“Shit,” I hiss, padding barefoot down the hallway.
My skin’s still damp, leaving faint footprints on the floor. When I open the door, Phoebe’s standing there with an easy smile, the wind tossing dark curls around her face.
Her gaze flicks down over me—sweatpants hung low on my hips, chest bare, water still running down my collarbone—and she smirks. “Wow,” she says. “Didn’t realize you were so eager to see me. Already getting naked for me, huh?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Sorry. Spraying the trees took longer than I planned. Just got out of the shower.”
“Mm-hm.” She bites her lip, her blue eyes lingering on my chest.
I step aside, holding the door open. “Come on in.”
Phoebe steps inside and kicks off her sneakers in the entryway. She’s dressed in black leggings and a loose crop top that flashes a strip of her pale stomach. I’ve always liked how she doesn’t bother trying to polish herself for me—or for anyone, really.
We’re comfortable around each other. She grew up on a blueberry farm across town. She’s no stranger to getting dirt under her nails and sweat on her skin. It’s one of the reasons talking to her comes so easily.
“You finally painted the living room, huh?” She eyes the fresh beige walls. “Looks good.”
“Yeah.” I head toward the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and grabbing two beers. “Want one?”
She nods and takes one from me, twisting off the cap and letting it clatter onto the counter. She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a long sip.
We settle at the small table near the window. For a few minutes, it’s comfortable—light teasing about my home projects, her complaining about tourists already calling to book blueberry picking dates, me updating her about my siblings’ lives.
“So, you excited for harvest season?” she asks, brows lifted. “Should start fruiting in another month or two, right?”
My throat tightens as I stare down at my beer, thumb swiping the damp amber glass. “Yeah. I’m… looking forward to it, I guess.”
Her eyes study mine, flickering between them. “You doing okay?” she asks, leaning back in her chair.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Dad’s just been… a lot lately.”
She hums. “More than usual?”
“Yeah. Every little thing turns into this—” I gesture vaguely, searching for the right word. “Lecture? Critique? I don’t know. Everything I do is wrong, or not enough, or not how he would’ve done it thirty years ago.”
Phoebe sets her bottle down, the glass tapping quietly against the table. “That’s rough.”
“I know he means well,” I say, though I don’t fully believe it. “But it’s just… constant. I wish he’d trust me more.”
Her expression softens as she stands. She slowly steps closer before settling in my lap with a warm hand on the side of my face. Before I can process it, she leans in and kisses me—soft and gentle, fingers tracing through my shower-damp hair.
When we finally separate, a sly smile settles on her shimmery lips. “Do you want help relaxing?”
My breath hitches. “Yeah. I… yeah.”
She tugs me to my feet. “Then let’s go to your room.”
I nod, my heart thudding hard against my ribs.
She follows me down the hallway, the floor creaking under our steps, the air tightening between us with every footfall. As soon aswe cross the threshold, she pushes me toward the bed and claims my mouth in a feverish kiss. My hands settle on her waist, squeezing and nudging the hem of her top just enough to feel the warmth of her hips.
Phoebe eases me back onto the mattress and climbs over me, her knees bracketing my hips. She kisses along the column of my throat. My eyes flutter closed as I tip my head back, letting her mouth trail down my bare chest. Her hands skim over my pecs and abs, lingering, squeezing, while she grinds lightly against my thigh, breath catching in little bursts against my skin.
“Can I taste you?” she asks, eyes heavy-lidded.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
She fumbles with the hem of my sweatpants before pulling them down with my boxers. I’m barely half-hard, and my face flushes with embarrassment as she wraps her hand around my length, stroking me. In the past, other girls have joked about how difficult it is to get me off—like it was a chore—but Phoebe never teases me for it.
