Cream of the Crop
Page 34
“Who gets fucked in a barn, then brings the cows in from the meadow?”
“The pasture,” he corrected, and I rolled my eyes while I rerolled the sleeves of his flannel. I quite liked the feel of that worn-so-thin-it-was-silky flannel against my naked skin. I also liked how delicate his extra-extra-large shirt made my wrists look.
“I’m just saying it was warm in the barn.” I shivered a little, the setting sun taking the warmth of the day with it.
“The house is warm, too. Go on inside and I’ll be right behind you.”
“Promise?” I winked naughtily, and he looked back at me just as naughtily. I danced across the yard, taking care to avoid all the puddles. It was hard to swish and sway wearing size-fourteen work boots, but I did my best. And it worked—by the time I made it to the back porch, there was a dairy farmer plastered to my backside.
“I thought you had cows to tend to.”
“That’s the thing about cows,” he said, giving my bottom a swat that made me jump, and in the process, lose one of the boots. “Leave the door open, and they know their way home.”
I stuck my foot out. “See that? That’s what happens when you smack my ass. I lose your stupid boot and get my foot all muddy.”
“Something else happens when I smack that ass.”
I made a show of looking directly at his dick.
He reached out and pulled me against him once more, holding my bottom in both hands and squeezing tightly. “I knew the first time I saw you walking away from me at the farmers’ market with that great big ass, how much it would jiggle when I smacked it.”
From any other guy, that statement would have earned its own reciprocal smack. But the way his eyes lit up, and the way he ran his enormous hands over my behind like he was just happy to finally have his hands on it—my tough city girl shield melted a little. Also, let’s not discount what he said about thinking about it and wanting it from the beginning.
However, he wasn’t walking away completely unscathed.
“We need to talk about your phraseology,” I said, bumping him back with my hips.
His hands, restless on my body, twisted into my hair as he tipped me backward once again. “Is that a fancy word for my dick?”
My burst of laughter caught him off guard, and he grinned, waggling his eyebrows.
“Seriously, Oscar, you can’t just say things like that. You’re gonna get punched one day for saying shit like that to a girl.”
“Are we back to that comma nonsense again?” he asked, then blew a raspberry between my breasts. “You have a great ass. You have a big ass. You have a great”—he paused for effect . . . pausing . . . pausing . . . still pausing—“big ass, and I can’t wait to see it bouncing on my dick.”
“You really are a fucking caveman,” I said, eyes wide.
“One caveman, coming up,” he replied, spinning me like a top and placing my hands on the porch railing. One of his hands slipped between my legs, and my back arched without thought. I giggled, feeling the warmth of his body against my back, wondering how long it would take before I was screaming out his name again—when I heard footsteps coming up the other side of the porch, and then an unmistakable gasp. And it wasn’t me gasping this time, which was a testament to how surprised I was, considering where Oscar’s hand was.
“Oscar?” a female voice said, and we both turned.
Standing on the end of the porch in a buttoned-up trench coat was the cutest little brunette I’d ever seen. She’d unwound her scarf and now stood there like a statue, one hand full of striped wool, and the other full of . . . aluminum foil–covered dishes?
“Ah shit,” Oscar muttered, tucking me behind him, giving me the barest hint of privacy. “Whoops.” I heard his zipper go up.
“What on earth is going on here?” she asked, and as I tried to quickly button up my shirt—his shirt—I peeked over his shoulder on tiptoes. She was really cute in a Girl Scout jamboree kind of way. And she was clearly furious.
“You’re early.”
“Not that early.”
“I didn’t realize it had gotten so late—sorry about that. Um, Missy, this is . . . umm . . . this is . . .”
“Natalie,” I supplied, squeezing his bicep and digging in with my nails. “I’m Natalie.”
“Yes, sorry. Natalie, this is Missy.”
The brunette seethed. “His wife.”
I dug in deeper with my fingernails.
“Ouch! Stop that!” Oscar looked back over his shoulder at me, then turned to Missy. “You always forget the ex in ex-wife.”
I retracted my nails. A millimeter.
“I’ll just put these on the table,” she said, so angry her lips were pinched white. He nodded to her almost nonchalantly, still keeping me tucked behind him. She walked inside through the back door, and I could see her bustling about in a kitchen she was clearly at home in, setting down her dishes, starting to take things like lettuce and carrots out of a grocery bag.
Oscar and I watched her for a moment, then he turned to me. He didn’t go back to what he was doing before, of course, but he didn’t make any effort to hurry me off the porch, either. I wrinkled my brow. “Ex-wife?”
“Ex,” he confirmed.
“Does she know that?”
He shrugged, easily. “She likes to bring me casseroles on Sundays.”
I could hear casserole dishes being set down on counters—and they sounded like they were being set down from ten feet above. Oh boy. Time to go.
