Dinner turns out great. I make chicken oregano and Caprese salad, which Grant has never had before. He didn’t exactly gush about the homemade pesto sauce I mixed in for added flavor, but he definitely helped himself to four servings, then admitted between bites that it was “addictive.”

There was something weirdly calm, almost familiar, about sitting across the dinner table from Grant and chatting about the day. He told me all the progress he’d made, and any problems he’d run up against, and I did the same. We charted out plans for the rest of the week, what we’d aim to fix up and what we were okay with letting go. It felt weirdly… fun, to plan like that. To tackle a problem like this, a simple, concrete problem that we could fix with our hands.

Nothing at all like my usual work explosions, which have twelve different possible solutions, half of which depend on other people in the office who are unreliable.

That, and it helps that the whole time we’re talking, his hand keeps brushing past mine, his knee touching mine under the table, both of us cracking flirtatious jokes that make me blush and him smirk wider, a look that says he has plans for me later tonight…

Then he takes over the dishes—he insists—and I slip out to my room to change for the party. After digging through my suitcase, I settle on the little black dress that I packed—just in case, I’d figured when I was tossing half my NYC closet into this suitcase. Thanks a million, past Sasha, I think as I pull it on and turn before the bedroom mirror, grateful for the thinking ahead.

This dress is one of my favorites at home. It’s chic, stylish, and couture. It hugs my every curve, showing off my slim waist and my hips to perfection. There’s beading along the chest, hugging the neckline, which plunges just far enough to hint at cleavage without revealing too much. In the back, the skirt hugs my thighs tight, shows off my pert ass.

I twirl a little in front of the mirror and grin. Perfect.

Pair that with a pair of heels—not the mud-stained pair I tripped in on day one, but the backup pair of Manolos, neon red heels flashing under the sleek black-and-silver top halves. Then I just have to do my makeup—I keep it simple, mascara, cat eyes, and a hint of gold lipstick that lets the rest of my outfit speak for itself—and shift my possessions into the little silver clutch purse I brought, the one shaped like an old Cuban cigar case.

I twirl before the mirror, loving the effect I have. I look like a million bucks. I look like my old self, my New York self. I look ready to slay whatever this party holds.

I stride out of my room into the hallway. Grant, for his part, is already waiting by the door, truck keys in hand. Oh no.

“I’ll drive,” I say before he even looks up from his phone, which he’s checking for his usual once-a-day stop to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.

When he does look up at last, his eyes do a slow, steady sweep of my body that sends shivers down my spine. When those eyes finally lock back onto mine, he’s grinning, a sly, knowing look. “Are you trying to skip this party tonight?” he asks.

“What?” I frown. “No, why?”

His grin widens. “Because wearing that makes me want to throw you over my shoulder and drag you right back into the bedroom,” he says.

My legs clench, as the shivers race all the way down into my pussy. So let’s, I almost say, but Grant doesn’t give me time. He’s already opening the front door and holding it for me to pass, half-bowing at the waist, ever the gentleman.

“After you,” he says.

Only then do I really take in his outfit, and remember where the hell I am.

He looks good, don’t get me wrong. He looks hot as hell, actually, in clean black jeans and a loose V-neck gray T-shirt. But he doesn’t look like this is a party party. At least not the kind that I’m used to.

But of course it isn’t. I’m not in New York. I’m in my hometown, home to no more than 2,000 residents max. I wince. “Crap,” I say, hesitating.

“Forget something?” His eyebrows rise.

“No, I just…” I shake my head and stare down at myself. “Should I change?”

“Are you kidding?” Grant snorts. “You look beautiful, Sasha. You always do.”

“I’m going to stand out though. In this.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You were always going to stick out, Sasha. No matter what you wear. You stick out anywhere you go—I’d wager you stick out just as much back in the big city as you do here. A girl like you couldn’t help it.” His dark eyes latch onto mine, keep hold. “And I love that about you.” With that, he offers his arm, bent at the elbow. “Now, are we going to go be the talk of the town, or am I going to have to drag you back into the bedroom to peel that excuse for a dress off?” He says it with a grin though, eyes appreciative as they dip across my body again, and my belly tightens with anticipation.

I hook my arm through his. “If we go to this party, does that mean you won’t peel this dress off me later? Because I was rather looking forward to that. Not sure I can get out of it all on my own…”

He laughs softly as he leads me outside and lets the door swing shut behind us. “Don’t worry, Sasha. One way or another, I mean to have you tonight.” He leans in close to kiss the edge of my earlobe, then nips at the skin lightly, just hard enough to make me gasp, before he whispers, breath hot on my neck, “Wherever that may be.”

I shiver and lean into him, already feeling the throb of my hungry clit between my thighs. “I’ll hold you to that promise,” I warn him.

“I would expect nothing less.” He winks, and opens the passenger side door of the truck. But I shake my head this time and pull out my clutch.

“My car this time.” I grin at his wide-eyed expression. “If we’re going to be the talk of the town,” I say, “we’re going to do it in style.”

It takes my poor rental Porsche a while to ease back down the dirt driveway. But as soon as we hit pavement and Grant’s able to direct me toward the Johnsons’ farmstead, I really gun it. A smile creeps onto my face as I take the back-road country highway by storm, letting this car do what it was built to do—dominate the road.

