Cole #2
I buy her both, even though anything one of the Anderson sisters brewed likely has an inhuman amount of alcohol in it.
One night the duo challenged the logging crew to a drinking contest. I woke up on the bar floor.
It was a lesson I learned the hard way, and I won’t soon forget.
Taking a cautionary sip of my own cider, I ignore the cackling laughter of Betty and Barb.
The elderly women are up to no good per the usual.
One of them is in an on-again off-again relationship with Larry Young and I can’t be bothered to remember which.
Sabrina tears into the funnel cake, sugar dusting her lips, and when she licks it off, my self-control takes another hit. She notices, of course. She always notices.
“You’re staring,” she teases.
“Can you blame me?”
She bites into another piece. Slow. Deliberate. Like the fucking brat she is.
We wander through the festival like that, her pushing, me resisting, the tension between us strung tight.
By the time we reach the hayride, my hands itch to touch her.
Instead, they squish the plush toy until my knuckles turn white.
Sabrina hops onto the wagon, the skirt of her dress swishes like a bell, and pats the spot beside her.
Me and the newest addition to her cat army join her just in time for the ride to begin.
There are only a few other people on the haybales lining the trailer, and they’re scanning the woods in anticipation of the first scare.
“You know,” she whispers as the tractor lurches forward. “A haunted hayride is the perfect place to get me alone in the dark.”
Not as alone as I would like but away from the lights of the festival it’s so dark I can’t see the other people sitting up at the front of the trailer. And more importantly they can’t see us.
“You wanted to see the ghosts,” I whisper.
“I’d rather rile up the living.”
The trailer rattles down the dirt path as the red tractor pulls us with a loud rumbling engine, the woods close in, the laughter of other riders muffling the crunch of leaves underneath the large tires.
She leans into my side, all warmth and temptation, and when the first zombie pops out of the trees, she gasps and grabs my thigh.
Her nails dig in. My control frays. Sabrina gasps again when another ghoul leaps from behind a tree, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. If anything, her grip on my thigh tightens. My jeans suddenly feel about two sizes too small.
“You, okay?” I murmur, leaning close so only she can hear.
Her blue eyes glitter with delight in the waning moonlight.
“Oh, I’m great. I’ve just realized haunted hayrides come with an extra seat.”
My jaw clenches at the thought of Sabrina’s curves pressing into me. Her warm weight settling over my aching cock as I try not to come in my jeans like a teenager.
“Careful.”
She tilts her head, all faux innocence.
“Why? Scared I’ll make you break your little promise?”
Little. Fucking. Brat.
She shifts closer, and the trailer jolts over a rut.
Suddenly she’s on my lap anyway, skirts pooling around us like a dark wave.
The scent of her, smoky vanilla with something sharp beneath, wraps around me until all I can think about is how warm and soft she’d feel if I shoved that skirt up and pulled her onto my cock properly.
Instead, I grip the edge of the trailer hard enough to dent the wood siding.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I say between clenched teeth.
Sabrina smiles, slow and wicked, like she’s winning. I’ll be damned if the feel of her on my lap grinning with sinful delight doesn’t make my cock harden against my jeans. Her eyes widen slightly and I know she feels it poking her in the ass.
Another jump-scare distracts the rest of the wagon, but my focus stays locked on her. Her lips are so close I could lean in and take them. She’s waiting for me to crack, daring me to.
I bend, just enough that my mouth brushes her ear.
“Keep this up, pretty girl, and the only reward you’re getting is a spanking that’ll keep you from sitting for a week.”
Her breath hitches. For the first time all night, she’s the one who falters.
The trailer rattles to a stop back at the festival grounds, laughter and chatter filling the air as people climb down. Sabrina takes her time, sliding off my lap deliberately, smoothing her skirt with a devilish smile curling her black lips.
“You’re no fun,” she purrs.
I adjust myself as I stand and mutter, “You have no idea.”
We step off the trailer, the crowd swallowing us back into the glow of string lights and the haunting hum of a fiddle. Sabrina is still smirking like she’s won, hugging the plush cat to her chest, but when the noise dips and the festival bustle thins near the edge of the field, she slows.
“Hey,” she says softly, tugging me to a stop near a stall offering face paint. Her voice loses the sharp, teasing edge, it’s warmer, tinged with uncertainty. “Thanks for bringing me out tonight.”
I study her face, the way her dark hair shines under the lanterns, the faint flush on her cheeks.
“My girl works hard,” I say brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve to be spoiled.”
Her smile flickers, a crack in the bravado. For once she doesn’t try to fill the silence with sass. She just stands there, close enough that the cool air can’t cut through the warmth radiating off her.
I want to kiss her. Want to do a lot more than kiss her, actually. But I remember how quickly we both lost our heads the last time and I don’t trust myself, or her, to behave. Not even in public.
So instead, I lift her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles.
Old-fashioned. Maybe stupid. But it makes her breath catch and her lashes lower like I’ve given her something no one else ever has.
Another first. After that first kiss, I intend to be all her firsts.
And lasts. First and last kiss. First and last lover. And everything in between.
“Cole,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
All she says is my name, but it’s loaded with everything she can’t say yet.
The attraction blooming between us is like a fast-growing vine, tangling us in passion, and choking us with need.
And the softer, more intimate emotion unfurling just as quickly.
The one I’ve felt since the first moment I saw her.
She won’t say it. Not yet. But it’s there in her eyes, in the very depths of her soul when she looks at me.
For a heartbeat we stand there, lost in it. Then she clears her throat, her hand slips out of mine, but she doesn’t break eye contact.
“Fine. You win this round.” Her smirk returns, though it’s softer this time. “But tomorrow? I’m upping my game.”
“I’ll be ready.”