The next morning, I wake up in Grant’s arms. It’s still dark outside—even Mr. Early Bird isn’t up yet. But part of him is. I realize what prodded me awake, and I grin and arch my back a little to grind my hips against his, against the hard press of his boner I can already feel digging into the small of my back.

Grant moans softly in his sleep, and I rotate my hips again, teasing.

His hand slides around my waist, and he pulls me against him, his lips teasing along my neck. “That’s certainly one way to wake up a man,” he murmurs, his other hand sliding down my waist, around my front. He flattens his palm against my stomach and lowers his hand toward my bare pussy. We both slept naked last night, since we fucked again the minute we got home from the Johnsons’ party.

I grin and wriggle my hips again. “Is that so?”

“Mm… Playing with fire there,” he whispers. “Keep doing that, and I might have to show you a thing or two about what happens to naughty little girls who wake me up.”

“Is that so?” I glance over my shoulder, a challenge flaring in my eyes. “Maybe you’ll just have to explain it to me, then, Mr. Werther.”

“Gladly,” he murmurs, nipping at my earlobe lightly. I gasp, but his bite quickly shifts into a soft, caressing lick, then a kiss, as he works his way down the side of my neck.

“Mm… For punishment, this isn’t so bad,” I whisper as he wraps his arms around me and pulls my body against his possessively. His cock presses against the backs of my thighs, and I’m getting wet already just feeling him there, so close to my pussy, so hard with desire for me. “I might have to wake you up more often.”

I can feel him smile against the nape of my neck, a motion that sends another cascade of shivers trickling down my spine. “Uh oh. She’s discovered my motive.”

I laugh, and turn to catch his eye. But he presses his mouth to mine in a long, slow kiss, and I’m distracted from whatever I was going to say. My lips part, and his tongue traces along mine, tentative, gentle. At the same time, his hand slides from my hip to my thighs, and gently draws my upper leg up, parting my thighs enough that his cock can slide between them, thick and meaty between my legs. I sigh into his mouth, and he draws back far enough to look at me, that same hungry look in his eye. Only this time it’s softer, sweeter. He looks at me like he can’t believe I’m here.

I know the feeling. I’m not sure what I expected when I came home to the farm, but it definitely wasn’t this. It wasn’t him.

Grant Werther came out of nowhere.

His cock parts my pussy lips, and I arch my hips back against him to grant him easier access. At the same time, he reaches down to circle his fingertips across my mound, slowly increasing pressure with every circulation, making my clit tingle with pleasure. It doesn’t take long before I’m breathing faster, my body quivering at his touch. Only then does he arch his hips forward, slide his cock straight up to my entrance.

Fuck, I’m already so wet for him.

“God you are perfect, Sasha,” he murmurs softly, those eyes still fixed on mine, holding me in place, unable to look away.

I can’t look away from him—but I don’t want to, either. I want to drink in that look in his eyes over and over, as long as I can.

He pushes his hips forward in one slow, smooth motion, and the tip of his cock spreads my lips. Inches into my pussy, centimeter by torturous centimeter. I gasp softly, wriggling against him, trying to push him deeper, faster.

“Always so impatient,” he scolds, a hint of a smile on his mouth. He’s still holding me against him, the little spoon to his bigger one, and I love this feeling, being completely enfolded in his body, even as his thick cock begins to fill me up.

“What can I say?” I smile back, arching a brow. “I like having your big cock inside me, Country Man.”

“Addicted already, City Girl?” He smirks, and with that, thrusts the rest of the way into me all at once, one swift hard motion.

I cry out with pleasure, my hands fisting in the sheets beside us.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he replies, laughing softly, as he begins to draw out of me again.

“You do have a great cock, I’ll grant you that,” I manage, recovering enough to arc my hips back, angling toward him.

He thrusts into me again, and lets out a soft, faint groan. “Your pussy is fairly addictive too, City Girl.” He pulls out, and now we both thrust together, our breaths coming shorter as we move in sync. “So fucking tight. And you’re always so wet for me…”

“Sounds like we’re both addicted,” I murmur, grinning, as we start to thrust in sync now, his cock spreading the walls of my pussy wide as he fills me again and again.

“Sounds like,” he agrees softly, and then I lose track of his voice, lost instead in the feeling of his hands exploring me—one toying with my clit, the other wrapped tight around my waist—and his cock thrusting inside me.

