Sunday Farm Style
The hinges screamed when she shoved the barn door wider, letting the late afternoon sun spill across the hay-strewn floor like spilled honey. That's when she saw him—forearms corded with effort as he heaved a bale onto the stack, his sweat-slicked back turned to her, the muscles shifting beneath sun-darkened skin like topography. He didn't turn around, just called over his shoulder, voice rough with exertion: "You're early."
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her purse—some flimsy excuse about forgetting her charger in the guest room already dissolving on her tongue. But the words caught when he finally straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist, and she saw the way his jeans rode low on his hips, the dusting of gray in his chest hair. "I—" Her throat clicked. "I could come back later."
His laugh was quiet, deliberate. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and let his gaze drag down her—those cutoff shorts hugging her thighs, the tank top riding up just enough to show the dip of her waist. "Twice," he said, voice rough as gravel under tires. "Right now." Not a question. The air between them thickened like syrup in July heat, her pulse hammering in places she couldn't name.
She should've stepped back. Should've made some joke about respecting her elders. Instead, she exhaled sharp through her nose and dropped her purse on a bale. The leather landed with a soft thud, louder than it had any right to be. His eyes flicked to it, then back to hers—dark with something that made her toes curl in her sandals.
He crossed the distance between them in three strides, smelling like sweat and cut grass and something deeper—the tang of engine oil, maybe, clinging to his calloused hands. His fingers found the button of her shorts before she could think to protest—not that she would've. The metal popped loose with a quiet snick. The zipper hissed as he tugged it down, the fabric pooling at her feet like water. Then his hands were under her thighs, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and her legs wound around his waist out of sheer instinct.
Her back hit the truck bed's tailgate with a metallic groan, the sun-warmed steel biting into her bare skin. He didn't give her time to adjust, just hooked his thumbs in the lace of her panties and dragged them aside with a roughness that made her gasp. His mouth was hot and insistent between her thighs, tongue working in slow, deliberate strokes that had her fingers scrabbling against the truck bed's ridges. Every flick of his tongue was a lightning strike—unpredictable, devastating—and she arched against him with a sound that wasn't quite a moan, wasn't quite a plea.
His calloused finger slid into her with no preamble, curling upward in a way that made her vision blur at the edges. The second finger came with a twist of his wrist, stretching her in a way that bordered on painful, but she didn't tell him to stop. Couldn't. His thumb found her clit in the same moment, pressing down with just enough pressure to make her thighs tremble. "Christ," she heard herself say, the word mangled, and then she was coming apart, his name a ragged thing torn from her throat.
He didn't let her catch her breath. Just stood in one fluid motion, popping the button of his jeans with his teeth while she was still shuddering. The denim slid down his hips like it was in a hurry, and the sight of him—thick and flushed against his stomach—made her mouth go dry. He gripped himself at the base, the veins standing out in stark relief, and her breath hitched when the blunt head of him nudged against her.
"Look at me," he growled, and she did—eyes wide, lips parted—as he pushed in slow, watching her every reaction like he was studying terrain. The stretch burned sweetly, her body adjusting to him inch by inch, until his hips met hers with a quiet slap of skin. His thumb found her clit again, rubbing tight circles that made her whimper, and she could feel him smile against her temple—a smug, knowing thing.
His first thrust was deep, deliberate, knocking the breath from her lungs. The second came harder, the tailgate creaking under their combined weight, and she clutched at his shoulders like they were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. "Daddy's got you," he murmured, voice rough as he worked her clit faster, matching the rhythm of his hips. "Gonna feel it, huh? Gonna feel me make you lose it."
She couldn't nod—couldn't do anything but gasp as the pressure coiled tighter, her thighs clamping around his hips involuntarily. His fingers on her clit were relentless, the friction just shy of too much, and she felt the orgasm building like a storm front—inevitable, electric. "That's it," he growled, watching her face twist with pleasure, his thrusts turning shallow and rapid. "Let go. Show me."
And she did—her back arching violently as the wave broke, a sharp cry tearing loose as warmth pulsed between her thighs, slicking his abdomen. The sensation of release was almost obscene in its intensity, her body shuddering through it, her fingers digging into the corded muscle of his forearms. He groaned, low and ragged, at the feel of her clenching around him, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he drove into her one last time, deep and possessive.
His mouth crashed onto hers then, swallowing the broken sounds she made—half whimpers, half moans—as he kissed her with the same rough hunger as his thrusts had been. His tongue slid against hers, tasting the desperation still lingering on her lips, the salt of sweat on his own. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, her breath coming in ragged bursts against his teeth, her nails scraping down his sweat-slicked back.
