I look around when I open the barn door and then close it behind me, locking it. There’s music playing from a small stereo on the floor, hay and feed bags scattered amongst tools.
That’s when I see Callan to my left. His shirt is gone, he’s got his cowboy hat on singing George Jones and stumbling around with a hammer.
When he sees me standing in the barn barefoot in my night shirt, his whiskey induced smile catches mine and he drops the hammer on the ground.
His eyes rake over my body like they did that first night, and then he sees the food. “What’s that?”
“Food. For you.”
“Smells good.” He’s looking at my body again and I’m hoping that statement has more meaning than it intends. I think it does, well, at least I hope it does.
Taking two steps toward him, he’s sitting on a crate now as I hand him the plate and bowl. “You made this for me?” He looks up at me through long lashes, tipping up his hat.
“Yes. There’s more than one thing I’m good at, ya know.”
He smirked in a drunken sort of way, I wasn’t sure if he knew what I was referencing but I think he did. He didn’t comment as he stared at the food in front of him. It appeared he hadn’t eaten much, if at all, today the way he stared, not at me but at the food.
He was hungry. He ate it all in about two minutes and then finished his beer. He set the beer down on the floor and stands coming toward me.
“Girl, what’s up?” his sweet southern drawl is way more apparent when he’s drunk. And it’s sexy. So freaking sexy that I can’t help but stare at him and his bare chest. Boys round here don’t look like this. Sure they’re muscular, but it’s clear Callan honed his body to perfection and perfection is exactly what it is. “You here to torture me some more?”
“Are you drunk, Callan?” I watch him come closer, taking the two steps to press his sweaty bare chest against me. As soon as he touches me, I’m done. My hands are trembling at the thought of being with him. And when he touches me, it’s all electricity and needles, the tingling feeling that you feel deep in your bones knowing this is the touch you’ve been waiting for your entire life. I ache for this feeling, his heated touches, like the bright burning wood of a bonfire, lit and longing for a breeze to ignite me.
“So?” He tips his hat up and takes my face in his palms, sharing my breath and making me taste his words. “Why do you care… farmer’s daughter?”
“I’m pretty sure in your current state that I could just take advantage of you right now.”
“Go ahead.” He grins letting his eyes drift south and bunching the fabric of my night shirt. “If you’re up for the challenge.” He pushes me up against the side of the barn, so very different from our last encounter in here. His hands are at my hips, guiding me back until I stop, my back meeting worn wood that’s captured thousands of memories in this barn. He hunches over just enough and picks me up. My legs wrap around his waist, my hands on his shoulders. The thin fabric of my panties leaves nothing to my imagination when I came in contact with the ridges in his belt buckle pressed against me.
He knows I feel it and smiles, shifting his weight forward again.
Looking at him right now, he will mind. He most certainly will. There’s parts of him holding back and he won’t let go that easily.
The moonlight filters into the barn and I feel its relief for once, in his arms.
And then he’s kissing me, giving me what I need as his mouth moves over mine, what he wants but knows he shouldn’t have. I knew looking at him that Callan would be an amazing kisser. His kiss is alive, sweet and savoring, like sweet tea on a hot day, never quite enough, but just enough to satisfy to the tongue. It’s not enough because I want so much more right then. I never want it to end.
He continues kissing up and down my neck, sending shivers through my entire body.
It’s slow and it’s meant to be as he kisses over my sun-kissed and salty skin, heating it to degrees the sun could never reach. Holding me against the side of the barn, Callan’s already in control here, more in control than I am at the moment. There’s a sense of strength only he knows but it’s also that bottle, a motivation only it can provide. It’s the only way he’s forgetting the age difference.
“I feel bad for you.”
“Why?” his eyes find mine, and they seem honest, pure to the heart.
“Because in the morning, when you’re not drunk, you’re not going to remember any of this.”
“No. I’ll remember this, tonight.” He touches my cheek with calloused finger tips. “I can’t forget this.”
I’m not sure what that means because it’s clear, come morning, I’m untouchable again.
His mouth inches toward mine, lips give me what I want that his body won’t. I can settle for this, for now, because it’s him and I can’t get enough of this cowboy and the pleasure he’s given me tonight.
He pulls back and looks at me. “I’m not good for a girl like you.”
“Why?” I reach out and touch the fire, his lips, with my fingertips. They part and give me his breath that scorches my skin.
“I’m just as troubled as you.” I doubt that’s true. If only he knew the things I’ve done, and seen, he wouldn’t believe that. “I can’t bring my problems on anyone else. I