Big Man’s Heat

by Wylder, Penny

  Mark's fingers run through my hair as he pulls his cock free. “Now that's a wakeup call,” he says with a chuckle.

  Giggling, I push my hands into his pecs and sit up. “What time is it?” I ask, searching for the clock.

  “Almost eight.”

  “Shit, my flight leaves soon.”

  Letting my eyes fall to his, I see a flicker of sadness cross his face. It's brief, gone with a single blink. Thinning my lips, I smile, and climb off him. As much as I don't want to leave, I know I have to.

  “I had fun,” I say as I grab a pair of boy-shorts from my suitcase and slip them on.

  “Me too.” He plants his feet on the floor and scratches sleepy fingers through his hair. Yawning, he gives me a half smile. “I lost my pants,” he says, looking around the floor.

  “They're over here.” Picking them up, I toss them to him. “You know checkout isn't until eleven, you don't have to rush out. You could stay and sleep a little longer.”

  “No, it's cool. I have shit to get done today anyway.”

  Digging out a pair of jeans and a pair of red heels, I slip them both on. Pulling a shirt over my head, I start to pack up my stuff. Folding my dress, I lay it in the bag, tucking my heels from the night before beside it.

  “I think I have everything.”

  Mark chuckles as he tugs his button-up over his thick arms. “You weren't kidding.”

  “About what?”

  His eyes drop to my feet. “Heels. You really do wear them all the time.”

  Looking down, I roll my foot side to side. “I sure do. I wasn't lying when I told you that.”

  “You ever think about changing them in for a sneakers?”

  “Nope.” Grinning wide, I say, “I can run better in these than any pair of sneakers.”

  “Ha!” he laughs out loud and shakes his head. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  Standing my suitcase up, I pull out my phone and call a taxi. “I can't miss this plane.”

  “Why? You got people waiting on you back home?”

  “Always.” My voice is flat. “In my world everyone is waiting on me for something.”

  Mark eyes me for a second, leaving whatever questions he has unasked. But I can see the curiosity in his eyes. He wants to know more, but maybe he just doesn't see a point in asking.

  This was a chance night. Something that ends the second I walk out that door. There's no point in exchanging stories. This is just about sex.

  My phone pings in my hand. “My cab's here.”

  Reaching down he grabs the handle of my luggage. “Here, I'll walk you out.”

  We head to the front, and I check out. Of course the person working is someone else Mark knows. They exchange a little back and forth chatter, niceties really. A quick how are you, how's the crop, how's your family. All the things you get from rural America.

  At least it seems genuine.

  It's hard to wrap my head around the nature of these town folk. In the city everyone is so shallow, so focused on themselves that even a single friendly greeting leads to discussion about the atrocities someone else committed. A slack jaw response with no real care to actually knowing how you truly are. It's more important to spread all the slander and lies than truly care about someone else. They let rumors forge the way and either open doors or slam them in your face.

  I follow Mark out the front door to the yellow taxi waiting for me in the parking lot. Mark taps the trunk and the man inside pops it open. Setting my luggage in the back, he slams it shut and steps to my side. Slipping his hand around my waist, he softly plays with the loop on the back of my jeans.

  “You're going to send me some of your art still, right?”

  “You seriously want me to?”

  Nodding, he runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “Yeah, I'd love to see it. I'm not an artist, but as a mechanic, I can appreciate the work people do with their hands.”

  Smiling bashfully, I let my eyes drop to the ground as my cheeks blush. “Okay, I will.”

  “Let me see your phone,” he says.

  Handing it over, he taps the screen and then hands it back. “There. You have my information now, number and address.”

  Peering up at him, his eyes dance between mine as he licks his lips again. His breathing is slowing down, and his expression goes slack. His hand moves to the small of my back and he pulls me in with one good tug.

  Tilting his head, he leans in and kisses me. It's slow, sweet, and I can feel it down to my toes. This kiss soaks through every pore on my body, causing my blood to percolate and my stomach to burn. The heat moves through me, making my panties wet and my heart race.

  Don't let it in, Sia. One night stand, remember that.

  Mark pulls away, breaking our kiss, but my lips don't want to leave his. I want more. More of his kiss. More of his touch. Just more of him.

  “Don't forget to send me a painting.” The tips of his fingers linger on my skin as he slowly lets his arm loosen and fall free. Opening the door to the cab for me, he closes it once I'm inside, and taps the roof of the car.

  Mark backs away, watching me as the driver pulls onto the street. Giving me a small wave, I wave back, keeping my eyes out the back window until we're too far away for me to see him anymore.

  My lips buzz, still warm from his kiss. Reaching up, I smile to myself and touch my mouth. This is a trip I'll never forget. I met someone who didn't cringe when I said I loved painting. A man who didn't look down on me for not being “one of them”.

  And for that, this trip is entirely worth it.

  5

  Mark

  Pushing myself out from under the hood of the tractor, I wipe my hands on the oil stained rag tucked in my back pocket.

  “All right, you should be good now.” Cleaning off the oil and grit between my fingers, I take a step back. “Your float in the carb was all gummed up. I cleaned it like new and it should be good to go. If it gives you any more issues, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate you coming out.”

