Wildly Inappropriate

by Eden Connor

  He lifted his wrist and looked at his watch. "Straight up noon. Your hour starts now."

  "What?" she demanded in disbelief.

  "Your hour. Look down that valley, Cynda Avery, and tell me all your very good reasons why I need to sell this land."

  "Now?"

  He nodded, grinning. "Right now. Unless, of course, you want to give up today's hour."

  She couldn't do that, but it was a good thing he'd tied her hands. She thought about kicking him square in the nuts, but something told her he'd spank her ass till she cried if she did. She wrapped her fingers around the cords, wondering whether she might be able to tug them loose. If she could get loose, she might try to wrap them around his damn neck.

  All she could do was stand there. He bent to pick up one of the slices of the fuzzier fruit. She watched him warily, trying to think. "This isn't fair," she burst out.

  "Pardon my manners." He offered her the slice. She bit into it, stalling for time while she tried to get her mind off her pussy and onto business. He wiped juice from her bottom lip with his thumb. Inspiration struck as the unique taste hit her tongue.

  "Someone could finish your grandfather's work. Crossbreed the peaches and see if they come out right, I mean."

  His brows went up. "Uh huh. So you're telling me you have a customer who wants to grow peaches? Spread your legs wider."

  "No-oo, I didn't say that." She widened her stance marginally, concerned about what he'd do next.

  He stabbed the air with the knife, pointing toward the fruit overhead. "Fewer than ten percent of these peaches escaped being damaged by the hail, and it might've hailed for twenty minutes. That's only twenty minutes to ruin an entire year's crop. I doubt you have a customer who wants to operate a peach farm, Cynda."

  She had no idea why King wanted this land. The broken branches and dead trees scattered throughout the orchard showed neglect. The ghostly camp for the migrant workers they'd driven through to get here obviously hadn't been used in years, yet he'd pointed out all the storm damage he planned to fix. Why waste the effort if no one was going to use the place?

  "The money, think about the money, Daniel. You're bound to want something the money could buy."

  "Ah, yes, the money. Tell me something, Cynda. What do you dream about? What would you do with the money?"

  He stepped close. She felt his hand between her thighs and the brush of the fuzz against her clit again. All she could think about was the way her most tender flesh was stinging and the way the soft breeze cooled the moisture on her thighs.

  Holding her gaze with his, he brought the slice of fruit from between her thighs to his lips. She lost her ability to breathe watching his teeth sink slowly into the dark flesh. It was as though she could taste the tangy flavor on his tongue.

  He tossed the skin aside, still staring at her. She knew he expected her to speak, but sharing dreams was for lovers. This was a business deal. "Dreams are for folks with choices," she whispered, thinking of her brother Jarrod and where his dreams had gotten him, not to mention how her brother's pursuit of his dreams had landed her in this mess. "I just wanna help my grams pay off her house."

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I want to help my family too, what's left of it. But they're grown men with jobs, and both own their own homes. You passed their houses coming to the farmhouse, but Colton's bungalow isn't visible from the road. It might've been too dark for you to have seen Eric's cabin. They live off what they earn. And they don't want to sell. But I can tell you a bit more about me and in the process explain why I tied you to this tree."

  He turned away, returning to the trailer. When he came back, he held a small bottle. Whatever was in it was such a faint orange color she could see through it. He twisted off the cap.

  "My mother left when I was nine. My father focused on two things after that day. Work and how much he wanted her back. We had help when my brothers and sister were small, but once the baby—my only sister Sarah—turned ten, he let all the help go. The job of explaining most things to them after that, including sex, fell to me."

  He poured some of the bottle's contents into one large palm, leaning over to set the bottle into the cleft where the branches forked from the trunk. He rubbed his hands together, still talking.

  "My two brothers weren't difficult to explain that to, but my baby sister was another story. I revised my usual sex talk quite a bit. Then, when she was about fifteen, she found out Colton, the brother closest to her in age, had sex with someone. She asked if he was going to marry the girl. He laughed and said no. She punched him right in the nose and then cried for about half a day. When she stopped crying, you can bet she had a whole new list of questions for me."