I lose track of everything. The farm, the bedroom, the outside world. The whole world narrows until it’s just me and Grant and everything between us.

We both come together, him stroking me right up to the edge of my climax before his cock dragging along my front wall, right over my G-spot, sends me over the brink. He finishes at the same time, growling with lust as he pulls my hips back hard against his, pumping every ounce of his cum into me. I tighten my pussy, clench hard around him to milk every last drop, loving the sensation, the sheer animal lust of it.

We collapse against the sheets together, tangled up, spent, and only then does dawn hint at the curtains, painting them a pale pink. A reminder of another day dawning. Another day less that we have together.

I push up out of bed, mostly to distract myself from how nice it feels to lie there in his arms. I can’t get too comfortable. This is temporary, all of it. I can enjoy it while it lasts, but I can’t let myself relax too much.

I can’t start to fall for him. Not when he’s… who he is. A country man, a farm boy, a representative of everything I left behind. Everything I thought I was over in life.

I pad into the shower alone, leaving him on the bed. He watches me go, his eyes dark, unreadable, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. He must be. He knows this can’t last, too.

Still. We can enjoy it while it does.

That’s what I tell myself as I plunge my head under the shower tap and try to block out the rushing sound in my ears. The sound of something like regret.

* * *

That night, after dinner, Grant stops me as I stand up to do the dishes.

“It’s my turn,” I protest, but he ignores that and clasps my hand instead. Leads me out back. I laugh and tug at his grip. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” is his only reply. I’m learning that my country man likes to do that—make mysterious promises.

I have to admit, he’s lived up to all of them so far. So even though I roll my eyes and sigh, I do relax and let him lead me.

We pad across the grass together, barefoot. That tickles something at the back of my mind, a distant memory. Doing this before. Tiptoeing through this dewy grass, feeling the mud squish between my toes and tickle the soles of my feet. For some reason, in my memory, it seems like Grant was there. Though of course, I know he can’t have been. I remember him from high school now, vaguely—the big handsome guy who hung out with the jocks. We didn’t really cross paths much, even though our parents were friends.

Well, Mama, anyway, was friends with his parents. As for Dad…

I shake that thought off the way I always do. Douse those memories in kerosene and light the mental match. I don’t need to go down that road. Too much could catch fire.

I force myself back to the present, to the Grant who’s here with me now. The Grant I never knew back then. The one I wished I’d known better, if he was anything like the man he is now. Maybe if we’d been better friends in school, I wouldn’t have written this whole town off as useless.

He leads me out into the fields. We climb over the fence together, he lifts me up easily while I swing my legs over the posts. Then, hand in hand once more, we tiptoe through the fallows, over the now-empty fields that will one day—probably not until next year though—hold crops again. These fields will grow food, sustain life. Be productive in a real, tangible way. The kind of productivity that’s easy to wrap your head around. You get your hands dirty, dig in this soil, and in turn it feeds you.

At the core of it, that’s what life is really about. All the stuff I get up to back at home in the city, that’s all a kind of crazy distillation of this. It’s fun, but it’s not quite as… real, somehow.

It’s not simple, anyway. It’s not easy to understand. It’s not feeding yourself off the fruits of your labor—except maybe metaphorically, with all the money I make from being a desk jockey, running errands and playing glorified secretary. I feel like I’ve been lost behind a computer screen for the last few years, and only now am I waking up to it. Remembering what life used to be like a million years ago… before.

Before I let the stress get to me, start dictating my life. Before I let other people control everything—my schedule, my plans, my happiness.

Back when things, just like life on this farm, were simpler.

“You doing okay, City Girl?” Grant asks, tugging on my hand a little. I realize I’ve been lagging behind him, my feet slowing as I tilt my head back to take in the sky, the stars, the endless expanse above us.

I shake myself and jog a few steps to catch up with him. “Doing just fine,” I say.

“Not too dirty and messy for you?” he asks. I know he’s joking now. He’s seen how down and dirty I’m willing to get.

In more ways than one.

“Never,” I promise, and he laughs softly.

Then we round the corner, past the fields, toward the trees that edge the borderline of Mama’s property, and I gasp.

