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“Oh, my God,” I mutter to nobody.
Bobby is thick and muscled, tanned with a slight line along his arms that says he must work with his shirt off at least sometimes. A dusting of dark hair covers his chest, pulling together into a thin line that disappears into his jeans. Which is exactly where his hands are now, undoing the button and zipper. He leaves them sagging open to reach down and pull his boots and socks off. Staring directly at the truck, or at me—I’m not sure which—he pushes his jeans over his ass and down his thighs.
The man has no shame. But he has zero reason to. Standing in just black boxer briefs, he looks like hot sex and wicked sin.
And mine.
There’s a hunger deep inside me that’s thrilled this man wants me and wants me to want him.
There’s an even bigger thrill that he doesn’t want casual and throw-away but is being remarkably and unusually clear in his desire for something deeper and more meaningful.
I feel like I won the lottery with him. Not just any old lottery, either, but the Powerball. And against all my usual instincts to share and take care of others, I want to revel in him, keeping him all to myself like a stingy bitch.
He winks at me and takes off, running barefoot through the dirt toward the water. He splashes in up to his thighs then dives under the surface expertly, coming up further out with a whip of his hair that sends water droplets flying. The cows moo their displeasure, but Bobby calls out, “Come on, Willow! Get in with me!”
Oh, I’m in. I’m in deep, way over my head and treading water.
I awkwardly maneuver around in the truck to change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into the bikini Bobby tucked into my camera bag. I own two suits, and of course, he brought the smaller of the two. It’s basically four triangles, one for each boob, one for my front, and one for my butt, all held together with strings that tie on my hips and at the center of my back. I make sure everything’s tucked in appropriately and send a quick prayer of thanks that I had the foresight to shave my bikini area so it doesn’t look like a Sasquatch bush escaping from behind the black fabric. I slip my tennis shoes back on but leave them untied so I can kick them off on the blanket, along with my glasses.
My walk to the water is nowhere near as confident as Bobby’s swaggered one, but he watches me approach all the same. His eyes follow my every move, roaming and tracing my curves as I get closer. I get the sense that he’s memorizing me.
Barefoot, I wade into the water. It’s just this side of cool, a perfect contrast to the hot day, and goosebumps break out along my skin. Bobby swims closer and stands in front of me.
“You are stunning. I want to kiss every inch of your skin, tease at these goosebumps with my fingertips, and feel your body against mine,” he says softly, grit and gravel in his voice.
“Okay,” I say breathlessly.
I want that too. All of that, please.
In my brain, Ilene’s bell goes off. Ding! I’m ready.
“Close your eyes for me again,” he orders, and they slip shut of their own accord.
I feel his arms surround me, scooping me up until my legs are over one ropey forearm and his other is wrapped around my back. I try to wrap my arms around his neck to keep my balance, but before I can, I’m flying through the air.
“Ahh!” I squeal, my eyes flying open right before I bust through the surface, going under. Water goes up my nose, and I swallow some too, coming up sputtering and mad.
“I thought you were going to . . . what the . . .” Words aren’t coming out, so I settle with slapping the water and screeching, “Bobby Tannen!”
He grins hugely, big and wide, like he’s heard that more than a time or two. “Got you out of your head, didn’t I? Now let’s have some fun.”
I blink, still getting water from my eyes because my bangs are hanging low, brushing well past my brows. I shake my head like a dog and push my hair to the side. “What?”
“Race you to the other side,” he says, already swimming before he finishes the words.
I’m dumbstruck for a moment, giving him an even bigger head start, but realization kicks in and I dive after him, working hard to make up the distance.
Feet kicking and arms swinging, I cut through the water. It’s not graceful by any means, but it’s effective, and I reach the cows only a few seconds after he does.
“This is Maverick,” he tells me, petting the cow’s side.