  He placed his palms on her breasts. Whatever coated his hands felt oily, easing their movement down the sides of her small mounds. Her sore nipples hardened like the tiny rock she'd stepped on, and he smiled knowingly before reaching for the bottle to pour more oil into his hand. The stinging sensation increased. If he'd only rub some of that oil over my nipples, the stinging would stop. Thinking about it only made it worse, so she tried to focus on what he was saying.

  "That got me to thinking. If all women get such a different take on the topic, then you grow up thinking sex is something you save for marriage, and yet, you'd be selling yourself short to stop at the first hard dick you see. Truth is, a few generations ago, people didn't live as long as they do now so they got married earlier. But nowadays people don't get married at sixteen, so if that system ever worked, it doesn't anymore. But we still tell our daughters to save themselves for the man who'll love them and tell our sons to use condoms. Somewhere in there, we imply to those sons that becoming a man means fucking every woman possible."

  His big hands swept down her sides, coating her with the slick oil. She could've stamped her foot she wanted it on her nipples so badly.

  "I know the self-doubt guys endure on their way to manhood, but it has to be harder for women. If you sleep around, you might start to think you've lowered your value somehow. People are gonna talk about you, yet my brother Eric has slept with half the women in town and no one thinks a thing about it." He grinned. "Except Lila. She calls him a honeybee, and I'm pretty sure that's not a compliment."

  He spilled more oil into his hand, this time rubbing it in small circles on her tummy.

  "If a woman listens to what her elders tell her, she risks missing the crazy kaleidoscope of sensations different lovers can bring. I figure women have those competing thoughts during sex, too. Being restrained takes away your choice. Now, the only thing you can think about is what I'll do to you next, not whether I plan to propose. That frees you to give in and let it feel good, because you can't stop me."

  "But you don't need to tie me up," she protested. "We have a contract." She rolled her eyes. "It never crossed my mind you'd propose."

  He poured more oil into his hands. "It matters to me that you enjoy my touch." His thick lashes flicked upward and his eyes were intent. "That matters to me quite a bit."

  He stroked the oil down her belly and hips, to her upper legs, his thumbs pressing into her thighs. "Open for me, Cynda."

  The needlelike pains along her slit intensified when she obeyed. He rubbed the oil into the sensitive skin along the inside of her thighs. His large thumbs brushed the lips of her pussy but went no further.

  "It stings, Daniel!"

  He stared at her. "Do you want my help?"

  Of course she did, but she refused to beg. Stubbornly, she pressed her lips together. Smirking, he grabbed the bottle again, moving behind her. She felt the first drops of oil on her lower back and knew what was coming. The droplets became a stream, sliding into her crevice. He pried her butt cheeks apart, allowing the oil to trickle down her cleft.

  "Your ass is beautiful." His finger touched her pucker. "You ever been fucked here before?"

  "Yes."

  "Good."

  She heard the faint jingle of a buckle being undone. A ripping sound she recogniz
ed as a condom wrapper being opened followed. For long moments, there was nothing to hear but the wind dancing through the leaves. Where was he? Not knowing made her ache in new ways. She needed to know where he was.

  Suddenly Cynda felt his hands on her hips. His teeth raked the side of her neck. The head of his cock felt hard and huge as he slid it between her cheeks. When he pushed against her opening, she tensed.

  "Don't fight me," he muttered. "Let me take." She couldn't breathe her heart was pounding so fast, but she cried out anyway when his hand came down on her ass. The blows were measured and heavy. "So fucking pretty." His words punctuated each strike. "So damn soft. God, Cynda, your ass was made to spank. Made to fuck."

  The resulting fire seemed to burn away her will to fight him. She'd lost her hour, yes, but if he didn't want money, then she figured she'd be wise to learn what he did need. Cynda went limp, holding herself up by grasping at the cords stretching from her wrists. The head of his thick shaft stretched her tender pucker to its limit when he pushed inside her.

