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So why can’t my hands grip her hips?
I try again, but now I’m above her. She’s beneath me. I’m looking down into ocean blue eyes and full red lips that steal my breath away.
How did we get like this?
It didn’t matter. It felt good. So good. I lower down to kiss her, but her hair tickles my face. I move my head to one side, and she licks my face. Once. Twice. Three times.
That’s when I hear it. Music. Loud music.
I try to open my eyes, but it feels like they are cemented shut.
The music gets louder.
Where is it coming from?
When my heavy lids finally lift, I realize that it’s not a blue-eyed, hot blonde who’s licking me; it’s my cat, Dini. And the music blaring is my alarm clock.
It was just a dream. There was no hot blonde. Just a teacup calico kitty.
I moved my head away from Dini, who hopped onto the floor and began meowing loudly, demanding her breakfast be served. For a tiny thing, she was bossy as hell.
“Okay, okay. I’m up.”
Frustration rolled through my body as I pushed off my sheet and sat up. When I did, the crisp morning air hit my groin, and another realization struck me. I hadn’t just had a sex dream; I’d had a wet dream. I hadn’t had one of those since I was fifteen and started having actual sex.
Fuck.
I really needed to get laid. It had been a year—no, longer since I’d gotten laid.
When was the last time I’d done the deed?
It took a moment in my sleepy haze for the answer to come to me. It was the brunette in Dallas. The cheerleader. That was…
Holy shit.It had been two years since I’d gotten my dick wet.
How could it have been that long?
I knew the answer; I just didn’t want to think about it. My chin dropped down to my chest as I ran my hands through my hair in frustration and lifted my head.
There was a loud knock. It was not on my door, though; it came from my floor. It was a broom hitting the kitchen ceiling, which my room sat over.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” my grandad bellowed. “Ya got company!”
My eyes shot to my phone, and I saw that my wet dream had caused me to oversleep by fifteen minutes. My grandad wasreferring to my clients. I ran a bootcamp workout called Farm Strong, which I started nearly two years ago.
This hadn’t always been the plan for my life. Up until a couple of years ago, my entire life revolved around baseball. I’d played in high school, college, in the minors, and then finally the majors. I’d spent one year playing for the San Diego Waves before a career-ending injury derailed my life. One second I was up to bat; the next I felt a pop in my shoulder, which turned out to be a torn rotator cuff. Two surgeries and six months of physical therapy later, I was released from my contract and had to face the fact that I was never going to play professionally again.
I came home to Firefly Island to lick my wounds and spent nearly nine months getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself. I started Farm Strong after returning from a trip to Dallas to visit my college roommate. Coincidentally, it was the same trip where I’d hooked up with a Cowboys cheerleader—which was a tick on my bucket, or should I say, fuck-it list—and had ended up being the last time I’d had sex. When I got home, things had gone from bad to worse. The night I returned from Texas, my grandma, Meemaw Mitchell—who, with my grandad had raised me after my dad passed when I was twelve—had a heart attack. She spent the next two months in and out of the hospital, had a triple bypass, and then contracted pneumonia. She passed away six months ago.
Meemaw had been the heart and soul of the family and had also run things on the farm. Grandad was a retired mechanic, and although he could fix a tractor, he didn’t have anything to do with the animals or finances. Overnight, I grew up. One day, all I had to worry about was myself. The next day, keeping the family farm in the Mitchell name fell on my shoulders.
I wasn’t a farmer, so I’d improvised. I’d always been an athlete and into fitness, and in what I can only believe wasserendipity, my old roommate in Dallas ran a bootcamp class that was grossing him thousands of dollars a month. So, I’d started the same thing with a farm twist. It took off. And that’s what I’d been doing ever since. It hadn’t left a lot of time for a social life.
Sure, I met women in my class. Lots of women. Women who were interested and willing. Not to toot my own horn, but Arm Porn was a real thing, and my biceps were the equivalent of Kelis’s milkshake, and they brought all the girls to the yard. Hell, I’d even started a calendar that was a huge Christmas seller. Women appreciating my physique was great for business, but I had a strict rule: I never dated clients.
Which was why I hadn’t gotten laid in over two years.
“Meow,” Dini asserted.
