She could hear herself: the little gasps, the low guttural cry when Jack bottomed out, his cockhead pressing deep with each stroke. She wouldn’t have silenced it if she could. Let the whole goddamn county know. She wanted to be known this way.
Jack muttered her name into her neck, a hoarse, “Rachel…”
He hooked her left leg over his shoulder and went harder, the angle so sharp and deep that for an instant all she could do was hang on, teeth gritted, heel caught in the small of his back. She wanted him to ruin her, to make her feel every inch, every thrust, every fucking heartbeat. And he did. He gave her everything, sweat dropping to her chest, his mouth nipping at the curve where her jaw met her neck, stubble prickling her shoulder. Rachel’s body took over, wanting nothing but to be filled and consumed completely.
She came again, less a burst than a drawn-out, choking surrender. The room went dark at the edges, her ears full of the sound of her own pulse and Jack’s rough, wild breath. She didn’t see him finish; she felt it, the deep stutter and tremble of his whole body, the primal stillness when he emptied inside her, the shudder after. The way, when he dropped his head to her shoulder, she felt his lips move, tasting her sweat, her breath. Rachel held him there, both arms clamped tight until she fell asleep.
When the world crept back in, it was morning and she woke to the surprising sensation of not being alone. Jack’s body, sturdy and eager in sleep, was curved around her. His hand had found the slope of her hip and held there, warm and possessive. The sun was not up yet, but his cock was semi-hard against her ass. She tried not to move too much, letting her breathing sync with his. This was all new. But she didn’t back away.
For a week, the farm rearranged itself around their new, secret routine. They worked the fields, checked the machines, repaired what needed fixing. In the evenings, they went their separate ways, but always with a backward look, a glance that lingered too long. Every night Jack waited for her signal, a text sometimes, or just the porch light flipped on after ten. Each time he ducked under the eaves and into her bedroom, they acted like it was the last, which only made them greedier, messier, less careful.
Rachel wondered if Earl noticed a difference, but the old man was too polite, or too loyal, to mention it. Maybe he thought she deserved it, anyway, after the years she’d spent cobbling things together with spit and stubbornness.
She had trouble thinking much past the next day, or the next night, or the next time she could get her hands on Jack. He surprised her with his stamina and desire.
Rachel couldn’t help but think of their relationship as a series of intense encounters that left her body aching and her sheets damp with sweat. Her favorite memory was the afternoon she’d slipped into the barn wearing nothing but overalls with no shirt underneath, finding Jack hunched over the riding mower, his forearms glistening with oil as he worked the sharpening stone against the blade. The rasp of metal against stone had stopped when she’d unclasped one shoulder strap, then the other, revealing what she’d done that morning — her newly bare shaved pussy, glistening with her juices.