A buzz of awareness zips up my arm when she takes my hand and meets my eyes. It happens again, the charged exchange of understanding between us as we hold eye contact for a beat too long.
I wish I’d known you were feeling this way sooner.
I wish I could tell you I’ve felt the same, and I know I need to make some changes, but I’m scared out of my fucking mind. The concept of “thriving” is foreign to me too. Maybe we learn how to do it together?
That’s just dumb, though. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
Bullshit.
One thing I am certain of is that I don’t want this conversation to end. Rare for me to be able to talk to people honestly this way.
Even rarer for them to be honest with me too.
“Are you?” Her throat bobs on a swallow. “Thriving?”
Not by a long shot.
“Tonight ain’t about me.” I lift our joined hands, guiding her onto the tractor’s step. “Go slow, yeah? I’m not wiping your ass if you break the other arm too.”
She throws back her head and cackles. “That would not be thriving, no.”
I try very hard not to look at said ass and her legs as she carefully climbs into the cab of the tractor and stands against the far window, her head ducked beneath the ceiling. Billie usually wears jeans—as ranchers, we all do—so to see this much skin is…a lot. I notice a birthmark high up on her left thigh. It’s light, barely visible, and it’s shaped like a spoon of all things.
Makes me think of how it’d feel to spoon her. Which is fucking weird, but whatever. Billie is tough as nails. In bed, though, I bet she’d be all softness.
Soft skin. Soft moans. Soft little cuddler who’d tuck in nice and tight as the small spoon to my big one.
Even though the late September evening is mild, I’m sweating by the time I climb into the cab while she continues to wait, standing. I set the plate on top of the little cooler behind my seat.
The only seat in this tractor.
Fuck me for life.
We have newer machines on Lucky River Ranch, ones that have multiple seats and are a more comfortable ride. But this particular tractor is my favorite. It’s the same model that was Dad’s favorite. I remember feeling like the king of the world when I would sit on his lap way high up in the cab. It felt like we were flying.
Billie Wallace is gonna have to sit onmylap now. And I’m gonna have to try with all my might not to get hard with that perfect peach of an ass pressed against me while we bounce around this godforsaken field.
Why does sitting suddenly feel more dangerous than spooning?
Too late to turn back now, though. I sit and try to make light of my terrible predicament.
I pat my knee. “You’re right here.”
“I prefer here”—she bends down and settles her ass smack dab in the center of my lap—“thank you very much.”
“You don’t listen to a damn thing I say, do you?”
She turns her head to give me a hot little look. “You’d be bored if I did.”
Then she leans back a little, resting her shoulder blades against my chest, and I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath through my nose. She’s so warm.
She smells so good.
Her body feels so fucking good tucked against mine. She is temptation personified. Not just bodily temptation. But she also tempts me to let down my guard. Feel my feelings. Be fully present in the moment.
An ominous heaviness gathers low in my belly. Gritting my teeth, I start the ignition. The tractor rumbles to life.
Dear Lord and Savior, please help me keep my shit together tonight.
