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Which meant I needed a new plan. Or maybe just a new timeline.
Plans were in motion for the farms in my docket, but the Blums would be the last and hardest, even knowing I’d earned some level of trust from Jo. I had to work fast and smart. Because I didn’t know what my father would do, but I knew it wouldn’t bode well for the Blums or me.
And all I could do was put myself between them and hope it was enough.
17
Shower Wars
JO
Grant’s massive hand covered the bottom half of my face to keep me quiet as he fucked me slow and easy on a counter in the cannery.
The honey spinner was loud, but for a second, I’d been louder. The last thing either of us needed was for somebody to hear me and come inquiring after the sound.
I’d worn a sundress again in the hopes that this would be a part of our day, even though I was still aching from the long, long night we’d spent together. I found his presence inspired an entirely different ache that was far more needy.
This morning, I’d walked to my truck with my cheeks high and sore from smiling, having fully embraced the art of not overthinking it. Drove home with my windows down and my hair in a sloppy bun on my head, belting “Saddle Tramp” by Marty Robbins, an old honky tonk song that spoke of a man who wandered from town to town on horseback—much like Grant—but its title felt more like my physical condition.
The number of orgasms I’d had in a single night confused and elated me, though he’d had to work for the last few. Never had I witnessed a man with such stamina, and though I knew he was a scientific anomaly, I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself. As if it were my irritability that had conjured the boner to rule all boners and not some freakish genetic condition or maybe a fortuitous malfunction of some crucial hormone-producing organ.
Either way, I’d made it home floating like a balloon to find my sisters waiting for me in the kitchen to whisper-hiss at me, demanding an explanation. Shifty-eyed and on the lookout for Mama, I’d shooed them outside and followed, the three of us going about our chores while I regaled the tale of the evening, the morning, and our plans. Daisy had grinned, all teeth and bright eyes. Poppy only scowled.
When we came in, Mama had gone to town, and I rushed to shower and change before Grant got here. I wondered if he’d show up in a suit and wished for it in the hopes that the sight would put a stop to what was clearly a deep infatuation with him—or at least his dick—but I had no such luck. He’d climbed out of that tiny sports car in those fucking jeans and boots, and pop! went my ovaries.
It was my own damn fault that he even owned them, thanks to what could only be called the backfire of the century.
My suspicions had quieted about him, but they’d been fewer and farther between for some time. I just hadn’t been able to admit it to myself. He’d been vulnerable, honest, and I could see how foreign it was on him. He could lie without trouble, but the truth? That meant exposing his soft underbelly. That meant being real, and I got the sense that he generally avoided letting anyone that close.
I understood that well enough. Neither did I. So I guessed it was a bigger deal for both of us than we’d likely admit out loud.
That didn’t change the fact that he had a job to do or that I was a part of that job. But it sure did make it a lot more pleasant to bear.
We’d driven out to the bees, heading to the next hive set to harvest with him all suited up and me collecting honeycombs, this time with smoke so I could easily part the bees from their bounty. This was the time of year we harvested our last until spring, and was easier to handle in stages than all at once. We’d brought them back and stored all but the nine I put into the spinner. With those nine, I showed him how to uncap the honeycombs using a comb meant for this purpose, carefully separating the wax cap from the cells teeming with honey. And into the spinner they went, a centerfuge machine that whipped all of the honey out without disturbing the honeycomb’s shape.
And I discovered Grant’s preferred method of killing time while we waited.
The counter thumped as he slammed into me, his hand still over my mouth. My lips parted, my tongue tracing a slow line on his palm that sent a shuddering groan through him. His other hand tightened its grip on my thigh, pulling me into him so he could get deeper. But the sound of his pleasure sparked the rising flame of mine, and with a well-placed thrust, I came, my nose puffing noisy breath and my cries muffled by his palm. And he was right behind me, his head bowed and body arching over mine.
