Page 11 of The Farmer
I freaking love it.
His muscles contract with every thrust, and I scrape his skin with my nails. There’s still a bit of sting, given how thick and girthy his cock is, but it’s overpowered by the sheer pleasure I feel as he fills me to the brim and hits all the spots inside me.
“God, you’re so tight, baby.”
My only response is a whimper.
“You like this? You like this kind of filthy fucking?”
“Oh God. Yes!”
A sense of desperation builds inside me, and I feel myself inching ever closer to the edge.
“Parker?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I’m close.”
The moment he hears those words, Parker lowers his head and takes my nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his lips and flicking his tongue against it.
Pleasure collects and coils in tight spirals within me, collecting, collecting until … an explosion of sensations tears through me so intensely I think my body has disintegrated into dust.
“God, Parker!”
He doesn’t stop or slow down as gushes of molten heat wash over me, making my toes curl and my back bow off the hay, each wave of pleasure more intense than the last.
“Fuck, baby. I’m coming. I’m com?—”
His muscles turn taut under my hands, and he buries himself as deep as he can, spurting hot ropes of come inside me. I cling to him in shuddering spasms that leave my limbs weak and useless.
As I slowly come back down to earth, he pulls back and searches my face. He must like what he sees because he smiles and kisses me softly on the mouth. “This is the kind of good morning I can get behind.”
I lift a brow at him. “Don’t get used to it.”
He just smirks and sucks on my earlobe, his voice a low growl in my ear. “We’ll see.”
5
PARKER
The farmers’ market bustles with the usual Saturday rhythm. Everywhere I look, it's the same old Saturday dance. Boots scraping gravel. People yakking. Air's thick with cinnamon and cooking meat. Some fool's got their radio going, playing the kind of stuff Gram and Gramps used to hum along to.
Paris walks a few steps ahead, hair pulled back, skin glowing, wearing her clothes from yesterday. Her car’s still parked where she left it last night, which she managed to remember, just off the edge of the lot where the gravel turns to dirt.
A glance at the gauge through the window shows the tank’s still full, and relief settles low in my chest. She’ll be able to follow me back to the farm without a problem. No need to leave her car overnight again.
She stops at a vendor selling meat pies while I drop by the butcher shop. I smile at the way she becomes animated when she speaks, but that smile freezes when I spot a familiar figure approach her.
Chad fucking Kingsley.
Golden boy in pressed beige jeans and a creaseless white polo, flashing that too-white smile at anyone who might be watching. Of all the damn people in town, it has to be him.
He saunters up beside her, hands in his pockets, voice just loud enough for me to hear. Something about “pretty girls who know their food.” She laughs politely, and it’s enough to make the blood rise hot beneath my skin.
It takes every control I have not to punch that smugness off his face.
Every muscle in my body coils tight.