“The pasture,” he corrected, and I rolled my eyes while I rerolled the sleeves of his flannel. I quite liked the feel of that worn-so-thin-it-was-silky flannel against my naked skin. I also liked how delicate his extra-extra-large shirt made my wrists look.
“I’m just saying it was warm in the barn.” I shivered a little, the setting sun taking the warmth of the day with it.
“The house is warm, too. Go on inside and I’ll be right behind you.”
“Promise?” I winked naughtily, and he looked back at me just as naughtily. I danced across the yard, taking care to avoid all the puddles. It was hard to swish and sway wearing size-fourteen work boots, but I did my best. And it worked—by the time I made it to the back porch, there was a dairy farmer plastered to my backside.
“I thought you had cows to tend to.”
“That’s the thing about cows,” he said, giving my bottom a swat that made me jump, and in the process, lose one of the boots. “Leave the door open, and they know their way home.”
I stuck my foot out. “See that? That’s what happens when you smack my ass. I lose your stupid boot and get my foot all muddy.”
“Something else happens when I smack that ass.”
I made a show of looking directly at his dick.
He reached out and pulled me against him once more, holding my bottom in both hands and squeezing tightly. “I knew the first time I saw you walking away from me at the farmers’ market with that great big ass, how much it would jiggle when I smacked it.”
From any other guy, that statement would have earned its own reciprocal smack. But the way his eyes lit up, and the way he ran his enormous hands over my behind like he was just happy to finally have his hands on it—my tough city girl shield melted a little. Also, let’s not discount what he said about thinking about it and wanting it from the beginning.
However, he wasn’t walking away completely unscathed.
“We need to talk about your phraseology,” I said, bumping him back with my hips.
His hands, restless on my body, twisted into my hair as he tipped me backward once again. “Is that a fancy word for my dick?”
My burst of laughter caught him off guard, and he grinned, waggling his eyebrows.
“Seriously, Oscar, you can’t just say things like that. You’re gonna get punched one day for saying shit like that to a girl.”
“Are we back to that comma nonsense again?” he asked, then blew a raspberry between my breasts. “You have a great ass. You have a big ass. You have a great”—he paused for effect . . . pausing . . . pausing . . . still pausing—“big ass, and I can’t wait to see it bouncing on my dick.”
“You really are a fucking caveman,” I said, eyes wide.
“One caveman, coming up,” he replied, spinning me like a top and placing my hands on the porch railing. One of his hands slipped between my legs, and my back arched without thought. I giggled, feeling the warmth of his body against my back, wondering how long it would take before I was screaming out his name again—when I heard footsteps coming up the other side of the porch, and then an unmistakable gasp. And it wasn’t me gasping this time, which was a testament to how surprised I was, considering where Oscar’s hand was.
“Oscar?” a female voice said, and we both turned.
Standing on the end of the porch in a buttoned-up trench coat was the cutest little brunette I’d ever seen. She’d unwound her scarf and now stood there like a statue, one hand full of striped wool, and the other full of . . . aluminum foil–covered dishes?
“Ah shit,” Oscar muttered, tucking me behind him, giving me the barest hint of privacy. “Whoops.” I heard his zipper go up.
“What on earth is going on here?” she asked, and as I tried to quickly button up my shirt—his shirt—I peeked over his shoulder on tiptoes. She was really cute in a Girl Scout jamboree kind of way. And she was clearly furious.
“You’re early.”
“Not that early.”
“I didn’t realize it had gotten so late—sorry about that. Um, Missy, this is . . . umm . . . this is . . .”
“Natalie,” I supplied, squeezing his bicep and digging in with my nails. “I’m Natalie.”
“Yes, sorry. Natalie, this is Missy.”
The brunette seethed. “His wife.”
I dug in deeper with my fingernails.
“Ouch! Stop that!” Oscar looked back over his shoulder at me, then turned to Missy. “You always forget the ex in ex-wife.”
I retracted my nails. A millimeter.
“I’ll just put these on the table,” she said, so angry her lips were pinched white. He nodded to her almost nonchalantly, still keeping me tucked behind him. She walked inside through the back door, and I could see her bustling about in a kitchen she was clearly at home in, setting down her dishes, starting to take things like lettuce and carrots out of a grocery bag.
Oscar and I watched her for a moment, then he turned to me. He didn’t go back to what he was doing before, of course, but he didn’t make any effort to hurry me off the porch, either. I wrinkled my brow. “Ex-wife?”
“Ex,” he confirmed.
“Does she know that?”
He shrugged, easily. “She likes to bring me casseroles on Sundays.”
I could hear casserole dishes being set down on counters—and they sounded like they were being set down from ten feet above. Oh boy. Time to go.
