Chapter 7
PARKER
T he damn tractor won’t start. Again. I swear to God, it works on random days when I don’t need it, but when I do, it simply … goes to sleep. It’s like it feeds off my frustration.
I’ve been out here all morning, tools scattered in the dirt, sweat sticking to my back like glue. The humidity’s thick enough to chew, and I’m two more failed engine cranks away from launching a wrench into the horizon.
With a grunt, I strip off my shirt and throw it to the ground.
One of my golden retrievers, Otis, who stayed at the neighbor’s farm during the festival and came home just now, lets out a slow, unimpressed huff from where he’s sprawled under the shade of the old pecan tree.
Doris, who also just returned, sits beside him, tongue hanging, eyes tracking my every move.
“Stop judging me,” I say, wiping grease on my jeans. “You two just sleep and fart all day. You also just had a mini vacation. I never did.”
Another turn of the key. Another sputter. Still no roar of life.
Jesus Christ.
Inside the house, Paris is working on her laptop. I can picture her curled up in my flannel again, legs tucked under her, coffee within reach. She blinked at me yesterday like I’d grown a second head when I gave her the Wi-Fi password.
“You have internet?” she said, like I was someone who powered his stove with firewood and never knew what modern plumbing was.
“I’m a farmer,” I told her. “Not an alien.”
That memory makes me smile … until I remember the tractor isn’t gonna start itself. I’ll probably just toss it in the ocean or sell it or, if worst comes to worst, bribe someone to take it off my hands.
The tractor groans once, coughs, and dies. Again.
I stare at it, jaw tight, chest damp from the humid air. There’s a streak of grease on my forearm, and I’ve already run through three different ideas of how to destroy this thing with minimal evidence.
Gravel shifts behind me, and I turn.
Paris walks toward me with a cold glass in hand. She’s wearing one of my old shirts, too big on her, so it slides down one shoulder. Her eyes take their time traveling up from my jeans to my chest, lingering just a second too long at the line of sweat running down from my throat.
I drop from the tractor, boots hitting the ground with a thud. Paris hands me the glass without a word, her fingers brushing mine. The cold hits my throat in one long pull. I barely breathe between gulps.
I set the empty glass on the hood behind me. Her gaze doesn’t waver.
She tilts her head. A slow drag of her gaze down my stomach. “I was going to ask about lunch, but suddenly, I’m hungry for something else.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you have in mind?”
Her breath catches just as my palm lands flat beside her, braced against the curve of the tractor’s rear wheel. Her back meets the metal with a soft gasp. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break eye contact.
That look in her eyes makes something tight and primal unravel inside me.
“I just wanted to bring you iced coffee.”
“Hmm. In nothing but my shirt and boxers on?”
At this, she smiles slyly. “Oh, you think I’m wearing your boxers?”
Desire slams into me in full force, and I slide a hand under the shirt, groaning when my fingers touch the soft curls of her pussy. “Fuck, baby. You’re killing me.”
She just shrugs. “It’s hot.”
“Damn right, it is.”
My thumb brushes along her inner thigh, teasing, testing. Her body answers before her mouth does—hips shifting closer, lips parting, breathing shallow.
My forehead presses to hers. Close enough to feel the tremble in her knees, the heat rolling off her skin.
“You’re playing with fire, baby,” I say, voice low, eyes locked on hers.
Her fingers curl around the front of my waistband, tugging me flush against her. “Then burn me.”
I crush my mouth to hers. Her hands fist in my hair, her legs part just enough to pull me closer, and the sound she makes when my hand grips her thigh might ruin me.
Who am I kidding? I’m already ruined beyond belief.
My hand slides upward, and her stomach jumps under my touch. I trace up slowly, dragging my knuckles along warm skin until my thumb brushes the underside of her breast. She gasps into my mouth, and I swallow the sound eagerly.
One hand grips her thigh, dragging it up around my hip. Her breath stutters as she arches against the curve of the tractor, hips grinding into mine, right where I’m already rock hard and aching.
Fuck, I’m about to go mad with lust.
“You have any idea what you’re doing to me?” I growl against her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver.
Her fingers slide down my abs, skimming the top of my jeans. “I think I do. You do it to me, too.”
I press her harder against the wheel, the hot metal biting into her back while I burn everywhere else.
Her head falls back, and I take the invitation, mouth trailing down her neck, tongue chasing sweat and soft skin.
“Take me, Parker,” she whispers, hips rocking. “Out here, where anyone can see.”
I slide my hand between her thighs, and she’s already wet—hot and slick and ready … for me. “Jesus, Paris…”
Her nails dig into my shoulders as I wrap her legs around me, tighter now, and the curve of her heat presses right where I need her most. My jeans strain, painful and urgent, as I grind against her—slow at first, just to hear that breathy sound she makes when the friction hits just right.
“Fuck, Paris,” I groan, burying my face against her neck. “You’re killing me.”
She tilts her hips. “Then do something about it.”
My belt’s undone in a blur, jeans shoved just low enough, the weight of her body pinned between the tractor and me.
My hand slips between us, guiding myself, teasing her folds, wet and perfect and begging.
She gasps when the head of my cock slides over her, and I don’t even give her a warning.
I push in, groaning at how tight she is, at how her pussy wraps around me and chokes me.
Her head thumps back against the metal with a soft curse. Her eyes flutter, lips parted, a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper leaving her.
“You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” I hiss, teeth gritted.
She rocks her hips, demanding more. So I give it to her.
I grip her ass and thrust, deep and rough, the sound of skin on skin louder than it should be out here in the open. The air is thick with humidity and want, the breeze doing nothing to cool the fire we’ve started. She clutches me, moaning into my mouth, biting my lower lip when I hit just right.
Her legs shake around me.
“Parker! Oh my God. Don’t stop,” she gasps, her hips meeting my drives.
“Not gonna,” I growl, pounding into her, fast and merciless now, her back scraping against the metal wheel with every thrust.
Her climax hits fast—tight and sudden—her cry muffled by my shoulder as I keep moving, chasing mine with a hand between us, thumbing and strumming her clit to keep her falling apart.
A coil of tension rolls through me. I follow seconds later, every muscle tense, forehead against hers as I spill into her, my body responding to her orgasm in thick liquid pulses.
We stay like that for a moment, panting, spent, pressed against the damn tractor. I trail kisses along her hairline, then her cheek.
I don’t know where we’re going from here, but I’m sure about one thing—letting her go isn’t even a fucking option.