I don’t know how he set this up. He must have taken a while, snuck out in between projects back at the house somehow. My eyes widen, taking it in. He’s built a whole tent out here—not a simple pitch tent either, but a big billowing thing made of silk, taller than both of us, with open sides. In the center is a little fire pit, and there is a tray, with all the ingredients for s’mores arranged on it. Not to mention, a little bucket of ice with a bottle of wine cooling in it.

“I know you’re used to the finer things in life,” he’s saying. “I just wanted to point out that you don’t have to be fancy to know how to pamper someone properly.”

I laugh, not sure what to say. Not sure what this feeling is beating in my chest, as he kneels down on the blanket he’s laid out as the base of the tent and sets about building up the fire.

The peak of the tent stands out stark white against the night sky, stars twinkling all across the background. It looks like something out of a movie or a painting. It looks fake, all of this. Too pretty to be real. Especially when he gets the fire going and beckons me down to his side.

I drop down beside him, snuggle in next to him as we listen to crickets in the distance. Fireflies wink here and there over the field, and we hear the soft hoots of owls, the distant reverberations of frogs somewhere in the forest, where there’s a little stream that runs past the property. I breathe in deep, savoring the scent of the fire crackling away merrily at our feet, mingled with the cool, crisp fall air, so fresh that I can’t believe I ever thought I could breathe properly at home. You never notice things like that—stale, muggy, smog-choked air—until you’re away from it. Until real fresh air fills your lungs, and suddenly you realize what you’ve been missing.

It’s not just the air I’ve been missing, I realize.

Grant hands me a stick, a marshmallow already speared on its tip, and I grin at him. Huddled up beside him, wrapped in the blanket that he tugs up over our knees, I set about toasting this marshmallow to perfection. He’s a burner—he just sets his on fire, blows it out a few times, and calls it a day. Me, I like to slowly toast it. Get all the sides evenly browned before I slide it off the stick onto the chocolate-covered graham crackers to make the sandwich.

“You’re such a perfectionist,” he accuses me, and I elbow him, eying his attempts.

“You’re so lazy,” I counter.

“Not lazy.” He takes a huge bite, chases it with a sip of the wine he’s poured for us both. “Just practical. I get things done, you know.”

I laugh. “I’ve noticed. You’re making good headway back at the house.”

“Can’t say you haven’t been a big help, City Girl. Despite appearances.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “What, like I can’t do work just because I dress fancy?”

“You can’t blame me for making assumptions.”

“Sure I can. Why are you so biased against city people anyway?”

“Why are you so biased against everyone in this town?” He raises an eyebrow.

I bite my lip. Fair. “They never liked me,” I reply, shaking my head.

“That so?”

“I mean… I don’t know. I was never super close with anyone here.”

“So that’s their fault then?”

I laugh. “No. I just didn’t jive. I wasn’t built for this life.”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself this week,” he points out.

I heave a deep sigh, leaning back against his side, my eyes on the open sides of the tent. Out beyond the tent, the fireflies continue to flit across the field and along the edge of the forest, their lights winking like tiny stars against the dark grass. “I like it here, sure. It’s just… I don’t know.”

For once, he just waits me out in silence.

I draw in a deep breath as I try to find the words to explain. “I had to get away,” I finally say. “To prove to myself that I could. To prove I wouldn’t get stuck here.”

“Is that really such a bad fate? Being stuck here?”

I laugh again, faintly. When we’re sitting out here in this field, surrounded by nature, by magic almost, sharing these s’mores and wine, after a long hard day that left my muscles aching pleasantly—not to mention a long night before that of sex that left me feeling happier and more fulfilled than I have in ages… No. I have to admit, it’s not. “I suppose I can think of worse fates,” I murmur finally.

We lapse into silence for a while, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then Grant sets up another marshmallow, and we go back to playfully bickering about the proper way to roast them and which one of us is committing a cardinal sin by not putting the right amount of chocolate on the graham crackers first (clearly him, because you need two bars of chocolate to make a proper s’more).

In retribution, or maybe just to prove his point, he smears some of the chocolate across my face, and then it’s war. I rub some into his beard, and he tackles me across the tent. Pins me underneath him, both of us panting with effort as I struggle to get free.

“No use,” he tells me, those dark eyes of his going serious now. “You’re all mine now, City Girl. There’s no escaping.”

