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Chuckling, I thank her. “I’ll take my award for best Primal Dom.”
“Oh, your award is the second baby you just put in me,” she says furrowing her brow as I stay buried inside her. “Seriously, I think you got me pregnant again.”
A full belly laugh rolls out of me as we both lay there, giggling like we always have. See, we can do this. We’re fucking nailing this temporary friends with benefits thing.
When we finally break apart, I pull out a clean handkerchief I brought with me and soak it in the creek before wiping her clean and checking on her. With nothing physically or emotionally hurt and minimal scratches on either of us, we make the long walk back to our campsite, recounting every detail of the scene and talking about our favorite parts.
When we make it back, I prepare another hot meal for us and make her drink plenty of that arousing creek water she’s so fond of now.
I smile to myself.
What a little freak I have.
Chapter 14
July 20th
Angie
“Idon’t understand why they don’t make full rugby kits for infants,” Rafael muses as we sit in the dilapidated sunroom of his historical fixer-upper, scrolling our phones and adding items to our baby registry. I’ve only been here a few times so far, but each time I visit, it’s getting better and better.
“Probably because it’s impractical,” I hum, setting my feet up on the old milk crate in front of me. The first time I was here, I considered checking my online medical chart for the last time I had a tetanus shot. The kitchen was nothing but cheap cupboards that appeared to be actively disintegrating. Both the paint on the walls and the laminate floors were peeling. Grime and dirt coated everything. The back deck was one strong wind away from collapsing altogether.
Since then, everything has been gutted, save for a clawfoot tub. Before tearing out its guts, the house felt huge. At over thirty-one hundred square feet with six bedrooms and four bathrooms, this place now feels like a mansion. A scary, barebones, possibly mold-ridden mansion. But with a wrap-around porch, a formal parlor and giant custom pocket doors, I can look past the rough exterior and see the charm Rafael and Joaquín saw in this place.
We came here today so he could do some yard work. He grumbled when I told him I would help, so I had to remind him he literally chased me in the woods a few weeks ago and that I could handle a little lawn maintenance. After an hour pulling weeds in the blistering sun though, he sent me inside to rest and hydrate, but not before I could daydream wild scenarios between the two of us.
Like when he used the flat head shovel to pry up some old brick pavers.
1I imagine he was lifting hay to feed the livestock outside our humble barn. Our, meaning my husband’s. Because in this fantasy, I'm a married woman, standing on the porch of my Texas ranch in 1970 wearing a dress that screams I don’t do manual labor, watching our farm hand work up a sweat. Watching the muscles of his strong back move under his shirt as he lifts another pile of hay. Watching the sweat pour from under his cowboy hat and soak through his button up.
“It’s awfully hot out here today,” I’d drawl in my best southern belle accent. After, he’d throw his hay, look over his shoulder and I'd saunter toward the fence line with a single glass of lemonade, the condensation beading like his tanned skin.
“It is, ma’am,” he’d say, tipping his hat and turning on his heel to face me as I walked through the gate.
“Would you like a little refreshment?” I’d smile, arching a single eyebrow.
He’d swallow thickly, his eyes going from the glass in my steady hand straight to my lips. “Don’t your husband mind you talkin’ to me?”
Fuck, he sounds good with a southern accent.
“He’s not here right now… he’s gone to town all day,” I’d say, unbuttoning the neckline of my dress and dragging the cool glass across my chest. “And I’ve been stuck inside. Lonely.”
He’d prop the pitchfork against the barn wall. “Well then, seems it’d only be gentlemanly of me to keep you company, ma’am.” Then he’d slowly step forward, closing the distance between us as my thighs clench, until he’s only a couple inches away, and the shadow of his hat would cast over my face.
“Would you like some lemonade, Rafael?” I’d whisper, biting my lower lip, looking up at him and inhaling his musky working man scent.
“I’d like you to take a drink first, ma’am.” When I do, my eyes stay trained on his deep brown gaze. Pulling the rim away from my mouth, I try to lick the drip of tart sweetness away from the corners of my mouth, but he stops me dead in my tracks, his hand caressing the side of my face and his thumb brushing the bottom of my lip, while the other pulls in my waist. “Allow me, ma’am.”
And right there in the open, he’d kiss me. He’d taste me—lick every last drop of juice from my tongue as I melted in his strong arms. Then he’d carry me back to the porch, and when he’d kick the door open, he'd murmur against my lips, “I worked hard today, ma’am. I’m gon’ need more refreshment than that.”
And that’s why when real-life Rafael forced me to go inside and take a break, I listened. Being hot from working is one thing, but being literally hot and bothered by him is another.
I need to stop reading cowboy romance. This is getting dangerous.
When he came back in an hour later, looking like he just played a full rugby match—he was even wearing those short rugby shorts that show off all his thick, defined legs. He sat down next to me on the one piece of furniture in this place—an antique couch that should be thrown to the curb. After taking one long swig of my giant thermos of ice water, he saw I was creating a baby registry, and all thoughts of yard work flew out the window.
He’s been sitting next to me ever since, oblivious to my hormone-fueled daydream, adding impractical things and researching the hell out of the practical things.
