Tasting Candy: Over 60 Erotic Pregnancy Stories

Seein’ me comin’, he lifted a hoe up over his shoulder, and I realized he’d not only cleared the patch but finished tillin’ the soil for me too. I was so distracted with the show that I didn’t notice the finer details like that, I’ll confess.

“If you’re lookin’ for a flower garden, I reckon you’ll want me to put up a fence ‘round it too. Don’t want no animals wanderin’ in and messin’ it up,” he said to me matter of factly, unabashed about his near nudity, even as his jeans hung so darn low on his waist I felt like I was half an inch from seein’ somethin’ naughty. “Somethin’ nice and pretty, a white lil’ picket thing maybe,” he said.

I blinked, begging my mind to pay attention to his words and not that treasure trail leading to...

Well, I knew, in theory, but I ain’t never seen one in the flesh. Can’t blame a girl for getting curious.

“Yea, a fence,” I muttered absently before looking at the supply barn. “There’s probably some wood in there, not sure if it’d be good enough.”

He cocked a brow at me quizzically.

“So does that mean I have the job?” he asked in that deep, husky voice of his. The sort of voice I only knew from TV and movies, the kind that makes a gal wanna cream her jeans. “‘Cause we should probably talk pay and all that. Maybe even exchange names,” he tacked on with some dry humour, a slight smirk on those full lips of his.

Of course, I knew his name, but I wasn’t going to admit that, or how I’d found out by askin’ Mr. Fennel. I put my hands in my jean shorts back pocket, thrusting my chest out a bit and daring him to look at me again. I knew I was being brazen, but my body was tingling with need.

“I suppose. You wanna come in and I’ll get you some water? We ain’t got much, but we need a farmhand sure as anything.”

He gave me a firm nod and started to tread upon the earth with his heavy footsteps.

“Name’s Asher, by the way,” he said as he walked on by, and did the slightest of thing. A brief touch of his hard, calloused hand upon my arm. It was a strong grip, but a light touch, and easy to tell he was no regular city boy. He clearly knew how to work with that feel of his palm.

Though more immediate, was the tight cheeks that were hugged by his jeans as he headed on towards the farmhouse and laid the hoe to rest by the door.

“Shelby,” I said as I followed after him, unashamed about how my eyes wandered over his firm ass, the little indents just above his cheeks.

“You sure got a lot of tattoos, Asher.”

That remark got little more than a grunt from him, and I realized quickly that I weren’t gonna be gettin’ a lot of detailed answers about this mystery man’s past so easy as that. It’d take more diggin’ than scuffin’ about the topsoil.

We went on into the farm house, and there was sight nor sound of ma, which weren’t surprisin’. She spent most of her day knittin’ in the rockin’ chair upstairs, for no particular reason.

So I went to fetch us both a tall glass of water, as I turned and looked to the tall drink of water that really interested me.

“You here all alone?” he asked, less curious than confused. Concerned maybe. His brow furrowed as he looked around, seein’ no signs of anyone else as he stood bare chested in my kitchen.

I admit, for a second I was a bit scared, just enough to get my heart racing. If he were an axe murderer, well, I was servin’ myself up on a platter for him. No one around for miles and him thinking I was by myself in the big ol’ farmhouse.

Though the confusion kinda softened me to it.

“Ma’s around,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said as I handed him the water, a few pieces of ice in it from the icebox, though he guzzled the whole glass so fast that never made a difference. Then he plunked the glass on down with a satisfied ‘ah’ and I plucked it up again, having not even sipped my own.

“You worked up a fierce thirst, that’s fer sure,” I remarked, pourin’ up another glass from the pitcher.

“Been on the road all mornin’, haven’t stopped for a break since I set out,” he explained in his deep tone, leanin’ up against the countertop all casual like, lettin’ his bare chest ripple.

“Where you come from?” I asked as I handed his glass to him, taking a smaller sip of my own. I knew better than to chug cold water after working up a sweat.

“Out east,” was all he offered up, wiping his brow with the bare skin of his bulging forearm, the sweat drawing attention to the way his veins bulged his sunkissed skin out. He was a real man, hardened by the elements and life, I reckoned. “You grow up on this farm all your life?” he asked in return, lookin’ at me like all his attentions were focussed.

“Yea, was my grandpappy’s before now, been in the family for over forty years,” I said, being a lot more forthcoming than him. I couldn’t help it. I wanted him to keep talking and thought maybe if I shared, he would too.

“You’re lucky,” he said after a long mulling over, nodding his head as he took his time with that second helping of ice cold water. “Not many folks I’ve known got the luxury of growin’ up in one spot. Most end up movin’ all over the place, travellin’ wherever there’s work or money,” he said, leaning back with one hand upon the counter top.

I’d never thought of it like that. Always felt chained down to the one place, especially after pa died and ma started going dim.

“Yea, I guess so.” I took another sip, thoughtful for a moment. “So that’s why you’re on the go? Just looking for a job with nothing more than the clothes on your back?”