I wriggle beneath him, arching up to press my hips against his. I can already see the bulge forming in his jeans, impossible to satiate as he is. That’s fine by me. I can’t get enough of him either. “How terrible,” I say, grinning. “Trapped by a Country Man.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he scolds.

I smirk. “Not my fault you make getting caught so enjoyable.”

“What can I say? I like capturing city girls.” He reaches down to grab the hem of my T-shirt and tugs it up my body slowly. “Though I must say, this outfit screams country to me. Are you forgetting yourself down here on the farm?”

“Maybe.” I raise my hips, lifting my body off the ground a little to balance on my shoulders and let him slide my shirt up higher, up above my bra, the lace peeking out now. “Or maybe I’m just remembering myself. Told you I was born as country as you are, didn’t I?”

“You did mention that.” His dark eyes catch mine, a smirk in them. “I might even be starting to believe you.”

I huff in faux indignation, even as he tugs my shirt the rest of the way off and tosses it down beside us. With my hands freed, while his are occupied, I reach up for his shirt too. I tug it off and run my fingertips over the stark outline of his muscles, tracing his pecs, his flat abs, then the deep V at his groin, pointing straight down to where I really want to reach.

Before I can slip my hands down his jeans, though, he catches my wrists and lifts my hands again. He folds both of my wrists easily into one hand and pins it over my head, clicking his tongue as he leans down to kiss my neck, my chest, his tongue flicking into the hollow at the base of my clavicle.

“Not so fast, impatient girl,” he murmurs. “I plan to take my time tonight.”

He reaches under me and unhooks my bra, then pushes that aside, his mouth still on my chest. He kisses down the center of my chest, then trails his tongue along the underside of each of my breasts, one after the other. His other hand kneads my opposite breast, his palms rough against my soft, smooth skin. My nipples start to harden, especially when he wraps his mouth around one of my breasts and trails the flat plane of his tongue across my nipple in one long, slow lick. Then he pulls back a little to circle the tip of his tongue around my areola, teasing, and I gasp faintly, arching up into him. He moans against my skin, and I sigh with pleasure at the vibrations that reverberate throughout my whole body.

He turns to minister to my other nipple, doing the same thing, tonguing along the top and bottom of my breast before he circles in on my nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth and gently rolling it between his teeth until I gasp and twist under him. With his hand, he rolls my other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, keeping it hard, tugging gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to make the pleasant sensation fire through all my nerves, and I moan loudly.

Only when both of my nipples are rock hard and aching from the attention does he begin to trail his tongue down my abs. He kisses, nips and licks his way to my navel, then dips his tongue inside, sending a shock of sensation all the way down to my toes.

My legs drop flat under him as he reaches down to undo my jean shorts with one hand, the other still holding my wrists pinned. I struggle slightly against him, wanting to reach for his jeans too, wanting to reciprocate, but he peers up at me, those dark eyes commanding.

“Relax, Sasha,” he murmurs. “You’ll get your turn.” Then he smirks and shoves my shorts down my hips, bending down to kiss the sensitive skin between my navel and the top of my mound, grinning at the way that makes me shiver. “Right now, it’s my turn to drive you wild.”

I force myself to take his advice. To lie back and let myself go. He releases my wrists, and I don’t let myself reach for him. I only push myself up a little, high enough to look down and watch him as he peels off my shorts, then kisses my mound through the thin fabric of my panties. His lips are white-hot against my skin, and my whole body fires with want. I want—no, I need him. But at the same time, I don’t want this moment to end.

So I force my usual impatient nature to quiet.

Grant bites my inner thigh gently, just hard enough that I jump and gasp again. He loves making me do that, the bastard.

“Sensitive City Girl,” he points out.

“Only when you make me that way, Country Man,” I murmur.

This time when he bites down, it’s through the fabric of my panties. Then he leans his head up, draws back just far enough to keep the fabric between his teeth, and pushes himself backwards, tugging my panties with them, using only his teeth.

I catch my breath. Fuck, he’s hot. Especially now, looking up at me with blatant, sheer desire in his gaze.

I lift my hips up enough to let him pull my panties down, and he inhales sharply as he does, drawing them down to my knees and leaving them tangled there.

“Wet for me already,” he points out, grinning. “This is becoming a habit.”

You’re becoming a habit, I almost say. But I swallow those words at the last moment, think better of it. Because he isn’t a habit. He can’t be.

