The Mammoth Hunters - Jean M. Auel [263]
“Just until we find a nice open stretch of flat ground. We can’t try it here. Racer might run into a gully or down the slope,” she said.
He felt caught. How could he say he wouldn’t ride double with her for a short distance? He walked to the mound, and carefully sat astride the mare, trying to sit back and avoid touching Ayla. The moment he was on, she signaled Whinney into a fast trot.
There was no preventing it. Try as he might, on the jouncing horse, he could not keep from sliding next to her. He could feel the warmth of her body through their clothing, smell the light pleasant odor of the dried cleansing flowers she used for washing, mixed with her familiar feminine scent. With each step the horse took, he felt her legs, her hips, her back pressed against him, and felt his manhood rise in response. His head was whirling, and he fought with himself to keep from kissing her neck, reaching around to hold a full, firm breast.
Why did he agree to this? Why didn’t he put her off? What difference did it make if he ever rode Racer? They would never ride together. He had heard people talking; Ayla and Ranec were going to announce their promise at the Spring Festival, and afterward, he would leave and start on his long Journey home.
Ayla signaled Whinney to stop. “What do you think, Jondalar? There’s a good flat stretch ahead.”
“Yes, it looks fine,” he said quickly, and pulling his leg back around, jumped down.
Ayla lifted her leg over and slid off the other side. She was breathing fast, her face was flushed, her eyes glittering. She had breathed deeply of his man smell, melted into the warmth of his body, and shivered when she felt the hard, hot bump of his manhood. I could feel his need, she thought. Why was he in such a hurry to get away from me? Why doesn’t he want me? Why doesn’t he love me any more?
On opposite sides of the mare, they both tried to compose themselves. Ayla whistled for Racer, a whistle different from the one she used to call Whinney, and by the time she had patted him, and scratched him, and talked to him, she was ready to face Jondalar again.
“Do you want to put the guiding straps on his head?” she asked him, leading the young stallion toward a pile of large bones she noticed.
“I don’t know. What would you do?” he said. He was also in control of himself again, and beginning to get excited about riding the young horse.
“I never did use anything to guide Whinney, except the way I moved, but Racer is used to being guided by the straps. I think I would use them,” she said.
They both put the halter on Racer. Sensing something, he was friskier than usual, and they stroked and patted him to calm him down. They stacked up a couple of mammoth bones to give Jondalar something to stand on to mount the horse, then led the young horse beside them. At Ayla’s suggestion, Jondalar rubbed his neck, and his back, and down his legs, and leaned across him, scratching him and stroking him, and getting him entirely familiar with the feel of the man.
“When you first get on him, hold him around the neck. He may rear to try to shake you off his back,” Ayla said, trying to think of last-minute advice. “But he did get used to carrying the load on the way back from the valley, so he may not have much trouble getting used to you. Hold the lead rope, so it doesn’t fall on the ground and trip him, but I would just let him run, wherever he wants to go, until he gets tired. I’ll follow on Whinney. Are you ready?”
“I think so,” he said, smiling nervously.
Jondalar stood on the big bones, leaned across the shaggy, sturdy animal, talking to him, while Ayla held his head. Then he eased a leg across his back, settled himself down, and clasped his arms around Racer’s neck. When he felt the weight, the dark stallion laid his ears back. Ayla let go. He leaped up on his hind legs once, then he arched his back, trying to dislodge the load, but Jondalar held on. Then true to his name, the young horse broke out in a fast gallop