Page 17 of The Farmer
Her head thumps back against the metal with a soft curse. Her eyes flutter, lips parted, a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper leaving her.
“You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” I hiss, teeth gritted.
She rocks her hips, demanding more. So I give it to her.
I grip her ass and thrust, deep and rough, the sound of skin on skin louder than it should be out here in the open. The air is thick with humidity and want, the breeze doing nothing to coolthe fire we’ve started. She clutches me, moaning into my mouth, biting my lower lip when I hit just right.
Her legs shake around me.
“Parker! Oh my God. Don’t stop,” she gasps, her hips meeting my drives.
“Not gonna,” I growl, pounding into her, fast and merciless now, her back scraping against the metal wheel with every thrust.
Her climax hits fast—tight and sudden—her cry muffled by my shoulder as I keep moving, chasing mine with a hand between us, thumbing and strumming her clit to keep her falling apart.
A coil of tension rolls through me. I follow seconds later, every muscle tense, forehead against hers as I spill into her, my body responding to her orgasm in thick liquid pulses.
We stay like that for a moment, panting, spent, pressed against the damn tractor. I trail kisses along her hairline, then her cheek.
I don’t know where we’re going from here, but I’m sure about one thing—letting her go isn’t even a fucking option.
8
PARIS
As someone who has spent her whole life in the city, I’ve surprisingly adjusted pretty well in this small town.
I mean, sure, it hasn’t even been a week, but I also haven’t had nightmares so far. It almost feels like a distant memory. I sleep soundly, and I wake up well-rested and happy.
Also, I never thought I’d willingly spend a morning learning about barns and cornfields, but here I am—boots crunching over dry hay, sun warm on my shoulders, the wind brushing my skin, listening to Parker explain how many inches of water corn needs per week.
If I were listening to a professor or anyone else talk about this, I would’ve either spaced out or dozed off. But I’m listening with rapt attention because it’s Parker.
He can discuss the weather, and I’ll stand there, listening in awe.
“How many colors of corn are there?”
I try to rack my brain. “Well, I’ve only ever seen yellow and purple.”
Parker nods. “Yes, but there’s also red, green, white, bluish gray, and black.”
At the barn, he shows me how to check the feed levels and toss hay into the pens. Otis and Doris trot behind us, happily brushing against my legs every chance they get. When I ask what the cows’ names are, Parker says, completely deadpan, “Big Mac, Angus, and Moolissa.”
I nearly drop the bucket I’m carrying.
“You did not name a cow Big Mac.”
“It was either that or Wendy’s. He didn’t respond to Wendy’s,” he says, completely serious.
It takes me a second to realize he’s joking. His delivery is so dry it’s practically drought-level. But once I catch on, I can’t stop smiling.
I’m still laughing, half doubled over, trying not to spill the feed bucket as Parker walks away muttering something about adding another cow, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I see my boss’s name, and the cold punch to my stomach is immediate.
Parker’s voice fades as I slow to a stop. “Hell?—”
“I gave you one fucking deadline,” Brad snaps. “One.And not only did you miss it, you haven’t answered your damn emails. I should’ve known. You’re not even that good. You’re a dime a dozen. I could replace you by the end of the day and get a better draft by tomorrow morning.”
