“You do have a great cock, I’ll grant you that,” I manage, recovering enough to arc my hips back, angling toward him.
He thrusts into me again, and lets out a soft, faint groan. “Your pussy is fairly addictive too, City Girl.” He pulls out, and now we both thrust together, our breaths coming shorter as we move in sync. “So fucking tight. And you’re always so wet for me…”
“Sounds like we’re both addicted,” I murmur, grinning, as we start to thrust in sync now, his cock spreading the walls of my pussy wide as he fills me again and again.
“Sounds like,” he agrees softly, and then I lose track of his voice, lost instead in the feeling of his hands exploring me—one toying with my clit, the other wrapped tight around my waist—and his cock thrusting inside me.
I lose track of everything. The farm, the bedroom, the outside world. The whole world narrows until it’s just me and Grant and everything between us.
We both come together, him stroking me right up to the edge of my climax before his cock dragging along my front wall, right over my G-spot, sends me over the brink. He finishes at the same time, growling with lust as he pulls my hips back hard against his, pumping every ounce of his cum into me. I tighten my pussy, clench hard around him to milk every last drop, loving the sensation, the sheer animal lust of it.
We collapse against the sheets together, tangled up, spent, and only then does dawn hint at the curtains, painting them a pale pink. A reminder of another day dawning. Another day less that we have together.
I push up out of bed, mostly to distract myself from how nice it feels to lie there in his arms. I can’t get too comfortable. This is temporary, all of it. I can enjoy it while it lasts, but I can’t let myself relax too much.
I can’t start to fall for him. Not when he’s… who he is. A country man, a farm boy, a representative of everything I left behind. Everything I thought I was over in life.
I pad into the shower alone, leaving him on the bed. He watches me go, his eyes dark, unreadable, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. He must be. He knows this can’t last, too.
Still. We can enjoy it while it does.
That’s what I tell myself as I plunge my head under the shower tap and try to block out the rushing sound in my ears. The sound of something like regret.
That night, after dinner, Grant stops me as I stand up to do the dishes.
“It’s my turn,” I protest, but he ignores that and clasps my hand instead. Leads me out back. I laugh and tug at his grip. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” is his only reply. I’m learning that my country man likes to do that—make mysterious promises.
I have to admit, he’s lived up to all of them so far. So even though I roll my eyes and sigh, I do relax and let him lead me.
We pad across the grass together, barefoot. That tickles something at the back of my mind, a distant memory. Doing this before. Tiptoeing through this dewy grass, feeling the mud squish between my toes and tickle the soles of my feet. For some reason, in my memory, it seems like Grant was there. Though of course, I know he can’t have been. I remember him from high school now, vaguely—the big handsome guy who hung out with the jocks. We didn’t really cross paths much, even though our parents were friends.
Well, Mama, anyway, was friends with his parents. As for Dad…
I shake that thought off the way I always do. Douse those memories in kerosene and light the mental match. I don’t need to go down that road. Too much could catch fire.
I force myself back to the present, to the Grant who’s here with me now. The Grant I never knew back then. The one I wished I’d known better, if he was anything like the man he is now. Maybe if we’d been better friends in school, I wouldn’t have written this whole town off as useless.
He leads me out into the fields. We climb over the fence together, he lifts me up easily while I swing my legs over the posts. Then, hand in hand once more, we tiptoe through the fallows, over the now-empty fields that will one day—probably not until next year though—hold crops again. These fields will grow food, sustain life. Be productive in a real, tangible way. The kind of productivity that’s easy to wrap your head around. You get your hands dirty, dig in this soil, and in turn it feeds you.
At the core of it, that’s what life is really about. All the stuff I get up to back at home in the city, that’s all a kind of crazy distillation of this. It’s fun, but it’s not quite as… real, somehow.