She looks up as I park and waves. I suddenly feel underdressed in my jeans and t-shirt when I see her in a dress.
I pass the front door and head straight for the porch, smiling as she opens the door for me. “That’s some dress, Bethany. I feel like I should be taking you somewhere fancy.”
She looks away quickly, blushing. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
The table is already set, so I offer to help in the kitchen, but she refuses, telling me it’s all done. It feels foreign not helping her. I sit stiffly, wanting to help her as she starts bringing stuff out.
Finally, I give up and stand. “Sorry, I gotta help.”
She shakes her head at me, but doesn’t argue when I take the platter from her. She’s prepared lobster and crab legs. Seafood dishes appear to be her specialty. We don’t eat much seafood on the farm so it’s a nice change.
Bess usually sends me over with a dessert, and tonight is no different. We’ve finished our main course and are about to have some pecan pie when Bethany jumps out of her chair and runs into the yard.
“Where are you going?” I laugh, following her.
Her hair bounces around her face as she glances back at me. “I saw a firefly.”
Our dessert is forgotten as we race around catching and releasing fireflies.
Chapter Four
“Bethany?”
“I’m in the kitchen. Hurry,” she shouts.
If there wasn’t water spraying out from under the sink, the sight that greeted me as I rushed into her kitchen would have been funnily similar to our first meeting. Legs, long, pale, freckle-kissed legs, one fine ass encased in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and the rest of Bethany’s body disappearing from sight into the cabinet under her kitchen sink.
“I can’t turn it off,” she groans.
I crouch down beside her and tap her thigh. “Let me try.”
She wiggles out, her green t-shirt soaked and molding to her breasts. She squints at me, probably wondering why I’m staring at her and not trying to shut off the water.
I quickly duck my head under the sink and go to turn the shut off valve. It’s stuck, maybe rusted, but with sheer force and a layer of skin off my palm, I get it to turn. I’m breathing heavily by the time I move out from under it. Bethany is standing over me, panting and dripping. I can’t deny under different circumstances, I’d love to be making her pant and drip all over again.
Just thinking of her that way sends blood flowing to my cock. I shift, using my now sore hand as leverage and wince.
Lifting it to inspect the damage, I’m grateful the pain is killing whatever budding erection I was about to sport until Bethany gasps, “Your hand.”
Standing, I wave her off. “It’s not that bad. It’s my own damn fault for not putting on a pair of gloves or using a wrench.”
She ignores my brush off and comes closer, pulling my hand into both of hers, cradling it at she takes a look. She’s so close and is touching me, in a wet shirt. Any pain I’m feeling vanishes as desire returns. Over the past few weeks of getting to know Bethany better, I can’t deny there is something more than a simple attraction going on here.
I like her. Even when she’s trying to do something harebrained to this old farmhouse, it’s fun to just be around her. More often than not, I’ve found myself gravitating toward her farmhouse, a pull I cannot ignore. Even if she’s working, she’ll save her place and offer me a glass of lemonade and her company. In all my unexpected visits, not once has she seemed anything less than happy to see me.
Her call to my cell for help is the reason for my visit today. Even when I’m busy on the farm, a call from her makes me stop whatever I’m doing. Bess notices but hasn’t said anything. She doesn’t have to. She already looks like the cat who ate the canary. When I first met Bethany, I planned to keep any feelings I was developing for her on hold. I’m a farmer. I know a seed takes time and nurturing to take root.
At first, I planned to wait a year to ask her out and I’ve been reevaluating and lowering that time frame mentally every time I see her. Just two days ago, it was down to two mont
hs. Standing here, in this kitchen I helped her repaint a couple of weeks ago, my patience has reached its end. She’s cradling my hand in both of hers. Quietly, flustered since I got hurt, not noticing my other arm snake around her waist until I’ve crushed her body tightly to mine.
Her hands are still between us, one now pressing against my chest, the other protecting my hand. Her wise eyes are more green than brown, her pretty lips forming an O. Gently, I tug my injured hand from hers and slide it up her back and into her damp hair. Any pain I feel is outweighed by how right her skin feels against mine.
I keep my eyes locked on hers as I slowly dip my mouth to hers. This way, I know she knows it’s coming. She has plenty of time to stop me. So close I can almost taste her, my eyes drift to her lips and have just enough time to see the corners tilt up before I claim them. Her hands drift up to wrap around my neck. The dampness of her shirt seeping through mine is nothing compared to her firm breasts rubbing against my chest.
I have no plan in place for this kiss, other than the absolute certainty that I need to put my mouth on hers. Once I have, it becomes another absolute certainty that I need to taste her tongue. When I have, I am absolutely certain I’m not going to stop anytime soon.
She seems as greedy to consume me as I am for her. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, changing my outlook on patience as she does. Her teeth nip at my lips lighting the spark to my fuse. I only hope, as her hips rock against my very apparent appreciation toward every single thing she is doing, I won’t embarrass myself by blowing a load in my pants. Turning, I lift her and set her onto the counter, my lips never leaving hers.