It’s pretty simple to me. And fuck, I’m loving every moment she’ll have me here.
Her being okay with me coming into her house while she was still at work told me everything I needed to know. I’m hooked. And I don’t get hooked that easily.
People think life on the road is glamorous, and having women throw themselves at you wherever you go is something to be measured by. But in truth, all of it gets pretty old.
I find myself craving my roots and something more meaningful, and deep down I’ve always been this way.
I can’t help it.
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” she says as the spoonful of cake disappears into her mouth. “And if it means I get to eat cake and be spanked, so be it.”
I grin, she sure looked fine with her ass all perky over my lap. And that pink tinge to her skin makes me want her all over again. Fucking hell, this girl is doing things to me that I’ve never felt before. Anything can seem good after such a short time, maybe. But nothing has ever made me feel so alive.
The horseback ride today, the way she was with the animals, and the guests on the trail back ride. Hell, how she was with me, knowing I was apprehensive about riding again. She didn’t push me into it, or make me feel as if I couldn’t do it.
She’s the perfect amount of everything.
“You know, that’s a pretty damned fine combination, little lady.”
She laughs and continues to eat. And I watch her with utter fascination. Who knew that watching her eat my grandma’s famous mud cake would have me all loved up inside, hanging onto every word, every moan, and every other note of appreciation that comes from her.
“You have to make this again,” she croons. “Say you will?”
My mouth pulls up at the side and I contemplate it for just a moment, enough for her to give me a little shove. My body rocks and I can’t hold my laughter anymore. “I will,” I say. “I’ll be our own personal mud cake chef. I can even feed it to you if you like?”
“Now you’re talking.”
I laugh and take a mouthful of cake from my own plate, and not meaning to toot my own horn, but it is pretty damned good.
Bailey
“I need to meet this Cowboy Brettimmediately.” Izzy squeals, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands together as we wait in line at Butterfingers Bakery for the Friday morning coffee run. A tradition that Izzy started not long ago, after she moved back home from college to work at Lawless Farms as the resident dog-walker, and to start her job at the Alpine Falls Waggy Tails Veterinarian Hospital.
“And that you will,” Sadie chimes next to us who kindly let the cat out of the bag in the car, yes it takes the three of us to get the coffees and muffins for the Lawless Farms staff, though, technically I haven’t clocked in for work yet. I’m just here for moral support and the muffins.
I also had no real choice but to give Izzy a quick rundown on the scoop—leaving most of the dirty details out, of course—but how we’d met that night at the Perky Porch and one thing lead to another.
“For god’s sake, don’t tell your brother,” I moan. “That’s if Jed hasn’t already gone and done it himself. You know he can’t keep that smart little trap of his shut.”
“My lips are sealed,” she says, making the zipping motion across her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, but manages to add a muffled: “But I still want deets.”
“Word is he makes the best chocolate mud cake this side of the Mississippi.” Sadie shrugs.
“I bet that’s not all,” Izzy jokes, though she isn’t far wrong at all.
Jo-Beth appears from out back and narrows her eyes toward Sadie. “Heard that about the cake.”
Sadie holds her palms up. “Apart from yours, of course.”
Nope, I definitely could not eat anyone else’s mud cake, not after that conversation about spanking. I’d never be able to look JB in the eye again.
I mentioned he made dinner and his grandma’s prize-winning mud cake and now the girls all think we have a thing. I mean, I guess something is going on. But it isn’t a thing, I don’t think. I’ve no idea how long this hot cowboy is even in town for. A conversation we need to have sooner rather than later, I guess. He could be a blow-in for a few months, if not weeks, for all I know.
“A man who cooks for you, loves horses and bakes you his grandma’s mud cake before a round of tonsil hockey and god knows what else is a keeper in my book,” Izzy states. “I don’t know why you’re standing in line here with us when you could be over there banging him right now.”
I almost choke at her words while the girls all laugh, not that I should be surprised, this is just Izzy. “It wasn’t tonsil hockey,” I state, even if I’m lying through my teeth. “And where do you suggest I bang him, Iz?”
“His place, your place, somewhere in the back barns at the farm we barely use. I don’t know, I’m sure you can find somewhere.”