His tongue distracts me from any more thoughts along those lines, though, when he licks his way up my inner thigh, making my whole body go tense and loose at once. He trails his tongue up slowly, first up one thigh then the other, wet and hot against my skin. When he lifts his head to smile up at me, a dark, mischievous grin on his face, my skin feels extra cool in the evening air, the coolness compounding with the heat of his hands on my stomach, tracing my thighs. The contrast is delicious, even more so when he bends to lick directly across my mound, pressing hard enough with his tongue that I can feel the pressure all the way into my clit.

He pushes my thighs apart in one swift motion, his hands digging into the plump flesh of my thighs, holding me down as he bends down to trail his tongue along my outer lips, one after the other.

“Fuck you taste incredible,” he murmurs in between licks, before he parts my lips with two fingers and runs his tongue up my slit, all the way from the back to the front, licking up my juices which have already gathered there.

My head falls back against the soft blankets, my eyes fixed on the billowing ceiling of the tent as I moan, long and loud.

“I love this sexy, tight pussy,” Grant whispers, and his breath feels even hotter against my wet skin. He leans in to press his tongue between my lips again, pressing right against the entrance of my pussy, and I groan, my hips rising of their own accord. With one hand, he presses them back down to the blanket, and with one last push, his tongue slides into my pussy.

Fuck. He feels incredible. My vision goes blurry, hazy, as I lose focus, distracted by him. He tongues each of my walls at a time, one after the other, as he inches his tongue deeper. When he’s speared his tongue as deep inside me as it will go, he curls it up and drags it down my front inner wall, a practiced motion that makes my clit throb and my pussy feel tight and wet with desire.

He flattens his tongue to a blade and draws it out of my pussy, up over my clit, licking it once, hard. My hips jerk from the sudden flood of sensation, and I can’t control the sounds that are coming out of me anymore, the low, desperate moans.

He keeps going, alternating between delving his tongue into my pussy and then drawing it out to lick my clit over and over, until it’s driving me wild, my whole body shaking and my hips bucking against his mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, he sits up.

I gasp, this time in protest, and reach for his head, trying to pull him back.

He smirks and catches both my hands. Kisses my palms one after another as he watches me. “You want me to keep going?” he asks.

“Yes,” I pant.

“How badly?” he asks.

I scowl, frustrated. “I…”

“Beg me to make you come, Sasha. Beg me to lick you until you can’t stand it, until you scream so loud you wake up everyone for miles around.”

Damn him. I press my lips together, frustrated.

He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.

I blow out a sharp breath of air. “Please, Grant.”

“Please what?” he taunts, tilting his head with a smirk.

“Please… Make me come.”

“How do you want me to make you come, Sasha?”

“I want you…” I lick my lips, swallowing hard. “I want you to lick my pussy. I want you to tongue me until I can’t stand it.”

His smile widens. “Your wish is my command.” He ducks between my thighs again, and I bury my hands in his hair as he pushes his tongue straight into my pussy once more, circling it inside me.

When he pulls his tongue out to pay attention to my clit, I pant louder, my breath coming hard and fast as I arch up to press my pussy closer to his mouth. At the same time I tighten my fists in his hair, pull him against me as his tongue laps across me again and again, over and over, until I can’t stand it, the pressure is building so high it’ll drive me mad.

“I’m going to come,” I cry out faintly, trying to catch my breath. “Fuck, Grant, don’t stop, I’m going to come…”

He circles his tongue right over my clit, sensing exactly what I need. That motion is enough to send me over the edge, and I scream with pleasure as the orgasm hits me. It rockets through my body, echoing all the way down to my toes and my fingertips, flooding my brain with ecstasy.

My vision turns to blurry sparks, and my body shakes from the force of it, my pussy convulsing.

Grant, for his part, doesn’t stop. He just leans back a little and slides one finger into me, even as my pussy clamps down tightly around him. He curls it inside me, drags his finger along my front wall with practiced motions, finding my G-spot easily. He adds a second finger, then leans down to tongue my clit again at the same time, and I cry out once more, my voice harsh from overuse.

Fuck, I think, or maybe scream, I’m not sure. His touch keeps the sensation going, keeps my body hovering right there on the brink, as I brace for an aftershock. But with his fingers inside me, pressing against my G-spot, stroking in and out, filling me, and his tongue still lashing across my clit again and again, unrelenting, the second orgasm hits harder than the first. My hips buck, and I can hardly catch my breath, my whole body shaking hard.