Grant laughs over the country music blasting on the radio—because I changed the channel to his the moment I turned it on. What can I say? Something about the old nostalgic beats got me going.

“Didn’t take you for a speed demon,” he calls.

“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything about me, Grant Werther,” I toss back with a smirk.

“Not yet,” he rejoins, and just that simple promise makes me shiver all over again.

We race along the back roads, and it takes no time at all going the speed I’m doing to reach the Johnsons’. As soon as we get close, though, I can already tell where we’re heading. It’s the only place for miles around with its lights on, and a few big tents out back, all illuminated by candles and bonfires and a few stoves out on the back patio. There must be fifty cars all up and down their driveway. Small party by NYC standards, but a regular who’s-who of the whole town for these parts.

I whip into a spot at the head of the drive, and Grant hops out too fast for me to slow him down. Fast enough to swing around and open my door and offer me a hand. That man is never going to stop doing that, is he? I wonder as I accept his help and climb out beside him, purse clutched under my arm.

I loop my other arm through Grant’s and follow him up the driveway toward the distant music. It sounds a lot like what was just on the radio actually—only louder, and faster, and, if I’m not mistaken, live.

“Is that a band?” I ask as we reach the front yard. But Grant skips right past the front door and heads for the back. I’d forgotten what is was like in a small town. Just walking right inside like you own places.

“Few of the local guys get together once a month to play. In the summers, the couples and families like to come out and do a turn together while they listen. But this’ll be the last hoedown of the season, so near about everyone’s turned out for it.”

We round the corner then, and my eyes widen. He wasn’t kidding.

At least 150 people are around—kids racing underfoot, chasing one another across the grass, couples up on the dance floor in front of the 4-person string band, doing a complicated square dance that I vaguely recognize from old school dances, though Lord help me if I remember the steps. Still more people are dotted across the yard, some playing lawn darts, another group lined up by the garage playing regular darts against its closed door. Between those two groups, set up under the tents on the tail end of the driveway, are a couple of pool tables.

Both occupied at the moment, though my eyes linger on them for longer than strictly necessary. I always loved pool—played it as a way to escape when I was younger, back when Dad was still around, when he’d get into his rages. Then I kept playing through college, mostly because guys found it sexy. After college, I kept playing to dupe guys out of drinks in bars. Guess you could say I’m a regular shark about it.

I grin a little to myself. I’ll have to challenge Grant to that later.

Grant, for his part, has drawn more than a few stares and shouts of welcome as we walked in. He’s waving back now, and gesturing from me to the crowd.

“Y’all will remember Sasha,” he’s saying, voice louder than I’d like, even with the music to cover some of it. “Maryanne’s girl. Sasha, this is…” He trails off with a shrug. “Well, everyone.”

A couple nearby laugh.

Across the yard, I recognize Hank and Etna from the hardware store, deep in conversation with another couple their age. Both of them are eating too, and drinking cans of the local cheap beer I grew up on before I went away to college and learned what real alcohol tasted like.

For some reason, though, watching them, my taste buds are suddenly craving that flavor. That familiar sour tang.

“Want a beer?” Grant asks, following my gaze. Most of the people he just introduced us to have gone back to their meals or conversations, though a few are still stealing surreptitious glances at me from underneath their eyelashes every now and again.

“Sure,” I reply, forcing a wide smile. I’m regretting my dress choice already—hell, maybe the choice to come here at all was a bad one. I should have just let Grant drag me into the bedroom and fuck me all night again. That would be far preferable to being stared at like I’m on display right now.

But as we drift across the room, beers in hand, and settle at a table by the dance floor, some of the stares drift away and drop off. One girl even leans over from a neighboring table to tap my shoulder and smile at me broadly. “Love your dress,” she whispers.

“Thanks.” I offer a hand. “Sasha, by the way.”

“Meredith. You new here too?” she asks.

Ah. Well that would explain the lack of an attitude. My cheeks flush, even as I shrug my shoulders. “Uh… Kind of? It’s a long story.”

Luckily Meredith doesn’t press for details. “I moved back here with Joe after we finished school.” She nudges the guy across the table from her, who starts out of a conversation he’s in with a neighbor for long enough to grin and wave.

“Where are you from originally?” I ask, turning to loop Grant in, only to find he’s been caught in a different conversation with a guy I vaguely recognize. Tommy? No. Trent? Something with a T…

“Philly,” she replies. “So, you know, bit different than this.” She gestures at the party with her beer and laughs softly.

My eyes widen. “Wasn’t that hard, then? Going from a big city to… well. This?”

Meredith laughs. “Hell no. Best decision I ever made. I was a mess up in the northeast. I know that pace of life, that speed, it’s right for some people, but for me, it just made me anxious 24/7. I felt like I always had to be on, on, on, couldn’t ever take time to breathe or relax. And life was just flying by. Here… Well. Life here moves at its own pace. Slower. More sedate. I like that.” She smiles and takes a long swig of her beer.

I sip mine too. It tastes familiar. Not hoppy or unique like a lot of the local brews I drink back in the city, all the fancy ones breweries in Brooklyn are always coming up with. It just tastes simple. Easy to drink.

It tastes like home, I realize with a start.

“I can understand that,” I hear myself saying. But then Grant taps me on the shoulder, and Meredith winks and turns back to Joe, and I spin to attend to my guy.

