Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(3)
It rolls to a stop, and the door opens before I can get a good look at the person inside. A three-legged dog jumps nimbly down, barking madly at me but also wagging its tail, as if it can’t decide to be happy or distressed about a stranger.
Three-legged dog. Truck that looks like a rolling junkyard. I’m expecting the man climbing out of the truck to be full Grapes of Wrath—weather-beaten and gaunt and probably in overalls—and I’m hoping he’ll be the kindly sort of old farmer and not the scary American Gothic kind when he walks around the door, and oh—
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
He’s not Grapes of Wrath at all. He’s nearly six and a half feet of muscle and potent masculinity…shoulders stretching a Carhartt T-shirt in the most panty-dampening way, worn jeans clinging to his hard thighs and narrow hips. Big boots, bright-green eyes in a sun-bronzed face, and a close-trimmed beard that would redden the inside of my thighs very nicely…
Oh God, now that would definitely be an upgrade from chub rub.
He looks to be in his early thirties, with the kind of straight nose and full lips that make you think things like all-American and wholesome, which makes me keenly aware of how unwholesome my thoughts are right now. Thoughts about his beard and his hard thighs and his hands, which are big and strong and currently flexing by his sides as if they’re itching to do something. I don’t see a wedding ring—or even a tan line suggesting he’s ever worn one—and the bare finger is practically daring me to imagine sweaty, grunting fantasies.
I manage to drag myself away from my dirty thoughts long enough to realize the farmer is talking to me.
“Ireland Mills?” he’s asking. Hearing my name out of this prairie god’s mouth is disorienting, and I merely gape at him.
He smiles, revealing even, white teeth and a dimple sent from heaven. “I’m Caleb Carpenter. Thought you might have gotten lost on the way to my farm.”
Chapter Two
Caleb
I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest, and the person doing the punching is a five-foot-two girl with purple lipstick and eyes the color of a spring sky.
I’m suddenly a clumsy country boy all over again, even though this woman is at least ten years younger than me and clearly in need of help. I should feel pretty confident in this situation. Instead, all I feel is a dry mouth and a racing pulse—and an undeniable swelling against the front of my jeans—like I really am a horny teenage boy and not a man in his thirties who should know better.
But it’s like that punch in the chest knocked all the sense straight out of me, because suddenly I’m thinking thoughts no gentleman should think. Like how I can see the heaving swells of her breasts under her fancy shirt, how those swells would overflow even my big hands and spill over my fingertips as her nipples harden against my palms.
Like how warm and soft her thighs would be against my hips as I nestled into them, how her ass would feel in my hands as I cupped her bottom and tasted the only woman I want…
The only woman I want.
The thought hits me like a second punch, and I suck in a breath.
This one.
Mine. Ours. Somehow, it’s this city girl—the same girl I’ve been silently cursing all morning.
A friend of mine from my college days called and asked if I’d be willing to let someone from his company come out and take some pictures of the farm. At the time, it seemed dickish to say no. But as the day dawned and I saw how much work I had to do, I began wishing I was more of a dick to my old friend. I didn’t have the time to spare to play tour guide, and I felt even surlier about it when the time for her arrival came and went and it became clear she’d stood me up for this thing I was only doing as a favor in the first place.
It took an unkind amount of time to even consider the possibility she might have gotten lost and not stood me up—after all, spotty cell coverage means getting disoriented in these parts happens often enough. After I had that thought, I pinned a note to the door just in case and then climbed into the truck, grumbling the whole time.
But now.
But now.
I owe my old friend an apology and a drink; I owe him everything. Because even though I’ve just met her, even though I can’t explain it, somehow I know something has just changed.
Something I’ve been waiting years for.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Ireland Mills says as I step forward, and she’s got one of those voices. A slightly throaty alto that sounds like she’s been in bed all afternoon.
In bed under me. Over me.
Between Ben and me…
I manage to stop that train of thought before my erection becomes fully visible, and I realize I’ve been flexing my hands unconsciously at my sides, as if anticipating the feel of her soft curves against them. As if I’m already itching to hike up her tight skirt and mold my hand to the shape of her cunt.
I could make her wet…
I could make her come…
And Ben—
“So then I thought maybe the gas station, because even if they didn’t have a signal, they’d probably have a phone, and I could get it sorted from there,” Ireland’s saying. Greta, my dog, is still barking at her, and Ireland talks over her. “Do you think the car is truly stuck? Should I call a tow truck?”
Before I can answer, Greta decides barking isn’t enough and starts trying to jump onto Ireland. “Greta!” I scold, but Greta is determined to smear mud all over Ireland’s perfect black skirt.