Wildly Inappropriate

by Eden Connor

  His terms sounded just like every other man she'd ever heard tell of. Success made her almost giddy. He was letting her stay. Just a couple of hours ago, tied to his bumper in the dark, talking her way into this house had seemed an impossibility.

  "Okay."

  "Come here and let me take off that damn collar, and sign your name to this contract."

  Cynda couldn't move fast enough. He dispatched this buckle as fast as he had the ones on her shoes, dropping the collar on his desk with a look of distaste. She bent to sign her name on the line he drew beneath his careless scrawl.

  "How much is your commission?" he asked, sliding his hand lightly over the swell of her ass.

  "Nineteen thousand dollars," she murmured, focused suddenly on the way her pussy was growing wet as his strong hand stirred the embers of the fire he'd lit with his spanking. There was something about signing a contract stating she couldn't refuse his touch that made the contact all the more exciting. Even if her butt did still hurt, her pussy hadn't forgotten the waves of pleasure he'd invoked. She laid the pen carefully on his desk, sure he'd order her to take off the dress. He hadn't gotten off, after all.

  "It hailed the other day, so I have some chores to do around the place. I'll take you on a tour of the land you think I need to get rid of. After we rustle up some breakfast." He grinned at her. "And by 'we', I mean you."

  His unexpected statement made her laugh. He confused her, but deep down Cynda was sure this man was no different than any other man she'd ever known, unless he was perhaps more honest.

  She was a bit startled when he used some clothespins to pin the back of her dress up so he could look at her ass. She made fried eggs and toast on his big stove while he sat at the table and drank coffee, but she was beginning to enjoy this game.

  Chapter Five

  She started toward his truck. "Where are you going?" Dan asked, reaching out to grab her hand. He'd kept quiet during breakfast, studying her. To his relief, Cynda hadn't said a word. He still hadn't figured out why he was letting her stay, unless it was to prove why he deserved to be alone. She had to know he had no intention of selling Brian Case his land. It pissed him off to think the dodgy realtor might've told her otherwise. Either way, she'd signed her body over to him for two weeks for nothing. He was still sure she'd bolt before long, but at least he had proof she'd volunteered for what might happen between them.

  "You said you were going to show me your land, right?"

  "You'll see it better from the tractor. Besides, I have to do a couple of things up at the camp." He tugged at her hand, leading her toward the barn. She pulled up short and yelped.

  He saw right away what'd happened. Entranced by the way her dark skin showed through the thin cotton dress, he'd forgotten she was barefoot. She'd stepped on a rock. Now that he'd finally gotten his mind off his cock, he didn't want to take her back in the house to hunt a pair of shoes. He leaned down, dropping the bag he'd packed so he could slide his arm under her legs. Her arms went around his neck.

  Maybe getting shoes would've been a better idea. She smelled like sex and bacon. Under that, the natural scent of her body seemed musky and wild to him, unlike any other woman's. The enticing fragrance went straight to his cock.

  I should've jacked off upstairs when I went to the damn attic, he thought in frustration. He wasn't ready to fuck her. Sitting her on the big metal fender over the rear tractor wheel, Dan lifted her foot. The small rock still clung to the pink skin, embedded in her heel. "Little rocks are the worst," he stated with authority, having stepped on many. He brushed it off, massaging the spot while thinking how badly he hated the polish on her toes. She looked like an angel in that chemise or nightgown or whatever it was called, but the garish enamel spoiled the effect.

  "Be right back," he muttered.

  The barn held his workbench. Dan grabbed a rag and the can of acetone he used to clean paintbrushes. Back under the lean-to, he doused the rag with the chemical. "I'm taking this God-awful polish off your nails." He started with her toes, scrubbing energetically at the offensive paint.

  He thought she might have called him an opinionated motherfucker under her breath, but he didn't give a damn. When he poured more fluid on the rag, she snatched the skirt out of the way. "Careful, don't splash that stuff on it."

  Dan looked at her in surprise. "You like it?"

  She ran her hands over the bodice, looking at the fancy stitching rather than at him. "Yes, Daniel."

  Unsure why that pleased him so, he concentrated on scrubbing her toes. The acetone dissolved the polish rapidly, to his satisfaction.

  "What's that sound?" she asked.

  Dan raised his head, still holding her foot while he listened. He heard a low whine and smiled. "Daisy might be having her pups."

  Something made him look at her. Her eyes were animated, and her smile took his breath. "I love puppies," she breathed, tugging her foot out of his hand. "Let's go see 'em."

  "One thing at a time." But he had to smile back at her while he took the polish off her fingernails. She was practically bouncing with excitement.

  They found Daisy curled in the hay he'd put out for her at the back of the shed. Dan squatted, rubbing her silky head. "Hey girl," he crooned. "Brought someone to meet you and your babies." He turned to Cynda, who'd apparently forgotten how much she liked the dress, since she was kneeling in the hay. "Daisy can't see very well these days. Let her sniff your hand first, then pet her. She might growl," he warned, but Daisy seemed okay. Cynda petted the old English Setter's head. He tensed. Daisy could be snappish in labor, and she was protective of a new litter for the first couple of weeks.