He finally draws his fingers out of me, only when my hips sag back against the blanket and my eyes drift closed, the sheer force of that orgasm making me relaxed, stunned. He sits upright and I peer down to watch him licking his fingers clean, one at a time, eyes focused on mine.

But if anything, all those orgasms did was make me hungrier for him. Hungry to have him fill me completely, in the way only his cock can do.

I reach up for him eagerly, and he falls across me on all fours as I fumble with the button of his jeans. He’s rock hard underneath, and it only takes a moment for me to shove his jeans down, his boxers after them, until his cock springs free.

Now he’s the impatient one.

“Fuck, Sasha.” He grabs my legs and spreads them wide, kneeling between. I arch up to wrap my thighs around his waist, as he lines up his cock with my soaking wet entrance. “You are so. Fucking. Perfect,” he murmurs as he stares into my eyes, slowly, slowly pressing into me.

He feels incredible. My pussy is already sensitive from the double orgasm, and the feeling of his cock spreading me, stretching me to my limit, drives me wild. I tighten my legs around his waist with every inch he pushes into me, and when he’s finally completely inside me, I wrap my arms around his shoulders too, hold him there inside me for a moment, just savoring the feeling of his cock, his body, him, here with me.

“Fuck you feel so fucking incredible,” he murmurs.

“I fucking love it when you fill me up,” I gasp. “I can’t get enough…”

“Good.” Those dark eyes latch onto mine. I could stare into his eyes forever and never get tired of this look he gives me. Like he cannot drink me in long enough. Like he’s almost scared of what he feels for me.

I know the feeling. I am too.

“Neither can I,” he admits. Then he’s drawing back, out of me, and I gasp a little in protest. But it doesn’t last long—he thrusts back inside me a moment later, and I buck up against him, eager, insatiable.

Grant starts to rock back and forth, thrusting into me slowly at first, but building momentum. I meet him thrust for thrust, arcing my hips to push up against his with every moment. Before long, we’re both gasping, clinging to one another, my nails digging into his back and his hands so tight on my hip I know he’ll leave marks tomorrow. I don’t care. I want those marks. Evidence of how much he wants me—how much I cause him to lose control.

Before long we’re both thrusting as hard as we can, fucking hard and fast, my whole body alight with pleasure, on fire for him. Sensitive as I am, it doesn’t take me long to build back up to the edge, my clit throbbing with the force of the last two orgasms still.

Grant unhooks my legs from around him, flings them up over his shoulders and keeps fucking me, his cock dragging right over my G-spot now, the head rubbing along it until I cry aloud and feel my toes curl, my nerves catching fire with another orgasm.

“Fuck. Sasha… I’m…”

Grant is lost now, driving into me, all animal now. Before long, I sense him nearing his peak, and I tighten my pussy as much as I can, clenching hard around him. He moans aloud when I do that, and I feel his cock tense and jump inside me as he comes, squirting deep inside me, coating my insides with his hot cum. It feels white hot inside my pussy, like a balm after all the hard fucking.

When he pulls out of me, we both laugh softly at the hot rush that trickles down my leg, puddling on the blanket beneath me.

Grant collapses beside me, still breathing hard. “That…”

“Was incredible,” I finish, curling against him. He’s slick with sweat, but then, so am I. Our skin cools together in the night air, and we lie there beside the slowly dying fire, soaked in our sweat, the scent of sex mingling with the smells of the outdoors and the fields and the wild, until we’re both shivering. Only then, reluctantly, do we sit up and reach for our clothes.

But Grant stops me before I tug mine back on, a spark in his eyes. “Why redress?” he asks with a shrug. “If we need to go shower anyway.”

I laugh. Then lift my eyebrows, watching him. Why, indeed?

He douses the fire, and then, with our clothes tucked under our arms, hand-in-hand, we pad back across the fields. This time we’re not just barefoot, we’re completely naked. But there’s something so freeing about it. About feeling the night air on my skin, the moonlight illuminating us, the bright stars overhead our only witnesses.

I could get used to this, I think as we reach the farmhouse again, and Grant opens the door for me, bows me inside with a wink, ever the gentleman.

That’s the dangerous part. I could very, very easily get used to this.