My guy? Is he that?

I shake that thought off.

“Sasha, you’ll remember Troy,” Grant says.

Troy. “Of course,” I reply, grinning as we shake hands. “You were in my English class senior year right? The one who made all those paper plane notes to throw at… Oh gosh, what was her name?”

“Sarah.” Troy’s smile widens, turns genuine when he realizes that I do remember him after all.

“Sarah, that’s right. How’d that turn out?”

He laughs. “Well, I married her, so guess for yourself.” He leans down to elbow me slightly. “But personally, I’d say it went pretty damn all right.”

Grant’s watching me interact with Troy, something like approval in his eye. I flash a small smile back at Grant, relaxing a little.

Okay, maybe not everyone in town is a jerk. Or at least, once I get to know them—or re-know them—they stop assuming they know everything about me. I could get used to that. Not being a total pariah.

“So how about you Sasha?” Troy asks. “I hear you’ve been living up in New York City now. Big shot in advertising, right?”

I shake my head. “Paralegal. But I’m really just a glorified desk jockey, that’s all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Grant cuts in, eyes locked on mine. “Your career is really important to you, isn’t it?”

I chew on the inside of my lip. Of course it was. Is. I just hadn’t realized until I took this break away from the desk—until I was staying somewhere without Wi-Fi —how much of my life it consumes. Hell, I haven’t checked my email once since I got here.

Just thinking about that now sends a spark of panic through me. God, the pile that’s going to be awaiting me when I get back on Monday…

But I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t have to think about that now, because for once in my damn life, I’m unplugged. Really and truly unplugged.

“Well, who wants to talk about work when they’re on vacation?” I push to my feet and reach for Grant’s hand. “Dance?”

Troy tips his hat to us and steps aside as Grant accepts my hand, then tugs me to his side and leads me to the dance floor.

“You call this a vacation?” he asks as we line up for the next square dance, in a pattern I don’t know. “Working your ass off to fix up a farmhouse, that’s your break, really?”

I shrug. “It’s hard to get time off. Schedules are packed around this time of year—end of summer, you know, everyone wants to live up the last days of warmth.”

“And you’re spending them back home in the town you hated, doing hard labor with a business partner you never wanted,” he supplies.

The band strikes up a tune. Grant plants a firm hand on my hip and guides me into position across from him.

“I don’t remember—” I start to say, then cut off with a gasp when he pulls me straight into a fast, side-stepping swing.

“Just relax and follow me,” he says, rocking through the steps with an easy gait, pulling me along with him.

I promptly step on his foot, then stumble trying to catch my footing again. He tightens his grip on my waist, pulls me closer, until I can feel the heat radiating from him, our bodies almost touching.

“I said relax,” he points out, and I flush, biting my lip.

“That’s hard when I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mumble.

“You have to give up control, Sasha. You have to trust me. Because I know what I’m doing.” He locks eyes with me, and for a second, I have the sensation that we’re talking about more than just this dance.

I hold his gaze when he starts to move again. I try my best to listen to his advice—to forget about my footing, the pace, the song. To just watch him, feel his one big hand wrapped around mine, his other cupping my waist, drawing me across the floor.

When I keep my eyes on him, I find it’s easier to let go. Easier to let him take control, to read his body to learn what he wants mine to do.

Pretty soon, we’re flying across the floor easily. He swings me out away from him, then spins me back in to his side, and someone behind us whoops. There’s other dancers on the floor now, but we’re weaving between them, lost in a world of our own. I have eyes only for Grant. For a big man, he sure does move lightly on his feet. He dances like he was born doing it, and I’m just along for the ride.

Without warning, at a peak moment in the song, he grabs me and dips me backwards across his forearm. I gasp as I fall back against his arm, but he’s got me, holding me up as easily as though I weighed nothing at all.

I catch his eye again, and catch a hint of that hungry expression, the one that shows me just how much he can’t get enough of me. How much he wants to claim me.

It sends an ache through my body, makes me just as hungry for him. Having his strong arms around me, feeling the way he can fling me across this dance floor, it’s turning me on way too much to be appropriate in public.

And, judging by the hard press I feel against my thigh when he swings me back upright and pulls me flush against him for the final chords of the song, he’s feeling the same way.

The music fades, and for the span of a second, it’s just the two of us. His heartbeat pounding against mine as we stand there, chest-to-chest, arms around one another—when did that happen? My head swims, fuzzy with desire. There are people talking, laughing, slapping one another on the shoulders. From the corner of my eye I notice people watching us, whispers starting. I don’t care. I have eyes only for Grant.

He smirks and turns away to lead me off the floor, though he keeps his hand wrapped around mine long after we leave the dance floor behind.

“Think we’ve started enough rumors yet?” I ask in a soft voice as we cross the tent. He stops by the coolers propped at the far end to grab another beer and tosses me a mischievous grin along with a second beer.

“Far from it.”

I glance past him at the rest of the tent. It feels like everyone in here is staring at me now—but maybe that’s just my imagination.

“They’re not as bad as you think, you know,” Grant murmurs beside my ear, so close that a shiver runs down my back. I can feel his hot breath on my cheek, and that combined with the memory of his arms around me, the hard press of his cock through his jeans when we ended that dance, it makes me feel horny as a teenager at her first school dance. I want to grab him and drag him into the trees around this field, rip those jeans off.

