Page 11 of Hayrides with Hank
The familiar rumble of the tractor beneath me brought back a thousand memories as I guided it along the well-worn path. Behind me, Hank was testing the hay bales, making sure everything was secure for tomorrow’s festival crowds.
“How’s it feel back there?” I called over the engine noise.
“Perfect as always,” he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
Ten years. Three kids—Elizabeth, Finn, and little Shiloh—who were currently at his parents’ house, probably getting spoiled with way too much ice cream.
Three kids, just like my parents had, but somehow we’d managed to keep our promise. Every winter, we hit the road, the whole family piling into our upgraded RV, chasing warm weather and craft fairs from Arizona to Florida. Before the kids came along, we’d traveled across Europe, and we planned to take the kids on some other international trips once they were older.
I pulled up to the old barn at the far end of Jackson’s property and cut the engine.
“Come on,” I said, hopping down and heading toward the weathered wooden doors.
“Maddie,” Hank said.
But his protest was halfhearted. We both knew where this was leading.
“The kids are with your parents until tomorrow afternoon,” I said over my shoulder. “When’s the last time we had the whole place to ourselves?”
He followed me into the cool shadows of the barn, and I climbed the ladder to the hayloft where golden afternoon light streamed through the high windows. This had become our tradition over the years—stolen moments before the chaos of festival weekend.
I turned to face him as he reached the top of the ladder, and the look in his eyes was the same one I’d fallen in love with all those years ago. “You know,” I said, reaching for the hem of my shirt, “some things never get old.”
The air in the loft was thick and sweet, a heady cocktail of sun-warmed hay, old wood, and the distant, sugary scent of cotton candy from the fair. Beneath it all was the smell of him—clean sweat and desperate, building lust.
Hank’s gaze was a physical touch, scorching my skin as I pulled my shirt over my head. “You, Maddie. You never get old. You just get more fucking beautiful.”
He closed the distance between us in two strides, his hands framing my face as his mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claiming, a decade of familiarity fused with the raw, untamed hunger that still sparked between us.
My fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, then slid inside, my palm finding the hard, hot length of him straining against his boxers. “God, Hank,” I moaned against his lips, my grip firm. “You’re so hard for me.”
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound that vibrated through my entire body. But then he shook his head, his hand closing around my wrist, gently pulling me away. “Not yet.”
He lowered me onto the soft bed of loose hay, the stalks whispering secrets against my skin as he stripped me bare. The golden light gilded his shoulders as he knelt between my legs, his eyes dark with worship and wicked intent.
“The things I’m going to do to you,” he murmured, his breath a hot promise against my inner thigh.
Then his mouth was on me, and my world dissolved into sensation. The rough scratch of his stubble on my tender skin, the slick, relentless stroke of his tongue, the sound of him feasting on me, low groans of pleasure vibrating into my very core. My own cries were stifled by my fist, pressed hard against my mouth as I bucked against his face.
“Quiet, baby,” he growled, stopping only briefly to talk. “They’ll hear you. They’ll all know what a greedy little thing you are for my mouth.”
The threat of discovery, the sheer audacity of what we were doing, sent another violent shudder through me. My orgasm ripped through me, silent and devastating, a white-hot seizure that had my back arching off the hay, my thighs clamping around his head as I muffled a scream against my forearm.
Before I could even float down, he was moving, straightening up on his knees, his erection jutting proudly from his body. I pushed myself up on my elbows, my body still humming, then sat up and wrapped my hand around him, stroking him once, twice, three times, before leaning forward to take him into my mouth.
He groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Fuck, Maddie. Yes. Just like that.”
I loved the taste of him, salt and skin and pure Hank. I loved the way his hips gave a helpless little jerk when I swirled my tongue over the head. And I loved to watch him watch me.
Letting him slip from my lips with a wet pop, I leaned back, my eyes locked on his as my own hands came up to cup my breasts, my thumbs circling my own tight, pebbled nipples. “You like that?” I breathed, pinching one sharply, a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting straight to my now-sensitive pussy. “You like watching me play with myself while I taste you?”
A strangled sound escaped him—part groan, part prayer. “I fucking love it. You’re a vision. A damn sin.” His voice was gravelly, rough with need. “Touch yourself for me. Show me how wet you still are.”
He didn’t wait for me to follow that direction. With a growl that was pure possession, he gently nudged me back on the hay bale, settling his heavy weight between my thighs. He notched himself at my entrance, and with one powerful, sure thrust, he was buried inside me to the hilt.
I cried out, the sound swallowed when I clamped my lips together to stifle it. He stilled for a moment, both of us panting, joined completely. The loft was filled with our ragged breaths and the rustle of hay beneath our moving bodies. The distant, cheerful sounds from the fairgrounds were a stark, thrilling contrast to our secret sin.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice raw.
