Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

The cow lets out another moo and lumbers off toward the source of the soft voice. Impossibly enough, my dick thinks this is a fine time to get excited—about what, I have no idea. While I’m trying to tame my wayward cock, which is apparently able to defy gravity and become harder than the damn fence post I’m stuck in, the soft voice drifts closer and closer.

“Oh my goodness. That’s quite a pickle you seem to be in.”

“Actually, my boot’s caught.”

“I can see that. Between the fence posts. What on earth were you doing?”

And that’s all I need to cause my proud, happy stick to shrivel up into an unhappy twig. Here’s the part where I emasculate myself by admitting what happened. “Well, there was…there was someone chasing me. I came outside to have a look back here, and there he was, in all his mad fury.”

“Someone?”

“He squawked and looked at me with a murderous gleam in his eyes. I didn’t think. I just ran.”

“Someone?”

“I thought I could hop the fence, and he couldn’t chase after me. I didn’t realize it was an enclosure.”

“Someone?’

“I don’t know why I thought I could hop the fence. It’s probably six feet tall.”

“About that. But someone?”

“The…the…the chicken.” I shut my eyes. If my face weren’t already flushed with blood, it would be bright scarlet now. It’s not very manly to admit that being chased down by a chicken is frightening. Not very manly at all. In this battle, the chicken came out on top anyway, and he didn’t even have to lift a feather.

“Mr. Cluckydoodle?”

“I don’t know its name!”

“I only have two—Tulip and Mr. Cluckydoodle.”

“I don’t know which one it was.” Lord, please don’t let it be Tulip. Being chased by a chicken named Tulip is the only thing that could make this worse.

“What did it look like?”

“I don’t know. Like a chicken.”

“Brown or white?”

I think fast because I’m trying to figure out which one is Tulip and pick the other. I figure a white chicken must be bigger and probably male and more fearsome. Do chickens have balls? If so, I think Mr. Cluckydoodle must have the biggest balls around.

“White.” I grimace as I try to writhe around to see Becki, but it’s a no-go. I’m firmly stuck where I am.

“That’s Tulip. She’s the sweetest little chicken in the world! I don’t know why—” Becki’s barely keeping herself from breaking out into hysterical laughter.

“Can you save the humiliating lecture for later and just try and get my boot out?” There’s silence around us for a few seconds, but then I catch a glimpse of black rubber boots out of the corner of my eye.

“Yes, sure.”

Becki’s hands rove up my leg—soft hands, warm hands, adept hands. It sounds like a children’s rhyme, but there is nothing childish about how my dick is going back to defying gravity again. I catch the scent of something farm-y—mud and hay and something more pungent, animals or something, but something sweet too, like roses. I guess my junk likes one of those scents, and I’m hoping it’s the roses because animal dung shouldn’t be a turn on. None of this should be a turn on, but clearly, my dick disagrees with my head.

Becki’s hands are gentle and sure, looking for injury. They brush down my pant leg, and even though it’s not skin-on-skin contact, my leg still erupts in goosebumps where her hands are.

“Nothing’s broken, which is good. You’re not injured otherwise?”

Only my pride. “Not that I know of,” I grunt.

“Okay. The boot’s twisted pretty bad between the posts, and I don’t know if I can get it out. I think getting it off might be easier.”

Now is also not the time to find Becki saying getting it off to be ridiculously sexual, but my balls leap up—or actually down since my head is currently lower than they are at the moment—and end up straight into my windpipe.

“Yeah,” I manage to rasp. “If you could unlace it…” I wore the damn things because they seemed the most suited for being on a farm, but it’s obvious they aren’t suitable for jumping fences.

“You really tried to leap this thing in one giant stride?”

I groan as Becki starts tackling the laces of the boot. Pain shoots up my leg.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? Is your ankle…” Those warm, little hands of hers are on my sock now, pushing it down as her fingertips dance over my bare skin. I think I might die right here and now, in the most undignified, upside-down position, just at that simple touch.

Which is crazy. Because I’ve never had a reaction to someone touching my ankle before. Not like this. I’ve hardly had a reaction like this to someone touching my…well…it’s rather obvious. I have no idea what’s happening to me, and I can only blame it on hanging the wrong side up and all the blood filling up parts of my brain that shouldn’t be filled up, causing it to misfire and malfunction in sending messages to my family jewels department.