My cheeks flare bright red. “They’re staring,” I point out, my voice low.

“Only because you’re worth looking at.” He smirks, then his eyes dart past me for a second. “Game?”

For a moment, I don’t understand what he means. Then I follow his gaze to the nearest pool table, now empty of players. I smirk, too. “You’re on.”

Those staring spectators don’t dissipate as we cross to pick up our cues. If anything, the crowd grows. By the time Grant breaks and lands two solid pockets in a row, there’s an actual audience standing around our table.

“Have you warned your new girl you’re a shark at this game, Werther?” one of the guys comments, strolling over to join the slowly growing spectators around our table.

Grant snorts, but misses his next shot, and I grin as the cue ball lines up perfectly with a stripe in the corner pocket. I sink that, then two more, one after another, my smirk widening with every shot. By the third, the crowd is whooping.

“Guess the shark has met his match,” the guy amends, and Grant locks eyes with me, a challenge in his dark gaze.

I toss my head, beaming now. “Or there’s a new shark in town.” With that, I sink my fourth ball in a row, and exchange celebratory high-fives with a few guys who offer their palms. Troy has joined the crowd now, and Meredith, along with her husband, Joe.

“Kick his ass, Sasha,” Meredith calls, and I wink at her as I line up my next shot.

But I must be getting too confident, too fast, because the next shot misses. And it lines Grant’s next move up perfectly. Damn. I bite my lip and step away as I wait for him to fire.

He pockets another ball. I swallow hard. He lands another one after that, and I realize it’s time to whip out the big guns.

I step closer to the table and lean down to watch his next shot, right in his line of vision.

He glances up to line up the balls, and then his eyes dart to me. To my cleavage, showing just below the neckline of my dress. All he’ll be able to glimpse from his angle is a hint of red lace, the edge of my bra, and a little bit of the cleavage it’s pushing up to my advantage.

But apparently it’s enough.

Grant fires and misses completely, scratching the ball.

The whoops around us intensify, and a few guys slap Grant on the back.

“Losing your touch, man,” Troy teases him as I toss the cue ball in my palm, debating where to line up.

“And to a city girl, no less,” I add, batting my lashes with faux innocence.

The look in his eyes is half annoyance, half furious desire. “What can I say?” he replies, a cool smile on his mouth. “I don’t have the same bag of tricks up my sleeve.” He does, however, lean against the table as I set up my next shot, making sure to stretch his arms wide enough that it pulls his T-shirt taut, shows off the outline of his muscles beneath, every sexy inch of them.

I tear my gaze away, forcing my head into the game. I pocket my next two balls. Down to just one and the 8-ball left.

“What do you say we up the stakes?” Grant asks, his voice low.

A couple of whistles steal through the crowd anyway.

I lift an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“I win, you have to do everything I say for the next hour.”

The crowd titters with laughter. He, however, has his dark eyes fixed straight on me, dead serious. And I know exactly what he’s thinking.

A trickle of desire runs down my spine. I imagine myself doing his bidding. Whatever he commands…

I raise my chin and lock eyes with him. “And if I win?”

“Then same. You make the rules.”

“Do it,” Troy shouts.

“Make that boy your bitch,” Meredith adds, and I laugh, watching her and Joe elbow one another after that comment.

I tap my chin with the pool cue, as though debating. But really, all I can think about is what it would be like to be his for an hour. Forced to obey his every command, his every whim… It’s almost enough to make me want to lose on purpose.

Almost.

But then I think about being the one in charge of this big, sexy country boy, and I change my mind. Hell no. I want to win this thing. If for nothing more than to see what I can make this big man do to me…

“You’re on,” I tell him, and his grin widens.

I’m not sure why until I study the table again. Crap. My next shot is tricky as hell. I’ll have to bank the cue ball twice just to hit my ball, let alone sink it. I take a deep breath and line up. I have to block out the chants that the crowd has started—Bust him, Bluebell, in particular, has become a fast favorite apparently.

I shoot, but the second my stick hits the ball, I realize I’ve messed up. It banks off the wall too sharply, and misses my shot entirely.

Grant’s smile widens.

I swallow hard. He lines up his next play. I watch him sink his fifth and sixth balls without too much worry. But as he lines up an easy shot for his seventh, my nerves start to jangle.

Shameless by this point, I hike up the edge of my dress and take a seat across from him on the table. A few of the guys wolf whistle. Grant fixes his gaze on me and smirks.

“Not going to save you this time,” he says.

I narrow my eyes. “Worth a shot,” I shrug, letting a finger trail up my outer thigh. “You know. Just in case you’re easily distracted…”

He fires the next shot, and the ball hits the pocket straightaway. Shit.

He just has the eight ball left.

The crowd, at least, seems to be on my side. I laugh as chants of Miss, Miss, Miss replace the old Bluebell cry. Maybe Grant’s friends just want to see him lose a game for once, but for me, it almost makes me feel like I belong here for a moment.

Almost.

Unfortunately, Grant doesn’t take the crowd’s advice. He calls the eight ball pocket, and I watch with my heart in my throat as it glides right in on his first try.

I swallow hard around the lump.

“Good game,” Grant says, hand extended.

