Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(9)

“It is,” I agree with no small amount of pride. “Let’s get you settled inside, and then I’ll give you a tour before the rain starts for real. Maybe you can start finding places to take pictures. Forecast says it’s supposed to be nice and sunny tomorrow after the storm blows through.”

Ireland hums in agreement, and the sound goes straight to my balls. It’s the kind of hum an aroused woman would make, and even though I know she’s just stirred up by the pretty scenery and maybe the pictures she’ll be able to take, my body doesn’t care. My body wants to crush her back against the truck, shove up her skirt, and show her exactly what a country boy is good for.

I behave, though, and grab her bag from inside the cab and lead her into the house. She pauses at the porch to finger the petals of a sunflower, and I make a mental note to give her entire bouquets of them every chance I get—buckets and bushels of them if necessary.

Our footsteps echo across the old hardwoods once we come through the front door, and I point out the living room, the kitchen, and the old-fashioned parlor near the front.

“Is Ben here?” she asks, sounding a little nervous.

I wish I could tell her not to be nervous because Ben’s going to be head over heels in an instant for her, but that would require too much explanation. And besides, I’m not aiming to yank her into our life without her having the chance to learn about us. What Ben and I share is…unusual. There was never a moment we didn’t know we’d have to be real clear with any woman about what we wanted so she could choose that unusual thing for herself.

Some women chose yes. Some women didn’t.

And after Mackenna left us when Ben got home from the war, we almost stopped looking altogether. It seemed easier to spend the nights alone than risk that kind of pain again.

But Ireland…something about Ireland makes me want to try again. Well, not just something, I admit to myself as I watch Ireland climb up the stairs and then follow behind her. Her skirt hugs the rounded curves of her ass and hips and pulls around thighs that I know would be so very plush around my waist and hips. Heavy and warm and soft over my shoulders as I settled in to taste her…

And her hair hangs like some kind of dark magic down her back, the sway and swish of it as she climbs mimicking the sway and swish of her hips and highlighting the contours of her waist—which dips in more than enough for my arms to slide around to toy with her breasts.

It’s not just something about her. It’s everything about her.

She’s got that body that makes me feel like a caveman, a body that offers lush handfuls even for my big hands, a body that promises a warm welcome on cold winter nights. That hair and that playful mouth with its quirky lipstick. Her light-blue eyes and sultry voice.

But even more than that, there’s something simmering under the surface of her that I want to touch, even if it burns me. She reminds me of one of the wild kittens we’ve got in spades out here—she’ll play once she decides she likes you, but until then, all you’ll get is quivering, wary stillness. But once you can coax her into playing, she’ll play with claws and teeth and still you’ll be grinning the whole time. She reminds me of Ben that way, although Ben’s more lion than kitten.

Ireland turns at the top of the stairs, waiting for me, and I touch the back of her elbow to guide her to the guest bedroom, wishing I could touch more. The small of her back. The sensitive skin between her shoulder blades. Maybe even wrap my hand in her hair and pull until she gasps ever so faintly.

Ireland steps into the room, and there’s still enough light even with the clouds rolling in that the dust is visible in the air. But the creaky metal bed has a fresh set of sheets and clean quilt laid over the top—it’s not unheard of for Ben to bring home one of the town drunks to sleep it off here at the farm rather than in the sheriff’s drunk tank—so we keep the room and the nearby bathroom pretty clean.

All the same, the room is fairly minimal—white walls, the quilt-covered bed, and an old dresser—with only the window and a framed cross-stitch pattern on the wall for decoration. There aren’t even any curtains.

I fidget a little in the doorway, watching the storm-tinted daylight gleam along the silk of Ireland’s shirt, and I have the same discomfort I felt outside the house. What if this isn’t good enough for her? Nice enough or new enough or—

“I love it,” she says simply, spinning to face me. There’s that smile on her face again, lips twisting up in some kind of private joke, like she’s only just caught herself from doing something she’ll regret.

I’d do anything to know what.

I set her bag on the bed. “Do you have something you’d rather change into?” I ask, hoping that’s not rude as hell to ask, but surely she doesn’t want to tramp around the farm in that tight skirt—as much as I wouldn’t mind the sight. Or the excuse to help her over fences or up into the hayloft…

“I do have some jeans,” she muses aloud. “No other shoes, though. I just didn’t think…” She drifts away to the window, looking out to the grass and sunflowers and, farther off, to the fields waist-high with golden wheat. “I guess I didn’t think about how it would be different,” she finishes in a soft voice, almost as if she’s talking to herself more than me.

It seems like she feels good about the different, not bad, and I give a quiet exhale of relief. Of course, I want her to like it here. I want her to like everything about here.