Page 7 of The Farmer
PARKER
The entire world stops, and when I blink, everything falls back into place, careening into motion. It’s the kiss that melts away the last of my resistance.
Although, to be honest, I’m not sure I had any to begin with.
I knew I was done for the second I saw her.
My brain finally shakes itself into action, and I deepen the kiss, coaxing her mouth to part, and when she does, I shove my tongue, tasting every corner, swallowing every moan.
I grip her waist and drag her flush to me. I hate even an inch between us.
My tongue slides against hers, hungry, filthy, and possessive, and every sound she makes goes straight to my cock, already hard and throbbing beneath the wet denim.
My beard scrapes her skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she arches into me.
I press her against the porch post, hips grinding once, slow and rough. My entire universe has whittled down to nothing but the primal need to have her, be inside her.
She whimpers, and I lose what little control I had left.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are glassy with need, her lips swollen from kissing, hair soaked and wild around her cheeks. God, so fucking beautiful.
“Back inside?” I ask, voice low, ragged.
She shakes her head and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.
I graze a thumb along her jaw. “No?”
She grabs my shirt and touches the corner of my mouth with the tip of her tongue. “Take me to the field.”
Well, fuck.
The storm is still falling, sheets of rain cutting sideways through the air, soaking us to the bone. Paris doesn’t care, and neither do I. The porch behind her is solid and dry, but she wants the field.
Fine. Her wish is my command.
I carry her off the porch and into the open yard, one arm under her thighs, the other supporting her back as she clings to my neck. The wet grass squelches beneath my boots as we move through the rain, past the mud-slick driveway and toward the edge of the corn. The stalks rise around us, eight feet tall and shivering in the wind, their leaves rustling.
Paris’s breath is hot against my throat, her small frame trembling against my chest.
She presses into me, mouth finding mine again, hotter now, wetter, needier. I slide my hands under the soaked shirt she’s wearing—my shirt—and when I feel bare skin beneath, I groan into her neck. “No bra?”
“No panties either.”
Goddammit. She really is set on snapping my control.
I move us deeper into the field, the sound of the storm muffled by the tall stalks that bend and sway. The mud sucks at my boots, her weight hot and perfect in my arms. Then I spot it—just a little patch of flattened ground, maybe from a deer, maybe from some kid who got lost out here earlier in the day.
It doesn’t matter. It’s ours now.
I drop to my knees with her still wrapped around me, then lay her down on the soft, wet earth.
I kneel between her legs, push the flannel shirt open, and fuck.
Her bare skin glows in the dark, slick with rain, flushed with heat. Her nipples are tight, begging for my mouth, and when I lean down to take one between my lips, she arches up with a cry that gets drowned by the rain.
Her hands are in my hair, pulling, yanking, her nails digging into my scalp.
I trail one hand down her body and slip it under the shirt.