  Something she couldn't define seemed to stretch her soul when she felt him lose the measured control he'd shown her all day. There was a subtle power in this position of helplessness, something she had to get her head around, but later, not now while he was thrusting into her from the rear and reaching around to push his fingers into her pussy. Now, there was no room inside her for anything but Daniel.

  * * * *

  The soft glow streaming from the kitchen windows highlighted the flexing muscles in his arm as Cynda watched Daniel turn the crank on the old ice cream churn. Lightning bugs flirted with nightfall and the scent she'd noticed this morning perfumed the air. The long, tubular blossoms from the big plant on the end of the porch began to unfurl, seeming to open a bit more every time she glanced over at them. "What are those called?" she ventured, jerking a thumb over her shoulder toward the exotic plant.

  "Angel's Trumpet."

  Tucking one foot under her and pushing off with the toes of her other, she rocked in time with the rhythmic crunching made by the container spinning inside the ice-packed bucket. She studied his face in between peeks at the plant, curiosity overwhelming her attempt to keep quiet the way he seemed to prefer. "You divorced?"

  "Nope. Never married."

  "Any kids?"

  He stopped cranking, looking up at her with an exasperated expression. "Didn't I just say I'd never been married?"

  Cynda laughed. "You think unmarried people shouldn't have kids?" All she got for her trouble was a glare. "So why didn't you get married?" Curiosity fueled her bravery, but she saw the glint in his narrowed eyes when he looked at her again. "Look, two weeks is a long time to get fucked by someone you know nothing about," she blurted, "so why can't we talk?" Huffing, she added, "You don't even have cable." Cynda leaned forward in the comfortable rocker. "I mean, it works for me, but why would you ask a strange woman to sign a contract to stick around for fourteen days? You don't look like you'd have trouble getting a date."

  "Dates wanna talk," he pointed out, sounding disgusted. "We can tear the contract up."

  Leaning farther out of the chair, she rubbed at the small frown lines on his forehead, grinning. "No." She knew she'd never be able to persuade him to talk to King about selling his land unless she figured him out. "Dating means it takes a while to open up and let the other person see the real you. That doesn't apply to me."

  "Fine. I don't see a damn thing wrong with making a lifetime commitment to the woman who'll be the mother of your children. What other men do isn't my problem. You asked about me." He turned the crank faster, she noted.

  She didn't see a damn thing wrong with lifetime commitments either. But it still made no sense. Every little girl started picturing her future husband, her wedding dress, and her children about the time she turned eight. So why wouldn't some woman have already snagged a good-looking man who owned a nice house and ran his own business? "You're kinda picky, huh?" she guessed. "Not like the honeybee brother?"

  "You might say that."

  His hand on the crank seemed tireless, though a glance through the window at the clock on the microwave told her the ice cream was nearly done and must therefore be thickening, making the handle more difficult to turn. "So, have you ever been in love, Daniel?"

  "Yes." He unscrewed the crank and lifted the lid. The ruby-tinted flesh of the Dark Beauty peaches stained the vanilla ice cream pink. "Looks about done to me. Help hold down the can while I pull out the beater."

  She did as he requested, the chill coming off the ice surrounding the ice cream reservoir cooling her face. Pushing down on the drum that held the ice cream so it didn't pop out of the packed ice and salt where it would need to sit, she looked into his face across the wooden bucket. Icy water spilled across the step, running under her feet, but she felt as though her temperature spiked when she locked gazes with him. "That has to sit about fifteen minutes. Tell me what happened," she murmured above the cicadas.

  He handed her the dripping dasher, his attention fastened to the lid he screwed onto the metal tank. "Her father wanted her to go to college, so we dated till she graduated. I proposed. She was more starry-eyed over the job she'd landed than the diamond I offered her and wanted to wait. Every time I mentioned getting married, she seemed to get a new promotion that took up more and more of her time. Then, she got a promotion that required moving." He took the beater from her hand. "Of course, that might've been because I ridiculed her choices every chance I got, trying to make her into someone she wasn't. I like to think I've learned my lesson. You can't change people, you can only control whether or not they change you. Cynda, take off the dress. No sense in getting a bowl dirty after you just did the dishes."