I lock eyes with him as I grasp his hand. “You too.” His grip tightens, and I enjoy the warm sensation of his fingers wrapped around mine.

Then he lets go, as the crowd begins to dissipate a little, spectators drifting off to watch another pool match starting up at the other table. Troy slaps my back as he passes, and shoots me a commiserating smile. “Almost had him,” he says. “Next time.”

“Well,” I say to Grant, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “Congratulations, big winner. What happens now?”

“Now?” His smile deepens. “I believe by the terms of our agreement, you owe me an hour.”

“Mmhmm. And just what did you have in mind for this hour of being the boss, exactly?”

His gaze drops down my body, tracing the outlines of my curves. Then he leans down to whisper against my ear, so no one else can hear, his breath so hot it makes my belly tighten with desire. “Meet me behind the tents in five minutes and find out.” With that, he strides away and leaves me holding my cold beer, heart racing, panties already in danger of getting far too wet for a public setting.

“Tough luck,” Meredith says as she reaches my side through the crowd, slapping me on the shoulder.

I shrug. “You win some, you lose some.”

“Still, you play great. Where’d you learn to shoot pool like that?”

I grimace, and repress the memory as fast as I can. Me escaping Dad’s shouts in the farmhouse, hiding out in the toolshed with the toy pool table Dad made me when he was in one of his better moods, way back when.

“Around,” I reply.

“Who knew New York could handle bar games that well,” Joe, Meredith’s husband, comments with a laugh. He doesn’t seem judgmental though, just stating a fact.

I put a hand on my hip. “We do have bars up in the big city, you know,” I point out. “And parties too. Even backyard hoedowns in some places.” I gesture around us.

“Not like ours,” he counters, and I have to concede that point. I haven’t been to anything quite like this party up in the city.

“There are some things I miss about life here,” I admit, turning to take in the tent. The kids are back, taking over the dance floor now. My heart nearly stops as I watch a little curly blonde girl grab a brunette boy’s hand and drag him onto the floor, trying to teach him the steps to a dance her mother and father are doing right next to her. I remember times like that. Back when we were all here. Back when we were still a family. Not just Mama and me, left on our own. Left to heal the rift without any help.

“You’d be surprised how nice it can be,” Meredith is saying, leaning against Joe as he loops one arm around her shoulders. “The quiet might seem suffocating when you first come from the big city, all that hustle and bustle. But give it enough time to get into your bones and…” She sighs, smiling. “You can really get used to a life like this. A slower life. A sweeter one.”

“Careful, honey.” Joe squeezes Meredith’s shoulders. “You’ll give the girl a cavity with all that sweet-talking.”

She elbows him, and I grin at their interplay. Which reminds me. I glance past them, but can’t find a clock anywhere in this tent. Still, my five minutes are probably almost up. “I’ll be back,” I tell them, and I don’t miss the telltale smirk that Meredith sports when I step away, toward the tent flap.

I have a feeling the two of them know what Grant was doing when he proposed that bet over the pool game.

Hell, most people here must guess. That only makes my cheeks flare hotter when I slip out into the cool night air and circle around toward the back of the tent. There’s a few people dotted across the grass back here, some smoking, others just standing around chatting, beers in hand. I weave between them, farther and farther away from the tent, until I recognize a familiar shape leaning against the side of the small farmhouse out beyond the little tent village set up for this party. That must be the Johnsons’ actual house. To my surprise, I recognize it. Well, not the house itself, but the porch out front with a big rocker swing on it, and hard-to-forget neon orange cushions. I’ve sat out here with Mama before, visiting.

“If you’re aiming for inconspicuous, this might not be the best place,” I call as I approach Grant. There are still plenty of people around us, chatting, hanging out. I can practically feel the gazes following us.

But when I reach his side, Grant just tilts his head toward me, a sly look in his eye. “Who said we’re stopping here?” He reaches out and slaps my ass before he walks away, past the house, toward the backyard. “Try to keep up. I only have an hour with you. I plan to make the best of that time.”

I jog after him with a huff. “Some of us didn’t plan on hiking through yards in our outfits for the night,” I protest under my voice as my heels threaten to sink into the muddy ground.

He heaves a sigh. Then, without another word, he scoops me up into his arms, even as I squeal in protest.

“I’m in charge now, Sasha,” he reminds me, his voice a low rumble against my chest, cradled as I am against his. “And you won’t deny me what I want, will you?” His voice thrums with promise, all the things he wants to do to me.

I have to admit that I’m getting wetter just thinking about it. “No,” I murmur, my protest subsiding as he continues pacing across the grass, far beyond the house. I want to ask where we’re going. The party isn’t in sight anymore, though neither is much else out here, alone in the moonlit fields.

But then he turns away from the grass, toward the edge of the lawn, where there’s a copse of trees, and my eyes widen.

There’s something in the trees. A squat little construction that’s hard to make out from here. Until we cross into the shadow of the canopy ourselves, and my eyes adjust to the dim. Then I recognize the outline, and my jaw drops.

There’s a tree house here. Not a little play tree house either, like the kind we’d goof off in as kids. This one is shaped like an actual house, only held about 15 feet off the ground, with a staircase leading up to it that winds around the trunk of the tree.

“What…?” I ask, trailing off as Grant starts up the steps without even breaking his stride.

