Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

The chickens knew better than to get in my way; they cleared a path straight through to the barn as I walked so fast my boobs jiggled. They’ll do that when you’re a double D and you left your bra on the floor upstairs. See, it’s all how it’s supposed to be! Did I randomly forget my bra earlier that day, or did some unknown hand guide me, eliminating bra clasps for frantic fingers to fumble over?

Predestined. Preordained. There just better not be any premature what-have-you, ’cuz this shit was going down. And God willing, so was he.

I entered the barn, striking what I thought was a particularly fetching pose with one hand poised over my head, the other on my waist, leaning against the doorway, hips jutted forward, back arched, girls pitched forth like an offering.

He was pitching hay down from the loft. So strong, so virile, sweat already gleaming on his stunning hand-of-God-etched back, his hips narrowing into a waist I wanted to wrap my legs around and ride off into a sexual sunset.

Speaking of sunset, it cut through the impending clouds, golden and glowing across the barn floor, highlighting the scattering of hay, the rustic planks, the brown poop.

Um, what?

It’s a barn. That’s where the poop lives.

Well, I could breathe through my nose. And pretty soon I’d be panting, so no matter. I returned my gaze to Hank.

Yeah, concentrate on him. His hands sliding up and down the handle, gripping the shaft and turning into the upstroke. Aw yeah.

I waited for him to turn around and see me, to see me and leap down from the hayloft, his eyes burning hot and wild, his blood racing throughout his body and concentrating into one big, thick, hard, throbbing missile of seed.

Quiet. He’s going to turn any minute.

But he didn’t. So I did what any heroine would do in that situation.

“Ahem.”

Nothing.

“Ahem.”

Paul and Paula turned. Hank? He kept on pitching hay.

With words designed to seduce, incinerate, and level, I ordered, “Turn around, please.” Aw yeah.

He did turn. He did appraise. And how could he not? I was a vision in white, backlit perfectly by the setting sun for the ravishing of the century.

His eyes traveled down my body, and everywhere his gaze went, my flesh sizzled.

He tossed his pitchfork to the ground, and as he climbed down the ladder, each inch of skin revealed above his low-slung jeans was a present from the gods. He jumped the last three rungs, landing lightly on his feet with a predatory feline grace.

He looked at me from underneath impossibly long lashes, his tongue licking his lower lip. A flash of something crossed his face. Longing? Pure carnal need? Or did it border more on . . . amusement?

Amusement was good; simple pleasures and all that. It hinted at a deeper emotion. After all, one cannot live on lust alone.

The onion was finally peeled, much like my clothing would soon be.

He rested his hands on top of the buckle. “C’mere,” he said, his voice silky smooth and perfectly orchestrated to make me swoon.

Swoon I did, and I closed the distance between me and my destiny. I left behind my perfect lighting, but the closer I got to my perfect cowboy, I couldn’t tell if the sun rose in the east or the west. I was now within inches of miles of beefcake, and I wanted to sink my teeth into every layer.

He reached out one hand, fingertips seeking and finding my mouth, which instantly parted. He pressed his thumb against my lips, tasting of salt and earth and man. He pressed further, and I took him in. He was inside of me, finally. I suckled at his thumb, and his eyes darkened.

“All right. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said.

Huh?

“You want me, don’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “Say it. Out loud.”

Did he just quote Twilight? No matter.

“Ah wah ooo,” I managed. Not as sexy when you’re sucking someone’s thumb. But that’s okay. This was happening.

And now he was pushing me up into one of the stalls. My back thrust up against a hay bale. Still, with the thumb. Aw yeah.

As I bounced off the hay, my entire field of vision was filled with Hank, and it was good. He removed his thumb, dragging his hand down the center of my body to wrap around my waist. Then he leveraged my lower body up and around him, my legs finally where they belonged. Ahhhhh. There is something about being wrapped around hot man that feels exactly right.

His eyes stared into mine, piercing my soul and seeing my innermost thoughts and secret desires. He seemed to be mapping my face, memorizing every feature, committing it to his memory to take with him to the end of his days.

“You look like that girl from the dancing movie. With the freaky black shit around her eyes.”

“Um, you mean Black Swan?”

“Yeah, that one. Natasha Portland. Anyone ever tell you that?”

I am pretty sure no one had ever told me I looked liked Natasha Portland before.

I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want him speaking anymore. I used my feet to push against him, rocking his manliness against my secret flower, feeling this beautiful man. He got the message; a gleeful look coming over his face as he felt me, wanting and needy below his giant man hands.

His left hand rose to my cheek, sweeping my hair off my face. Burying his hand in my hair, he grasped me firmly by the nape of the neck, angling me to deliver the First Kiss.

He leaned in, the scent of sweat and sun and . . . hay . . . filling my nostrils.

I’d thought my tummy would be fluttering in “please hurry up and pound me silly” excitement. But I guess when something this epic happens, your body shuts down a bit, probably getting ready to redirect energy to the sexy parts.