moment, true. Your hair is freed from the remains of the braid, and he seems almost to worship the mass as it falls in a curtain about you.
For a man of few words, he is definitely one of action. Hands that are large enough to completely cover your own cup the sides of your face, holding it for the delicate exploration of butterfly kisses. The arch of each eyebrow…the bridge of your nose…the corners of the mouth that doesn't smile nearly enough…all are paid homage to with soft touches and gentle murmurs. His fingers slide into your hair, teasing the back of your neck. Dangerous man, the way he knows the seductiveness of a touch to a woman's neck…
You decide you like danger after all.
He laughs, and the sound travels from his chest to yours, making you shudder. With one smooth, graceful movement, he rolls over, pressing youinto the grass. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as he smiles down at you, trailing one finger down your cheek, brushing it across the curve of your lower lip. Boldly, you catch his finger between your teeth, closing your lips around it to suck lightly, and the little sound he makes, deep in his throat, makes a quiver run into your belly. A little pressure of that finger, and he's opened your mouth, covering it with his own. A tender invasion, it is a movement of possession nonetheless, and you willingly allow yourself to be branded as his.
Warm hands cup your breasts, fingers splayed, and you arch into the touch, the callused tips of his thumbs brushing across nipples already hard andaching. You catch your breath and he smiles against your mouth, breaking the kiss to trail moist heat down your neck. Light, sucking kisses at the cord in your neck..nibbles across the length of your collarbone…getting closer to where you want him but not there yet, and it's driving you insane. With a little sound of demand, you tangle your fingers in his hair and push him lower, bowing your back to offer yourself. Your reward for your wantonness is the touch of his mouth to your breast.
Long, slow licks set you writhing beneath him, and he lifts his head and blows across the damp skin. "So responsive," he murmurs. "So much passion." He lowers his head again, this time pulling you into his mouth to suckle, and you are lost.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, your world reduced to the rhythmic tug of his mouth on your breast and the slow, teasing arch of his hips into yours. Gently, he nudges your thighs farther apart, and one finger traces the folds between your legs.
"Gods," he murmurs against your breast, and this time his voice is rough. "So wet already…" One long index finger circles you, simply touching, making no move to enter your body until you keen and push toward him. Smoothly, he slides one finger, then another, into you, thumb circling your clitoris, fingers moving in a "come here" motion that strokes that one internal spot with ruthless tenderness. He slides up to kiss you again, tongue restless in your mouth.
"Touch me," he groans, and you obey, wrapping one hand around his girth, stroking in rhythm to his own fingers, and gods, it feels so good…He leaves your mouth to nip at your earlobe, licking the soft space beneath it. "Yes," he whispers against your ear, tongue darting inside. "Don't hold back..let me watch you…" His words drive you to the edge…you have one moment of warning, an internal tightening, and then you are flying, colours bursting behind your eyelids as you cry out and buck beneath him. Those devilishly clever fingers are still rubbing, lightly now, draining the last ounce of pleasure from an orgasm that nearly pulled you apart at the seams. Still shivering, you drag your eyes open to look at him. "Inside me," you whisper, and his own eyes close.
He arches into your hand."Guide me."
You do, guiding the hard length in your hand to where you want him to be, and with a sound that is half sigh, half groan, he slides into you. You rock your hips from side to side, accommodating him, until he is seated hard against you, pelvis to pelvis. Weight braced on his elbows, he looks down at you, and begins to move.
The long, slow glide of flesh against flesh has you purring beneath him, legs wrapped around his hips to meet each thrust. You should be sated, but you're not, the rub of his chest hair on your breasts, the hardness that is nestled inside of you, the soft noises of need he is making in your ear all conspiring to send you spiraling up toward that peak once again. Arms wrapped around his waist, you whimper, and he bends to take your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath…and your soul.
His muscles are quivering beneath your hands…his movements growing in speed and intensity. He's getting close to the edge, and the knowledge spurs you on, causes you to rock your hips up to take him deeper still, clenching internal muscles around him until he groans in your ear and abandons control, thrusts hard and fast now, touching your womb with each stroke. He tears his mouth away from yours, sets his teeth in the curve of your shoulder and neck and bites down as the big body joined to yours convulses in release. His shudders trigger your own, and you join him, legs shaking as your spasms milk him.
Conscious thought returns slowly, each of you still dealing with the aftermath of lovemaking, the little archings and shiverings that you couldn't control even if you wanted to. The scent of sated male and crushed grass is strong around you, and you smile. Idle kisses are pressed to your shoulder, your neck, and you laugh softly.
"I told you that you should laugh more often," he chuckles softly.
"Care to give me any more inspiration?" you reply cheekily, and it is his turn to laugh
"I think that can be arranged…"
END