“Airbnb,” he explains, as though that tells me anything. I blink at him. He laughs. “Johnsons make extra renting this place out. A lot of people come to this area looking for escapes from cities, you know. A rustic country experience.” We reach the door, and he shoulders it open easily. “A taste of country life.”

It dawns on me, and my eyes widen. “You planned this,” I accuse him, chin jutting out.

He swings me down and lands me on my feet lightly, amusement dancing in his gaze. “Not exactly. Not everything.” He tilts his head and raises a brow. “I didn’t know you’d accept that bet.”

“You didn’t know you’d win the game either,” I point out, crossing my arms.

He shrugs. “I was fairly confident.”

I snort.

He steps closer, eying me. “Even if you could’ve won, you wouldn’t have.” His eyes trace over me, so hot I can practically feel his gaze like a touch, even though he’s still a foot away. “Because you want to be mine, Sasha. You want to know what I’ll make you do.”

My pussy tightens at those words. I can’t exactly deny it. It’s exactly what I was thinking when he made that bet. Still, I have some pride. I cross my arms and raise my chin. “What makes you so sure?”

He steps closer, and reaches out a finger to trace it up my arm. He trails it all the way up to my shoulder, then across my shoulder to cup my neck in his palm lightly. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to lean into that touch right now. “I can see it in your eyes. How much you want to be mine. My slave for the night.”

I swallow hard against a tight lump in my throat. I’m soaking wet now, damn him, and he fucking knows it, to judge by his confident smirk.

“Isn’t that right, city girl?”

I bite my lip. Hesitate. Then I finally inhale sharply and catch my breath. “I was curious, country boy.”

“That’s master to you. For the next hour.” He grins, a spark in his eyes.

“I was curious… Master.” I lean into the word, emphasize it with sarcasm. But there is something sexy about calling him that. Submitting to him completely.

“Kneel down,” he says, and I glance down at the hardwood floors of the tree house. It’s surprisingly cozy in here, a little bed in one corner, a cushy couch nearby. But the hard wood floor doesn’t exactly look appealing. Grant follows my gaze and leans past me to grab a pillow from the couch, which he tosses at my feet.

I follow his order and drop to my knees on the pillow.

“Undo my jeans,” he says.

I reach up for the button, toying with it for a moment, gazing up at him and memorizing this view. He towers over me from this angle, and something animal and instinctive in me loves that.

I undo the button and tease the moment out, taking my time pulling down his zipper. I can already feel the hard line of his cock through the thick denim. I draw the zipper down slowly, and his cock is so thick it pushes his boxers forward even before I pull his jeans down his hips.

“Take off my jeans.”

I yank them down, until they puddle on the ground between his feet.

“Boxers too,” he says, and I glance up to make eye contact before I slide those down, an inch at a time, slowly, taking my time. When his cock springs free at last, though, I have to catch my breath all over again at seeing him this close up.

His cock truly is fucking glorious. I reach up to touch him, to trace the veins that bulge along his sides, standing out against his rock hard shaft. But he clicks his tongue and stops me in my tracks.

“I didn’t say to touch me yet,” he scolds, and I sit back on my heels with a little pout, stealing a glance up at him. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding his gaze.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m sorry, Master.” That word sends another shiver into my belly, another rush in my veins.

“I want you to taste me, Sasha,” he says, his voice low with suppressed desire.

I lean forward, my lips hovering an inch from his tip.

“Lick my cock.”

I lick the tip of his cock with the flat blade of my tongue, and my whole body goes stiff with want. Fuck. He tastes good. Salty and earthy and all him, like his scent but magnified. I want more. I trail my tongue down the side of his shaft, first one, then the other, keeping my eyes fixed on him all the while, enjoying the view up along his washboard abs, visible through his tight T-shirt. Even better is the way he watches me explore him, his eyes hooded with desire as he focuses on what I’m doing.

“Play with my balls while you lick me,” he says, and I’m all too eager to raise both hands and cup his balls between them, rolling his balls through my fingers as I continue to lick up and down his length, making him slick with my saliva.

“Slowly take me into your mouth,” he says, and I know I’m not imagining the tightness in his voice, the way his control teeters on the edge. I want to make him lose control.

I part my lips and take his cock into my mouth. Fuck. He’s huge. My jaw stretches to take him, but I just part my lips wider and swallow him deeper, pushing him inch by inch into my mouth. I want his cock inside me, as much as I can take. I want to get him off.

I lift my hands to encircle the base of his cock, and it takes both hands to wrap around him. I finally have him as deep in my mouth as I think he’ll go, and I start to rock backward, but he reaches down and wraps his hands through my hair, tangling his fingers in my curls and pinning me in place.

“Have you ever tried deep-throat, Sasha?” he asks.

It’s hard to reply with his cock in my mouth, but I manage an uh-uh, my voice muffled. He inhales sharply as the vibrations around his cock send shocks along his nerve system, and I make a mental note of that for later.

“Do you want to?”

Mmhmm, I agree, making sure to let the sound last, my mouth buzzing around his shaft. His cock jumps in my mouth, and I press my tongue along the underside of his shaft to keep up the pressure.

“Relax your jaw.”

I do as I’m told, at least as much as I can. He presses forward, and I reach around to grab his ass with one hand, holding on as his cock slides toward the back of my tongue. My body tenses, and I feel my gag reflex start to kick in, but Grant is slow, patient. He draws back a little.