"Good girl," he murmured against her mouth, the words hot and sticky between them, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive in a way that made her shudder anew. "Taking me so deep. Fuck—just like that." The praise settled low in her belly, igniting something primal, something greedy that had her rolling her hips against his, chasing the friction even as she trembled from oversensitivity.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her purse—some flimsy excuse about forgetting her charger in the guest room already dissolving on her tongue. But the words caught when he finally straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist, and she saw the way his jeans rode low on his hips, the dusting of gray in his chest hair. "I—" Her throat clicked. "I could come back later."
His laugh was quiet, deliberate. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and let his gaze drag down her—those cutoff shorts hugging her thighs, the tank top riding up just enough to show the dip of her waist. "Twice," he said, voice rough as gravel under tires. "Right now." Not a question. The air between them thickened like syrup in July heat, her pulse hammering in places she couldn't name.
She should've stepped back. Should've made some joke about respecting her elders. Instead, she exhaled sharp through her nose and dropped her purse on a bale. The leather landed with a soft thud, louder than it had any right to be. His eyes flicked to it, then back to hers—dark with something that made her toes curl in her sandals.
He crossed the distance between them in three strides, smelling like sweat and cut grass and something deeper—the tang of engine oil, maybe, clinging to his calloused hands. His fingers found the button of her shorts before she could think to protest—not that she would've. The metal popped loose with a quiet snick. The zipper hissed as he tugged it down, the fabric pooling at her feet like water. Then his hands were under her thighs, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and her legs wound around his waist out of sheer instinct.
Her back hit the truck bed's tailgate with a metallic groan, the sun-warmed steel biting into her bare skin. He didn't give her time to adjust, just hooked his thumbs in the lace of her panties and dragged them aside with a roughness that made her gasp. His mouth was hot and insistent between her thighs, tongue working in slow, deliberate strokes that had her fingers scrabbling against the truck bed's ridges. Every flick of his tongue was a lightning strike—unpredictable, devastating—and she arched against him with a sound that wasn't quite a moan, wasn't quite a plea.
His calloused finger slid into her with no preamble, curling upward in a way that made her vision blur at the edges. The second finger came with a twist of his wrist, stretching her in a way that bordered on painful, but she didn't tell him to stop. Couldn't. His thumb found her clit in the same moment, pressing down with just enough pressure to make her thighs tremble. "Christ," she heard herself say, the word mangled, and then she was coming apart, his name a ragged thing torn from her throat.
He didn't let her catch her breath. Just stood in one fluid motion, popping the button of his jeans with his teeth while she was still shuddering. The denim slid down his hips like it was in a hurry, and the sight of him—thick and flushed against his stomach—made her mouth go dry. He gripped himself at the base, the veins standing out in stark relief, and her breath hitched when the blunt head of him nudged against her.
"Look at me," he growled, and she did—eyes wide, lips parted—as he pushed in slow, watching her every reaction like he was studying terrain. The stretch burned sweetly, her body adjusting to him inch by inch, until his hips met hers with a quiet slap of skin. His thumb found her clit again, rubbing tight circles that made her whimper, and she could feel him smile against her temple—a smug, knowing thing.
His first thrust was deep, deliberate, knocking the breath from her lungs. The second came harder, the tailgate creaking under their combined weight, and she clutched at his shoulders like they were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. "Daddy's got you," he murmured, voice rough as he worked her clit faster, matching the rhythm of his hips. "Gonna feel it, huh? Gonna feel me make you lose it."
She couldn't nod—couldn't do anything but gasp as the pressure coiled tighter, her thighs clamping around his hips involuntarily. His fingers on her clit were relentless, the friction just shy of too much, and she felt the orgasm building like a storm front—inevitable, electric. "That's it," he growled, watching her face twist with pleasure, his thrusts turning shallow and rapid. "Let go. Show me."
And she did—her back arching violently as the wave broke, a sharp cry tearing loose as warmth pulsed between her thighs, slicking his abdomen. The sensation of release was almost obscene in its intensity, her body shuddering through it, her fingers digging into the corded muscle of his forearms. He groaned, low and ragged, at the feel of her clenching around him, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he drove into her one last time, deep and possessive.
His mouth crashed onto hers then, swallowing the broken sounds she made—half whimpers, half moans—as he kissed her with the same rough hunger as his thrusts had been. His tongue slid against hers, tasting the desperation still lingering on her lips, the salt of sweat on his own. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, her breath coming in ragged bursts against his teeth, her nails scraping down his sweat-slicked back.
"Good girl," he murmured against her mouth, the words hot and sticky between them, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive in a way that made her shudder anew. "Taking me so deep. Fuck—just like that." The praise settled low in her belly, igniting something primal, something greedy that had her rolling her hips against his, chasing the friction even as she trembled from oversensitivity.
12時間前
