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Torin
I thought you’d like to know that I have your shoes. Still.
Iwaited twelve hours to text her. Mostly because I was waffling between texting, calling, and just getting on my plane and flying to her.
But it seems Abigail thinks she doesn’t want to spend more time with me, so I’ve decided to take things a little slower.
My phone dings two minutes later with a text from her.
I honestly wasn’t sure she’d respond at all.
I open it immediately.
It’s just a photo.
Of her legs. Propped on the wooden railing of what looks like a porch. And she’s wearing cut off denim shorts and ugly green rubber boots that go up to her knees.
And my dick gets hard.
She has great thighs. They’re smooth and tan and trim and I vividly remember how they felt wrapped around my hips as I finger fucked her.
It was only last night that I felt that sweet, hot pussy but I feel like I’ve been starving.
But fuck me…it’s also the boots. Or, more specifically, that she’s wearing boots like that.
Those are not heels. Those are not pretty sandals. Those are…work boots. Waterproof, stomp-through-mud-and-shit boots. Getting dirty boots.
I fucking love those boots. I love getting dirty. In every way I can mean that.
Where are you?
Just got home from work. Having a beer on my back porch.
My dick twitches again.
Those are your work boots?
She’s a farmer. I know this. I’ve read all of her papers and all about the company—Innovative Agricultural Systems—and what she wants to do with her research and development. But I hadn’t pictured her in green rubber boots.
Now I have a new turn-on.
Yep. What I wear every day. I told you those sandals aren’t my style.
I also love that. Oh, I love heels. Don’t get me wrong. But those boots would be perfect on my ranch.
Cowboy boots would be better, maybe, but honestly, a pair of good rubber boots, when things are muddy and sloppy, are even better.
I’m guessing they’re not your style either, so you can toss them.
I focus on her next text. I frown. I’m not tossing these shoes. They’re a little piece of last night. I want her to want them back.
Okay, I want a reason to take them to her.
Dammit. Courting a woman from thousands of miles away—there are three thousand, eight hundred and ninety-one miles between my palace and Sapphire Falls to be exact—is not easy. Or practical.
Which is why I’m still in the US.
I respond to her, trying to keep it light.