“Really relax, Sasha. Give me control.”

I try to do that. This time, when he presses forward again, I take him deeper, deeper than I’ve ever been able to take any guy before. I let my jaw go limp, surrender control to Grant, to the taste of his big cock in my mouth, the feel of him filling me up. He hits the back of my throat, and I reach up to grab his ass with both hands, taking a deep breath before he presses down, into my throat. My lips almost touch his base, and he’s as far down my throat as he can go, his head falling back, his teeth gritted.

“Fuck, Sasha,” he hisses, and my stomach tightens at that sound, the sound of him lost in pleasure—because of me.

He draws back again, and I breathe in deep as soon as I can, his cock wet from my throat and tongue. I circle my tongue against his underside as he pulls out of my mouth, then slowly back in.

I can’t get enough of this. Looking up at him and catching him watching me hungry, gaze hooded, his cock at attention in my mouth, his whole body taut with tension as he starts to rock back and forth, his hands tightening in my hair.

I can tell he’s getting close as his muscles tense, and I lean into his motions, tightening my mouth around him, eager to make him lose control the way he makes me. A low groan escapes his mouth, and I moan in response, loving how he tenses, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.

But just when he’s about to finish, he presses his palm against my forehead, halting me in place. “Not yet, Sasha.” There’s a strain in his voice—it’s taking him effort not to let me finish. I stop moving, but I keep pressing my tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the veins with the tip of my tongue. He inhales again, sharper.

“I want to enjoy you for longer,” he murmurs, slowly drawing out of my mouth. When his cock passes my lips, I let out a soft sigh of protest, and he chuckles. “Eager to finish already?”

I shake my head, meeting his gaze. “I want to taste you.”

He raises an eyebrow, pointed.

I swallow, catching his meaning. “I mean, I want to taste you… Master.”

He grins. “Maybe I’ll reward you after this with a taste of my cum. Would you like that, City Girl?”

“Yes, Master,” I reply, not even hesitating this time, getting into character. There’s something thrilling about this, about submitting.

His smile widens and he steps back. “Stand up.”

I push myself to my feet, eyes still on his body, his cock at attention between us, demanding all of my attention.

“Take off your dress.” I reach for the hem, but he stops me with a lifted palm. “Slowly.”

So I lock eyes with him and take my time, sliding my dress up inch by inch, revealing more skin tantalizingly slowly. I step closer to him, making sure to lean into my step, sway my hips, and his gaze drops to them obediently, his eyes lingering on my curves with clear appreciation.

I drop my dress beside us, standing just an inch from his chest.

He raises his brows. “Now your bra.”

I reach behind me with one hand to unclasp it, and let it inch down my arms until my breasts fall free. I love the way his eyes darken with hunger, focused on my chest.

He steps closer and lifts his hands to cup my hips gently, his skin white-hot against mine, his palms rough and calloused as they tug me against him. His cock digs into my stomach as he pulls me against his body, and slides his hands down, down, to the edges of my panties, where he hooks both thumbs under the sides.

“These I want to remove myself,” he murmurs, face bent to inches from mine.

I tilt my head back to meet his eye, and he leans down to kiss me, hard. My lips part with surprise, and his tongue slides between them, tangling with mine, hungry, searching. I lift my arms, wrap them around his neck and sink into the kiss, letting him taste me, claim me, as he pushes my panties down my thighs. When they reach my knees, they drop to the floor, and I step out of them, still kissing him, as he pulls me backwards, lifting me up easily and walking us toward the bed.

When we reach it, he stops and sets me on my feet again, my heart still pounding from the close contact with his bare skin, the press of his cock along the smooth skin of my stomach.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and I suppress a little shiver of excitement and do as I’m told.

He wraps something soft around my face, blocking my sight. His shirt, I realize, as he ties it behind my head, blindfolding me. His hands slide down my back, caressing me, reaching down to cup my ass and squeeze gently, massaging my cheeks as he stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“Climb onto the bed, Sasha,” he says.

I drop forward onto my knees, and crawl a few paces along the bed, until I’m kneeling facing away from him. I feel the weight of the mattress shift under me as he climbs on behind me and positions himself at my rear, his hands still on my ass, as though he can’t get enough of me, can’t stop touching me.

I fucking love that.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Sasha,” he murmurs, even as he traces his cock along the backs of my thighs, then between my legs, with slow strokes, letting me feel every inch of him, the velvety smooth skin over his hard shaft turning me on.

“Please fucking do,” I manage to say, distracted as I am. Then I lick my lips, turn my head a little so he can see me smile, and add in my best sultry tone, “Master.”

“You like that, don’t you?” I can hear the answering grin in his voice. “You like submitting to me. Knowing that you’re mine. Knowing I’m going to do what I want with you.”

“I do, Master.”

“Good. Because I intend to keep having my way with you, Sasha.” He presses his cock between my thighs, right along the length of my slit. I’m soaked already, and he chuckles a little as he notices this, sliding his cock back and forth along my slit to coat himself in my juices. “I’m going to have my way with you for a long, long time.”

