Big Man(9)

I blink. “What…”

“You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” he speaks over me, faster, sounding frustrated now. Maybe even angry.

I frown.

“Drawing attention to yourself could cause trouble you never expected. More than you asked for.” His dark eyes catch mine, and there’s something white hot in them now. My belly clenches, even as my pussy responds by going tighter, feeling wet. “Drawing attention to yourself could make it really hard for a man like me to avoid bending your sexy ass over and fucking you right here in the dirt.”

My mouth drops open. It takes a second for me to find my voice. When I do, I have to take a deep breath to keep it from trembling with desire. “You’re… being too forward, Mr. Werther.”

He barks out a laugh at that, so sharp and close that it makes me jump in my seat slightly. “Mr. Werther. I think we’re past that now, Sasha. Or was that not you I caught this afternoon, sneaking around the house stealing peeks at my big dick in the shower?”

My cheeks flare red-hot. Fuck. He saw that?

He grins, as though to answer my internal question. “Tell me, did you like what you saw? You certainly hung around looking for long enough.”

Unbidden, unable to help myself, my gaze drops to his lap again now. There’s a bulge in his jeans, though judging by his size earlier, it’s hard to tell if he’s already hard for me or if that’s just how fucking big he is, even when he’s not hard yet. “I…”

“Or were you nervous?” He raises an eyebrow, studying me. “Scared of the big country man and his huge cock. Huh, Sasha?”

I can’t do this. I can’t stay here or I’m going to say—or do—something I fucking regret. I grab my handle and fling the door open. Throw myself down from the passenger seat and ball up my fists. I try to think of a retort, something to shout. But he’s right. I did sneak around watching him shower. I can’t exactly call him out for being crude now.

Especially not when my pussy is wetter than it’s been in months at hearing him say all that. Hearing him talk about fucking me in the dirt, about how big his cock is…

So I just turn my back and storm up toward the house.

There’s a slam as Grant shuts his own door. “That’s right,” he calls across the yard. “Scared little city girl. Run on home to the big city before you get hurt out here in the real world.”

I growl under my breath as I reach the front door. I fling it open with a crash and stomp inside, furious. I slam it behind me again, hard enough that the frame creaks in protest. I ignore it and stomp right through the house, grabbing the tool bag on the way through. Damn. I left the nails I need to finish the roof back in the truck.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll work on something else in the meantime. Anything to get me out of this house and away from that asshole.

Drawing attention to yourself could make it hard to avoid bending your sexy ass over and fucking you.

I shiver. Dammit. Why are my panties so fucking wet at the thought of that? What kind of asshole talks like that to his business partner?

That’s what we are after all. That’s all we are here. Business partners, trying to be professional while fixing up this hellhole and selling it to the highest bidder. He has no right to assume anything about me, to talk about fucking me, just because…

Just because you perved on him in the shower?

I grimace. All I did was peek a little. I was curious. So sue me. But he’s way out of line.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I hole up next to the rosebush that’s taken over the tool shed out back and start to work trimming away the weeds that have interwoven between the thorny branches. If I don’t trim this thing back, it’ll take down the walls of this shed in a summer or two. So I sink myself into my repair work, and do my best to ignore any thoughts about the asshole I left standing beside his stupid truck.





5





Grant Werther





Fuck. I probably took that too far. But what the hell was I supposed to say with her sitting right there in my truck smelling the way she does, so fucking intoxicating, and dressed in those barely-there booty shorts that make me hard just looking at her.

It was hard enough shopping today without getting so hard I’d draw stares from every mile around. I had to keep avoiding her in the hardware store and again at the grocery, because the way her sexy, tight little ass played peekaboo in those jean shorts made me think about how tight she’d be if I bent her over the backseat of my truck and thrust my thick dick inside her wet little pussy…

Fuck. There I go again.

Dammit, Sasha. She drives me insane. No matter how much I try not to think about her, I can’t stop.

Probably because she’s always right there in front of me, wearing some sexy, skimpy little shorts, bending over and flashing that pert, perfect ass of hers, or pouting in that way she has when she’s debating which tile she wants to lay where…

Damn. Here I go again.

