Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(11)

Finally we get to the old barn. Since I use the new, metal building farther out back for my big equipment, this one is mainly empty save for the tractor I use to mow and a single cow named Clementine. There’s also a makeshift office in the corner—just a desk and a lamp, really—that I use to work on administrative stuff when the weather’s nice. Or when Ben’s in one of his moods and needs space.

Ireland stops by Clementine’s stall. “This is your only cow?”

“This isn’t a dairy farm, peach. We do wheat and some alfalfa, and that’s about it.”

“But,” she says, peering into the stall where Clem is currently flicking flies off her back with her tail and staring at the wall, “I thought farms were supposed to have lots of animals.”

“Here, we’ve just got Greta-dog, Clem, and too many stray cats,” I say. Way too many. But I’ve never had the heart to do anything about them. Ben brings some up to the county vet when he has time to get them fixed, but it never seems to matter.

“Then why the one cow? For milk or something?”

“I get my milk from the SuperSaver.” I laugh. “No, Clem was my Four-H bucket calf.”

Ireland blinks at me as if I’ve just spoken in ancient Greek. “Four what?”

“Four-H—it’s like—” God, how to explain Four-H to someone who doesn’t know about it? Growing up, it had been just as much a part of life as church or the annual Holm parade. “It’s a youth program all over the country, and I know they got lots of things you can do, but most kids out here did their plant and animal programs. When I was a boy, I had to raise a bucket calf, which is Clem here. Fed her from a bottle and everything,” I say fondly, joining Ireland at the stall door. “She’s plenty old now—older than most cows live to be, so she probably won’t be here with us for much longer.”

Clem huffs at that, which makes Ireland smile.

The wind is strong enough to make the wood of the barn creak around us, and outside the open door, I can see the first streaks of scattered silver rain. Won’t be long before the storm’s really here, and I send a quick prayer up to heaven that it won’t tear up the fields or damage any of the equipment. Sometimes it feels like I can never get the weather going for me the right way—I need the sunshine but not the excessive heat that bakes the ground up drier than cornbread, and I need the rain but not the kind that comes with wind intent on flattening my barn.

Camera raised, Ireland snaps a picture of the scowling clouds framed by the door, and as she walks toward the opening, still snapping away, she becomes framed by it. Her curvy rear in those jeans, the dramatic inward dip of her waist, those bare arms…

I drift toward her without really knowing what I’m doing, my mind full of her and my body full of something hot and restless. She’s just outside the doorway now, taking a picture and then frowning at the camera screen, and the indecisive rain has left a few plump droplets along her collarbone.

I’m transfixed by those raindrops on her skin.

You should ask. You should ask. Ask, ask, ask.

But I don’t ask, and there’s no excuse for it, and I deserve whatever hell she heaps on my head afterward. I know I do.

I reach out and touch a raindrop on her collarbone.

A breath stabs into her, and her startled blue gaze meets mine as her body shivers under my touch. I know how she feels—my own breath is stabbing at me, and I can feel every part of me trembling to touch her. Every part of me except for the one part that’s rock hard and throbbing rather than trembling.

“Caleb?” She whispers the question and lets out a small puff of breath when I raise my rain-wet finger to my mouth.

“Yes, peach?” I swipe another raindrop off her collarbone, and another, enjoying the way the water then rolls down her chest and underneath her camisole.

Her nipples pucker into tight buds, and I think I forget my own name.

“I thought…” she says, all dazed and woozy sounding, “I thought that you—”

But she doesn’t finish her sentence because I kiss her.

I kiss her hard and fierce, giving in to the hunger swelling up inside me, and I do what I’ve been longing to do all day and slide my arms around her waist and pull her body flush to mine.

I groan into her mouth the moment our forms meet. She’s just as luscious and warm as I knew she would be, and my hard cock nestles right against her belly. Her full tits press hard against my chest, and I yank her even closer to feel more of them. More of her. Swallowing her kisses and moans all the while, demanding entrance to her mouth and then exploring inside the same way I want to tongue her cunt later—with flickers and licks and long, massaging strokes. And she opens to me so beautifully, arching her back into my hold and sliding her arms around my neck, kissing me back just as thoroughly as I kiss her.

My fingers twine through her hair, and I walk her back so she’s pressed against the outside of the barn, raising my other arm to protect her bare shoulders from the rough wood. And then I really kiss her, pressing her hard against the wall, making her feel how tall and strong I am, making her feel how hard I ache for her. I slip a thigh between her legs, and she shudders at the contact against her pussy, rocks against me, and gasps into my mouth.

I drop my mouth from hers to the point of her chin and then up her jawline to her ear.