  “No problem, Mr.Dillion, it's what I do.” Smiling, I grab my toolbox.

  “I hope this is enough.” He hands me a small envelope, and I tuck it in my pocket.

  Folding my lips down, I give him a gentle nod. “Don't worry about it, I'm sure it's fine. You have a good day now.” Shaking his hand, I tip my hat respectfully to his wife as she rocks in her chair on the front porch.

  She smiles back, nodding slightly in return as she curls old, wrinkled hands around the arms of the chair. The Dillion family has lived in this town for generations. They're good people. They grow corn, and always have for as long as I can remember.

  Actually, most of the town is built like this. Different families laid down their roots years ago, and very few ever leave. I don't think most of them stay just because they have no other way out, I'm sure some do, but a lot of us like it here.

  Even my family has lived here for over fifty years. And I plan on keeping the tradition.

  Stuffing the envelope in my glove box as I climb into my truck, I don't even count it. Whatever he can afford is fine with me. I don't just do this for the money, I do it because I actually enjoy it, and a lot of people in this town are barely getting by as is with all the big box chains starting to pop up nearby.

  Closing the door, my eyes fall to the passenger seat, and I instantly think of Siobhan as she sat there the night of Ryder's wedding. I can still smell her perfume. Gardenias, that's what it reminds me of.

  Everything from that night is always right there, right there in the front of my mind. The softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, her velvet lips against my mouth, the warmth of her pussy around my cock.

  Swallowing hard, I try to shake her from my head as I start the truck and head home. It isn't so easy to shake, Sia's been there since I watched her pull away in the taxi. Every thought. Every dream. Every time I blink. She's there. I can't escape her.

  I go to bed hard, and I wake up hard, too. And
nothing is working to get rid of the memory her. It was supposed to be a no strings attached night, but a single thread is refusing to break free. She's tethered to my brain.

  Glancing at my phone quickly, there are no new messages, no missed calls, no voicemails. Dropping it back into the cup holder, my eyes drift back to the road.

  I wish I had gotten her number before she left.

  That's the only mistake I have for that night. I gave her all my information, right down to my damn address, but I failed to get hers.

  Pulling into my driveway, I stop at the mailbox on the street, and collect what's inside. Flipping through it quickly, all I see are bills and garbage fliers. My tires crack and pop over the loose gravel as I drive up to my house. Shutting off my truck, I tuck the mail under my arm and head for the door.

  The lights are off inside, and the sky is starting to turn mop water gray. Looking up, a warm breeze skirts across my face as I hear thunder in the distance.

  Climbing up the steps, I fumble with my keys, searching for the one for the front door. My boot kicks something hard, causing me to stop. There's a package on my front porch. It's wrapped in brown paper, with just my address written in permanent marker across the center.

  Bending down, I pick it up, curiously flipping it over and checking it out. The postage stamp is dated for yesterday with no other markings or tags on it.

  What the hell is this?

  Looking back over my shoulder, I glance around. No one is there, but it's not every day a random package shows up out of nowhere at my door.

  Turning on the light, I drop my mail and keys on the small table in the entryway. My fingers explore the outside of the package, tracing and squeezing, trying to figure out what it could be.

  It's thin, no more than the width of a single subject notebook. Firm around the edges, but not completely solid across the surface.

  Ping.

  My phone goes off in my pocket. Digging it out, there's a text message from a number I don't recognize. Opening up the message, my brows dip in hard to the bridge of my nose.

  Did you get your package today?

  Holding it up, I look between my phone and the wrapped curiosity in my hand.

  Maybe. Who is this? I text back.

  Open it up, then you'll know.

  Placing my phone down, I slowly pull back the taped corners. My jaw drops and my eyes shoot open as I hold something so amazing and beautiful in my hands.

  She actually did it. Sia sent me a piece of her art.

  My stomach jumps into my throat knowing she didn't forget me. Siobhan didn't delete my information, she didn't shrug me off and chalk our night up as one she'd rather forget. This painting in my hands is proof.

  Deep earthy tones swirl across the canvas, with different shades of greens and blues. Dark gray and glistening gold streaks create contrasting layers that jump out at me.

  The longer I stare at it, the more I can see mountain shapes in the background. There are textures to the paint. Thick layers over thick layers that make it look like it's climbing off of the canvas. In the bottom right corner is her signature. She signed it Sia, using the tail of the A to dot the I with a heart shape.

  This is me.

  Not in the sense of an actual portrait. But the browns and golds, the grays and blacks, they remind me of myself. They're my colors. These colors literally stain my skin, and the mountains around me.

  It's the dirt I work in. The oil that soaks my skin. And the world that walls me in.

  It's beautiful. Hitting send, I can't take my eyes off it.

  I sit down in a chair at my kitchen table, and grab the paper it was wrapped in and start to crumble it up. A few loose pictures fall out on the floor. I pick them up and turn them over in my hands. She also sent me some photos of other work she's done.

  One is of her in a gallery, her smile glowing as she stands next to a giant painting of a blue flower. Another is of an old woman sitting on a bench. The entire image is done in charcoal, the only color is the bright blue of the old woman's eyes.