I clench my fists. I’ll jerk one out in the shower later—the same way I’ve been aching to ever since I caught her peering through the shower door at me, trying to catch a glimpse of my dick. Seems like she caught a peek of more than she bargained for, to judge by the way she ran inside after I called her out in the truck.

Well, good. She should run. I’m more than she can handle. In more ways than one. Size-wise, country-man-wise, hell, just every way. She’s not ready for a wild man. She likes tame, placid little city boys.

She should run back to those boys before she winds up getting hurt. Before I wind up hurting her. Because I would. A city girl like her, god, the things I could do to her… She’d be in way over her head, and she’d lose her head, and then where would she be left? Pining for a country man who she never wants to see again, because just like this whole town, Sasha Bluebell has always been too damn good for me.

I shake my head and finish hauling the last load of groceries and hardware supplies inside. Out back, through the little window over the kitchen sink, I spot Sasha out by the shed. She’s abandoned the roofing for now, probably because I still have all the nails she needs in here, and she’s clearly not ready to be in the same room as me for a while, let alone talk to me.

But she’s still working, I’ll give her that. City Girl has some backbone after all. Not to mention some work ethic.

For a moment I hesitate at the sink, just watching her reach up to yank down the stray vines growing in and between the rose bushes. She’s cutting back some of the roses too, but in a careful way, shows she knows what she’s doing. I’m surprised. I didn’t think that girl had any of her Mama in her—only her runaway Daddy. But watching her now, I can see the Maryanne my Pops was best friends with. The woman who owned and ran this whole farm by herself, without asking anyone for help. Even when Pops bailed her out of the hole she wound up in after a few too many crop blights, Maryanne was proud. She swore she’d buy the other half of the farm back off him one day.

She’d have done it too, I have no doubt, if the cancer didn’t get her first. Scary how diseases like that creep up on you. One minute she’s hale as an ox, and scary as one to boot. Ready to take on Pops, me, hell, half the town if she had a mind to. Everyone hereabouts loved her—it’s part of the reason people blamed her daughter so much for running off and leaving her alone. But you catch Maryanne letting anyone in this town say one bad word about her baby Sasha in earshot, and you’d have had yourself a real fireworks display. Maryanne didn’t stand for any of that. She was proud of her daughter.

My chest aches watching Sasha now. I shake my head and ignore it.

Sasha isn’t her mama. That much is clear from her attitude, her city-slicker outfits, her fancy car, those ridiculous damn high heels she wore yesterday. At least she abandoned those today, thank Christ.

But Sasha is getting more and more interesting to me nevertheless. Not least because just now, as I’m watching over the kitchen sink, she yanks a whole branch of crawling vine free and bends over to stuff it into the garbage bag she’s working with.

Which provides me with a picture-perfect view of that ass, the bottoms of her cheeks peeking out the bottoms of her short, short little jeans.

Fuck.

I can feel my cock digging into the kitchen cabinets, I’m so hard.

Unable to resist, I slide a hand down to my zipper.

I shouldn’t. Especially not here. But Sasha is busy with her work. She tosses her head, long blonde curls flying, and fuck, what I wouldn’t give to have those curls wrapped around my fist. To pull them tight and watch her neck arch, her perfect cupid’s bow lips parting with a loud cry as I buried my cock inside her tight pussy.

I unzip my fucking jeans.

She keeps working, oblivious to the man in the kitchen.

But it’s only fair, I think. She peeped on me in the shower. She stood there for at least a minute while I rinsed off the soap, keeping my cock in her view all the while because I knew what she came for, and to be honest, it turned me on to see her watching. But she started this.

Besides, she’s not even naked right now.

Fuck, imagine her naked.

My cock is so hard that by the time I pull it out of my boxers, it’s practically jumping in my fist. I wrap my fist around the base and start to pump along my shaft, slowly, imagining taking Sasha by the hips right now. Pushing her down onto her hands and knees in the dirt where she’s working. Bending her over that bag she’s stuffing with leaves and weeds. Yanking those ridiculous excuses for shorts down until they puddled around her knees. Pushing aside whatever skimpy underwear she has on and positioning my big, thick cock right at the entrance to her soaking wet pussy.