I spread my legs a little to grant him better access, breath coming hard and fast, my heart racing. But he keeps going slow, so slow it’s agonizing, almost torture—he takes his time parting my ass cheeks with his hands, squeezing hard enough to leave marks, and tracing his cock along my lips, one after the other.

“Fuck,” I hiss, when he’s still teasing me far too long later.

He laughs again. “Anxious, little slave?”

“Fuck yes I am.” I bite my lip, frustrated.

“You want me to fuck you properly now?” He slides a hand between my legs and fingers my clit, rolling it gently between his thumb and his forefinger, adding just enough pressure to set off fireworks in my veins.

I can only nod.

Without warning, he thrusts his cock into me, deep and fast. I cry out with pleasure, feeling him stretch my walls, fill me completely. He grabs my hips and pulls me back against him, his cock spearing deep into my pussy.

I fall forward, my forehead pressed into the bed as he draws back out of me, then thrusts back in, faster this time. This angle makes his cock feel like it’s even bigger, pushing in deeper. I’ve never felt so full before, and it’s driving me wild. I try to thrust back against him, but Grant holds my hips tight, pinning me in place as he starts to rock back and forth, building momentum.

“You like that? You like my fat cock inside your pussy?”

I moan with want, bucking against him as he starts to fuck me faster.

“Tell me how much you like my cock inside you, Sasha. Tell me what it feels like.”

I bite my lip to draw my brain back into itself, because otherwise it’s too hard to get lost in the sensation. Still, forming words is difficult when he’s doing this to me, making me crazy with lust. I swallow hard and force myself to think around the swell of pleasure growing deep in my belly. “It… feels like you fill every inch of me,” I manage, my breath coming harder, faster, as he continues to fuck me. “Your cock is so fucking big and hard and… fuck,” I cry out as he thrusts into me again, his balls slapping against my clit at this angle. “I love feeling you inside me, stretching me out, making me ache with want. I love it when you come in me.”

“You like that? You like when I pump my cum into your tight little pussy, fill you with my seed?”

I moan again. “Fuck yes I do.”

He laughs once, softly, and slows in his pounding for a moment, hands sliding up my sides to cup my breasts, his thumb and forefinger teasing at my hardened nipples. Rolling them until I gasp from the sensation. “I thought you wanted me to come in your mouth this time, City Girl. You’re going to have to make up your mind.”

“I…”

Damn. I bite my lip. I do want to taste him. But it felt so good when he came in me last night—I’d forgotten what that felt like, fucking like this. Raw, as he put it.

Grant doesn’t wait for me to answer. He keeps going, picking up the pace, fucking me on all fours. At the same time, he reaches between my legs with his free hand and presses his thumb to my clit. I cry out, unable to contain it. My clit is already aching for release, turned on as hell from sucking his cock. It feels swollen, like ripe fruit between my thighs begging for him to pluck it.

“Fuck,” I hiss, as the building pleasure distracts me.

“Going to have to decide soon,” he says, stroking my clit in time with his thrusts now, driving me wild. His cock is so thick that it presses against my inner walls, and with each thrust, his head grazes my G-spot, makes my pussy clench tight and my body quiver as I build toward an orgasm.

He stops stroking me, right as I’m nearing the edge, and I shout in protest.

“Tell me where you want me to come, and then you can come,” Grant says, his voice steady, infuriatingly so, as he continues to fuck me at the same steady, grinding pace.

“My mouth,” I gasp. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

His finger returns to my clit, and I scream wordlessly as the orgasm hits me almost instantly. My pussy tightens, convulses around his cock, and he drives into me faster, his muscles taut, his hands hard on my hips, fucking me as I finish, his cock sliding over my G-spot again and again to keep me at my peak.

Finally, I sink toward the sheets, gasping. But without warning, Grant pulls out of me. My pussy tightens again, feeling empty without him. He doesn’t give me time to think about it, though, as he rolls me over on the bed. The blindfold falls off, but I don’t care—I’m grateful for the sight of him above me, his eyes dark with lust, his mouth a hard line as he holds his cock erect between us, wet with my juices.

“Suck my cock clean, Sasha,” he growls, and I scramble upright to obey him, all too eager.

The taste of myself mixed with him is intoxicating. I lick and suck at his tip, but I don’t have much time. He grabs my head with both hands, pulls me closer, his cock sliding deeper into my throat as he comes with a loud cry, guttural and animal with lust. I swallow hard, taking as much of him as I can, savoring his flavor, his taste, the white-hot rush of him.

When he finally pulls back, his hands trembling, I sit up and grab his face, pull him to me in another deep kiss. His tongue slips into my mouth again, and I know he can taste our flavors too, the combination of us, the scent of our sex heavy in the air.

When we part, we’re both breathing hard, our faces flushed, bodies damp with sweat. And we’re both grinning like idiots.

“Fuck,” I manage, as I sit back on the bed, still quivering, my pussy sensitive and pleasantly sore.

“You can say that again,” Grant murmurs. He draws me up to my feet beside him and wraps his arms around me for a long moment. I lean into him, savor the feeling of his strong arms around me, the scent of his body, and the tingle in my limbs from the orgasm.

“I’ll be your slave any day,” I murmur into his chest, and he laughs softly, then taps my chin. Tilts my head back and leans down to kiss me once more, soft and slow this time.

“Good,” he says softly against my lips. “Because I’m not ready to let you go just yet…”