  She's talented. These are incredible.

  You really like it? she texts.

  I do. I'm blown away.

  Sorry it took so long, but I wanted to send you something special. Something that's you.

  You made this for me?

  I did. It's a one of a kind. She sticks a smiley face emoji at the end.

  It's perfect. I text. And I mean it.

  Thanks.

  When you said you like to paint, I could have never imagined this.

  Is that a compliment? It better be a compliment.

  Chuckling to myself, I relax back in my chair. It's not an insult. Shooting back my message, I follow it quickly. How's city life?

  Boring. Lol.

  I can hear the sound of her giggle. My body heats instantly, sending blood straight to my cock. I'm almost fully hard. Not that it's a change from any other day. I haven't woken up without morning wood once these past few weeks.

  No matter how much I jerk off to get rid of this ache in my core, it never works. Now she's reached out to me, and my heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and my dick is twitching.

  Well let's make it less boring. I text. How about you send me a pic of the heels you have on today.

  I watch the small bubbles as they move across my screen. They're going for longer than I expect, making me question if I jumped too quickly for her, and crossed some invisible line she's drawn between us.

  Ping.

  An image pops up on my screen. It's her legs held up and crossed with a pair of yellow heels. It's the first time I notice the other small tattoo she has on the top of her foot close to her toes. I'm not sure how I missed it before.

  Squinting, I zoom in, but I can't make out what it says. What does your tattoo say?

  I shut my eyes in order to see. It's a quote from an artist named Paul Gauguin. It's hard to read because it's written in French.

  I love it. You really do love art.

  It's my life.

  We message back and forth a bit, my smile never leaving my face once. It feels natural. The question and answer game we're playing flows so easily. She tells me how she went to private school, and always hated wearing the stupid uniform. I respond by asking her if she still has it, telling her I'd like to see it some time.

  I tell her a little about working on tractors, and what it's like to grow up on a farm. How most days I work so hard that by the time I get home, I'm covered in dirt and can't feel my hands. She tells me she likes the thought of me being dirty.

  Our conversation is flirty, taking twists and turns that keep my blood pumping. It's all subtle, little innuendos and double meanings, but she keeps coming back for more, so I know she likes it too.

  My thumbs are getting tired. How about I call you?

  Sure.

  She answers with an upbeat tone. “Hey there,” she says.

  “Yeah, this is much better. I'm not much of a texter.”

  “I don't think most guys are.” She giggles, the same giggle I've been hearing in my head for weeks.

  “Well, just so you know, I'm not most guys.”

  “I know. Why do you think I told you you could call me?”

  “Because you're bored and need something else to do.”

  “Pretty much.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “So, Mr. Country, you were saying something before about how dirty your job is. . .” Pausing, the speaker crackles a little. “Tell me more about country life. What was it like growing up there?”

  “It wasn't too exciting to be honest. I'm sure it's nothing like growing up in New York City. Didn't Jenna tell you about what it was like when we were kids?”

  “Not really, actually. She mentioned little things here and there, but she never really went into detail. I always assumed it was because of everyone else around her. The socialites, the rich and famous, the trust fund babies, none of them really care about anyone's life before.”

  “That's too bad. I mean, it
was boring a lot of the time, but we had fun. Swimming in the creek, playing manhunt at night during the summer, ding dong ditch—”

  “Ding dong ditch? What the hell is that?”

  “You're kidding me right? You've really never played ding dong ditch? Where you ring someone's doorbell and then run and hide?”

  “Mark, I live in a place filled with apartment buildings and high end condos. What would we have done? Ring the bell and then wait for whoever to call down to us through the intercom?”

  “That's true. I didn't think about that.”

  “Besides, my parents would have killed me if I had done something like that. Around here, what you do and how you act is everything.”

  Looking at the clock, it's almost midnight already. We've been talking for hours, and it doesn't even feel like it. Laying down on my bed with the phone pressed to my ear, I feel like a lovesick teenager. I don't want to let her go. I don't want to stop talking to her. My eyes are heavy, and I yawn.

  “Are you tired? Want me to let you go?”

  “No, I'm fine. Tell me more about the time you spent in Paris.”

  “Well. . .” Her voice starts to fade as she also yawns, but she keeps talking through it.

  The sun shines through the window bold and bright. It's warm on my face, rousing me awake. My phone is still in my hand, firmly in my grip. Lifting it to my ear, I listen.

  “Hello?” I ask, but no one is there.

  Placing the phone on my nightstand, I rub my palms against my forehead, forcing myself to sit up. I'm exhausted. I have no idea what time I fell asleep or if she was still talking as I dozed off, or if in some dreamy haze I said goodnight to Sia at all.

  Walking to the kitchen, I pick up the painting and hold it out. It's crazy how she was able to capture me so well with just some color and a few strokes of her brush. I can't shake the idea she had been able to see me all the way to my soul.

  My eyes search the room, finding the perfect spot for it on the wall beside my couch. My home isn't huge, but it suits me just fine. A one bedroom cabin at the base of the gorge, within a ten minute drive to town.