Big Man's Heat (Big Men Big Hearts 3)

Mark backs away, watching me as the driver pulls onto the street. Giving me a small wave, I wave back, keeping my eyes out the back window until we're too far away for me to see him anymore.

My lips buzz, still warm from his kiss. Reaching up, I smile to myself and touch my mouth. This is a trip I'll never forget. I met someone who didn't cringe when I said I loved painting. A man who didn't look down on me for not being “one of them”.

And for that, this trip is entirely worth it.

5

Mark

Pushing myself out from under the hood of the tractor, I wipe my hands on the oil stained rag tucked in my back pocket.

“All right, you should be good now.” Cleaning off the oil and grit between my fingers, I take a step back. “Your float in the carb was all gummed up. I cleaned it like new and it should be good to go. If it gives you any more issues, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate you coming out.”

“No problem, Mr.Dillion, it's what I do.” Smiling, I grab my toolbox.

“I hope this is enough.” He hands me a small envelope, and I tuck it in my pocket.

Folding my lips down, I give him a gentle nod. “Don't worry about it, I'm sure it's fine. You have a good day now.” Shaking his hand, I tip my hat respectfully to his wife as she rocks in her chair on the front porch.

She smiles back, nodding slightly in return as she curls old, wrinkled hands around the arms of the chair. The Dillion family has lived in this town for generations. They're good people. They grow corn, and always have for as long as I can remember.

Actually, most of the town is built like this. Different families laid down their roots years ago, and very few ever leave. I don't think most of them stay just because they have no other way out, I'm sure some do, but a lot of us like it here.

Even my family has lived here for over fifty years. And I plan on keeping the tradition.

Stuffing the envelope in my glove box as I climb into my truck, I don't even count it. Whatever he can afford is fine with me. I don't just do this for the money, I do it because I actually enjoy it, and a lot of people in this town are barely getting by as is with all the big box chains starting to pop up nearby.

Closing the door, my eyes fall to the passenger seat, and I instantly think of Siobhan as she sat there the night of Ryder's wedding. I can still smell her perfume. Gardenias, that's what it reminds me of.

Everything from that night is always right there, right there in the front of my mind. The softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, her velvet lips against my mouth, the warmth of her pussy around my cock.

Swallowing hard, I try to shake her from my head as I start the truck and head home. It isn't so easy to shake, Sia's been there since I watched her pull away in the taxi. Every thought. Every dream. Every time I blink. She's there. I can't escape her.

I go to bed hard, and I wake up hard, too. And nothing is working to get rid of the memory her. It was supposed to be a no strings attached night, but a single thread is refusing to break free. She's tethered to my brain.

Glancing at my phone quickly, there are no new messages, no missed calls, no voicemails. Dropping it back into the cup holder, my eyes drift back to the road.

I wish I had gotten her number before she left.

That's the only mistake I have for that night. I gave her all my information, right down to my damn address, but I failed to get hers.

Pulling into my driveway, I stop at the mailbox on the street, and collect what's inside. Flipping through it quickly, all I see are bills and garbage fliers. My tires crack and pop over the loose gravel as I drive up to my house. Shutting off my truck, I tuck the mail under my arm and head for the door.

The lights are off inside, and the sky is starting to turn mop water gray. Looking up, a warm breeze skirts across my face as I hear thunder in the distance.

Climbing up the steps, I fumble with my keys, searching for the one for the front door. My boot kicks something hard, causing me to stop. There's a package on my front porch. It's wrapped in brown paper, with just my address written in permanent marker across the center.

Bending down, I pick it up, curiously flipping it over and checking it out. The postage stamp is dated for yesterday with no other markings or tags on it.