“Owen isn’t toxic,” I protest. “He’s just trying to keep his loved ones safe, which Noah makes very difficult with his dumb life choices.”
“Mhmm, in very controversial ways.” Linden stops in the shade of a beech to wipe his forehead with the hem of his shirt. I use that moment to roll my shoulders, my eyes trailing to thesliver of exposed skin between the waistband of Linden’s boxers and the lifted shirt. For a moment, I fantasize about repaying him for that blowjob. Right here, in the shade of the tree. We’re so far away from the farmhouse that it only appears as a small white dot on the horizon. No one would see.
It would be fitting, too—there’s a similar scene inKeeping Noah. With everything going on the last few days, we didn’t manage to sneak in any additional “study sessions”. I’m worried that the more time passes, the more I’ll overthink my next steps. Jerking us off in the back of Linden’s truck felt good, almost natural, something I’ve done countless times, albeit by myself. But taking another guy’s dick in my mouth—that’ll be new.
“Hey, earth to Micah—are you still with me?” Linden waves a half-empty water bottle at me, his head cocked to the side in a silent question.
“Sorry, I zoned out a bit.” I laugh, my voice coming out a little too high. I grab the bottle and empty the rest of the water in one go.
“Oh yeah? Still thinking about Owen?” he asks, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, darting a glance left and right. Other than Owen—the cat, not the fictional SEAL from our sexual learning manual—who’s currently busy cleaning his private parts a few feet away, we’re still alone.
I step closer under the pretense of putting the empty bottle back into Linden’s basket, then place my hand on his chest, gently pushing him backward against the tree trunk.
“Thinking about that blowjob you gave me and how I could return that favor,” I murmur.
Linden's eyes widen, black pupils, claiming the gray of his irises. There's no trace left of the smirk he sported a few seconds ago. Instead, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and my gaze tracks the movement. I immediately think back to how it circledthe head of my erection, then lapped over it in long strokes. I could feel his insecurity, but also his eagerness—like he didn’t just want to pleasure me. Instead, it turned him on so much that he came in his fucking trunks. I still can’t get over that fact; it haunts me in the most exciting way, paired with the thrill the possibility of discovery gave me. It’s also rushing through my veins right now.
Sweet.
Addictive.
And completely stupid.
“So you're still sure that's something you’d want?” he asks, his voice half an octave deeper than usual.
“Yes. I mean, it’s probably something M—mmmh,” I break off when I almost let Mike’s name slip. Clearing my throat, I fumble for a moment. “It’s probably something they expect from me? You know, Mia and…the other guy.”
“Right, the mysteriousother guy,” Linden repeats. There’s a glint in his eyes I can’t really place. Annoyance, maybe? It’s gone as soon as he blinks, leaving me confused.
“It wouldn’t be right to out him against his will,” I remind Linden, who shakes his head at my words.
“No, it’s not that. I just forgot for a moment that you aren’t a voluntary participant in all of this.” His voice is nonchalant, like he’s merely talking about the beautiful weather, but his eyes dart away from mine, fixating on a spot somewhere above my shoulder.
“Not a—hey, no, that’s not true!” I grab his hand and squeeze it gently. “No onemade meagree to this. I just thought…I thought it was somethingyou’dwant to experience.” I fumble over my words, scrunching up my nose when they still come out wrong. Instead of trying again, I reach for Linden’s chin, forcing him to look at me. For a moment, neither of us says anything, then he lets out a soft sigh.
“Sorry for being annoying about this,” he murmurs, his fingers squeezing mine in return. “I just don’t want you to do something you won’t enjoy.”
“Can’t say I won’t enjoy it before I’ve tried it,” I point out, a grin spreading on my lips. “But after seeing you come in your pants from blowing me, I’m pretty excited to try it.”
Linden groans, his free hand swatting my shoulder. “You won’t ever let me forget that, huh?”
I laugh, happily shaking my head. “Nope. And why would I? You looked so hot with your tousled hair and flushed cheeks. Part of me wanted to stick my hand down your trunks right then and there and get proof that you—mmh!” I huff when Linden clamps a hand over my mouth, smothering the rest of my voice.
“Hush! Or you’ll get a repeat of that, and I really don’t want to work all day with cum in my pants!” he hisses, and I chuckle from behind his palm, then raise both arms to signal surrender. He still keeps his hand in place for a moment longer, gray eyes narrowed at me, his cheeks glowing in a delicious shade of pink.
“You’re cute when you’re so rattled,” I let him know once I’m free to speak again.
Linden huffs, picking up his basket. “Whatever you say, ogre. Now let’s go; we have a lunch pack to deliver. And those cherries won’t pick themselves!”
I hum obediently, picking up my own basket. “Fine. But just know that I have big plans for tonight.”
“Fuck my life; everything hurts!”I groan when I flop onto Linden’s mattress, arms and legs sprawled out in every direction. I’m not new to physical labor, but carefully pickingthose tiny cherries while balancing on a ladder in the sun must have used some secret muscles I didn’t know existed until now.
When I first saw the cherry harvester—Linden’s sister Hazel confidently maneuvering through the rows of low-growing cherry trees—I thought this would be an easy job. But then Linden led me all the way back to the older trees with their perfectly plump fruits, one darker than the other, waiting to be delicately handpicked with the stems still attached so they can be sold at the local farmers’ market.
Machine harvesting, I learned as I balanced on a ladder that would make Coach Wagner blanch, is only for the fruits the family uses and sells for juice production. The significantly higher-priced, peak-quality cherries need to be harvested by hand. With the endless rows of trees, I understand why the Woodrows were happy about any help—even though my buckets filled a lot slower than theirs.