  He caught her hand and pulled her off the porch into the soft grass, pushing her shoulder until she stretched out. Before she could comply, he shoved the dress up with one hand, then cleaned the dripping ice cream from the dasher onto her belly button. She suddenly didn't care about the career woman that'd left him sometime in the past. People did stupid things every day.

  Chapter Six

  Cynda woke to the golden hues of dawn peeking through lacy sheers, then stretched out to her full length as the evening before came rushing back. How did I get into this bed? The last thing she recalled was falling asleep with her head in his lap, so full from homemade peach ice cream she hadn't been able to stay awake.

  Overhead, the tester frame was lined with peach-colored silk, and she ran her fingers across the elaborately carved headboard. The overhead cover flowed down the wall behind the headboard and the drapes at the windows matched. Sunlight had faded the silk, leaving a striped effect of soft peach and darker paprika. A tall secretary desk stood between the pair of windows, painted the same spicy shade as the darker folds in the silk. Gold pagodas decorated the doors and drawers.

  She spied his jeans tossed over a chair and realized she hadn't heard him showering. Foregoing a shower, she decided she'd better get her butt out of this comfortable bed and get breakfast started.

  He'd only given her the one dress out of the attic, so she settled for wearing the T-shirt she saw beneath his jeans and hurried to the kitchen, dismayed to find Daniel already drinking coffee.

  "I can have scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast on the table before you know it," she promised, hurrying toward the huge refrigerator.

  "I don't have time for that. I'll grab something on my way to the garage," he replied, standing. "The shop's closed today, but it's a good time to get caught up on the bookwork. Good morning, Cynda. Did you sleep well?"

  She turned around, her heart beating rapidly, feeling as if she'd already failed him. "Like a lamb. How did I get into bed?"

  "I carried you," he replied with a shrug. "Come here."

  Cynda walked toward him.

  "Undress."

  Oh. She obediently reached for the hem of his shirt, her heart pounding harder as she guessed what he wanted for breakfast. Her.

  Whipping the T-shirt over her head
, she wished for the millionth time her breasts were larger. His huge hands went to her hips, lifting her easily. She stared at his lips and the fresh shave on his cheeks as he brought her face closer to his. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what he'd taste like. They flew open again when she felt her ass connect unceremoniously with the countertop. "Turn around and put your left foot behind the sink," Daniel commanded.

  Cynda stared at the items arranged neatly on a towel on the opposite side of the huge farmhouse sink. There were a few disposable razors still in the plastic, a can of shaving cream, and an angled paintbrush about an inch wide, also still wrapped. It was the huge black dildo shaped exactly like a well-hung man's cock, right down to the large veins and set of balls above the suction cup, that held her attention. The dildo practically waved at her.

  Her gaze flew to his face questioningly, even as she felt her juices begin to flow.

  He flashed a sexy grin as he turned on the water in the sink. "I prefer shaved pussy." His breathtaking smile grew wider. "And I'm a do-it-yourself kind of guy." He grabbed her foot, placing it on the wide strip of porcelain behind the sink then laid his hand on the upper thigh of her right leg, tugging insistently. Cynda obediently opened her legs, watching as he stared at her slit, her heart fluttering wildly as she waited for him to touch her.

  He peeled the wrapper from a razor and picked up the can of shaving cream, giving it a few expert shakes before squirting the foam directly on her mound.

  Her pulse pounded while she waited for him to smooth it around the delicate skin between her legs with his fingers, but he picked up the paintbrush instead. Unwinding the tiny tie that held the cardboard wrapper together, he tossed it aside impatiently before fanning the bristles against the palm of his hand, staring at her.

  Not her pussy or her tits, but her face. Cynda suddenly found it hard to breathe. What kind of man looked at a woman's face when he had her naked and spread? He was unlike any man she'd ever met.