Page 8 of The Farmer
Slick and soaked.
My voice is thick and gravelly with want. “You want this, Paris?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
I bunch the shirt around her waist. She’s laid out for me now—flushed, writhing, hungry, beautiful, and mine.
With a growl, I lower my mouth to her inner thigh, run a hand along the expanse of skin, and kiss a slow, filthy path toward her pussy.
She whimpers, and I groan.
Letting my beard tickle her soft skin, I trail my mouth higher, humming in approval when she tries to pull me to her center.
She lets out this broken little moan the second my tongue slides between her folds, and fuck, I nearly lose it right then. I suck her clit gently, then rougher, teasing with the tip of my tongue before flattening it and licking deep, dragging my tongue along her wet slit. Her hips jerk. Her fingers clutch the corn stalks beside her, trying to grab or hold on to anything.
“You like that?” I rasp, mouth wet, breath hot against her. “You want more?”
She nods frantically, thighs trembling around my head. “Yes. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
“Oh, baby, I’m not stopping until you scream my name.”
I suck harder, tongue circling and fucking into her slowly, and she slowly falls apart. One hand claws at the dirt, the other fists in my hair, trying to pull me closer, urging me on with a desperation that mirrors my own. Her hips buck against my mouth, seeking more, demanding everything I can give her.
“That’s it,” I groan, fingers digging into her hips. “Let go for me. Come on my mouth like a good girl.”
Her body tenses, and she shatters in a torrent of cries and spasms.
Her moan is raw, guttural, pouring into the rain-drenched night as she comes, shaking under my hands, thighs clamping around my face. I don’t stop. I don’t want to stop. The world could end, and it still couldn’t keep me from her cunt.
I lick her through it, hungry for every twitch, every gasp, every drop of her.
And when I finally pull back, beard soaked, lips wet, heart thundering, I crawl up her body, hover over her, and kiss her.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” I whisper against her mouth.
She looks up at me, dazed, wrecked, radiant. “Yes, I do. I feel it too.”
My heart clenches, something thick lodging itself in my throat. I reach for my belt, cursing under my breath when my fingers slip. The rain pours from the brim of my soaked hair, her legs still wrapped around my hips, her hands tugging at my shirt like she’ll die if I don’t get inside her now.
“I need you,” she whispers, mouth at my throat, breath hot and desperate.
“You have me,” I growl, the words ripped from deep within my chest. I hiss as I wrap a hand around my rock-hard cock, the sensation almost too much to bear. I line myself up against her pussy, feeling her heat even through the torrential downpour. Her body is ready, open, and inviting, and I’m a man possessed, driven by a need that's as primal as the storm raging around us.
Thunder booms, and we both ignore it. But then, the rain comes down so fast it stings, and suddenly it’s not just wet. It’s flooding. The dirt beneath us turns to thick, sucking mud.
She gasps and laughs all at once, blinking through it. “Oh my God. We’re gonna drown out here.”
I haven’t smiled in such a long time that the grin tugging at my mouth feels weird.
We stumble toward the house like drunk idiots, soaked to the bone, clothes sticking, bodies burning. I’m half-hard, still twitching with frustration, but also grinning like a fool because she’s laughing, and every second with her feels like a punch to the ribs I don’t want to dodge.
We barge through the front door, dripping everywhere.
She peels off the shirt, drops it in a puddle on the floor. “My legs feel like wet noodles.”
I yank off my own, water splattering everywhere. “Good. My goal is to make it hard for you to walk in the next few days.”
“You know, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