  "Cataracts, like my grams," Cynda whispered, noticing Daisy's white-glazed eyes. "She's beautiful. Hello, Daisy girl, are we being rude to visit while you're birthin'? Such a pretty girl."

  Dan was trying to see the pups. He moved Daisy's back leg aside and saw one nursing babe. "Just one so far, girl?" Daisy had done a good job cleaning it up and the pup was suckling eagerly. "We'll leave you be for now. Hope to see a few more when we get back."

  He left Cynda kneeling beside Daisy. Crossing the backyard, he grabbed the stainless bowl and filled it with fresh water from the garden hose. By the time he returned, Cynda was stroking the pup's faintly-spotted back and fondling its one black ear.

  Dan placed the water bowl where Daisy could reach it and held his hand out to Cynda. "You must be special. She usually dislikes women. C'mon, day's not getting any younger."

  She let him pull her to her feet, but still stared at the pup, which was pushing at the hay with splayed back feet, trying to get closer to Daisy. "How long till we can hold it?" she whispered. It was dim at the back of the shed, but her brown eyes were alight.

  He felt like a damn fool but he leaned down to gently disconnect the nursing pup and handed it to her. She immediately flipped the pup onto its back and cuddled it to her breast in the crook of her arm. "A boy," she murmured, rubbing the pup's rounded tummy. "Daisy, what a beautiful boy."

  Suddenly, Dan saw his mother, lying in the bed where he now slept. His father stood beside the bed, holding Dan's newborn brother Colton. "A boy," Rafe was saying. "Another beautiful boy, my love."

  Daisy's anxious whine seemed to blend with the memory of his mother's face, wet with tears from the pain. There hadn't been time to get her to the hospital. He blinked and saw Cynda lift the pup, planting a kiss on the end of his pink nose. "Back to Momma, little man."

  His father had said those same words. Then Georgia Mason, the neighbor who'd come to help, chased him out of the house. Dan had found his middle brother Eric standing in this same spot, crying.

  "Say it ain't no dang girl," three-year-old Eric had howled.

  It'd been no secret that Rafe wanted a daughter.

  * * * *

  The peach dropped from among the branches into her outstretched hands. Cynda heard Daniel curse. "Hang on," he warned. "Gonna take me a minute to find a few last week's hail didn't damage."

&nb
sp; Placing the peach in the basket at her feet, Cynda looked around. She was beginning to understand why country singers wrote love songs about their tractors. He'd made her sit in front of him. The wide, perforated metal seat had a bump in the center, designed to fit between the operator's legs for comfort, she supposed. That bump had been pressed right against her pussy for almost an hour. He'd played with her nipples through the fine fabric of her dress and by the time he'd stopped, she was so aroused her body hummed.

  Sighing, she turned, looking down the endless rows of trees. He'd already climbed a tree in another field and the basket was half-full of peaches. If she squinted, she could see the roof of the big farmhouse, although it had to be miles away. In between, the tops of a thousand peach trees rustled in the wind. Most were bare of fruit except those in this grove at the top of the mountain. August sunshine sparkled off a large lake, the relic of an abandoned attempt at mining limestone. The miners had hit water, and according to Daniel, that had been the birth of these orchards. One of his ancestors had decided the water would be good for irrigating and had bought up the land. Over eight hundred acres was a lot of land. He surely wouldn't miss a few.

  She turned her head to the left. The wind lifted one corner of the bright quilt he'd thrown down. Peering into the tree again, she wished for the tenth time he'd come down. Tall grass tickled her calves. Bumblebees droned around the damaged fruit, but to her relief, the peaches seemed more attractive to them than she did.

  That seemed to be going around. She kicked at the grass.

  "Head's up," Daniel called. Cynda caught the next peach. He tossed down one after another until she'd filled the basket. Finally, he dropped from a limb onto the grass with an ease suggesting he'd climbed these trees a million times. He straightened, staring at her in a way that gave her hope he was finally going to lay her down on that quilt and get busy.

  He was pretty to look at. Now that she'd had time to get over her shock of seeing him on his porch as naked as a jaybird this morning and had her head around the amazing things he'd done to her body, she could admire the bulging muscles in his arms and his broad chest and narrow waist. The man was in shape and he was finally staring at her like she was the juicy fruit. Her heart sped up when he yanked open the buttons on his shirt.

  "Cynda, take off the dress."

  She cut him a glance before lowering her lashes. "Yes, Daniel." Eagerly, she pulled the filmy material over her head, smiling to herself. The situation was about to take a turn in her favor.

  He walked right past her to the small trailer hitched to the back of the tractor, unfastening the bungee-style cords holding down roofing shingles, plywood, and a tool chest. Straightening, he turned, and she began to figure out what was coming next from the look in his eye. She stood motionless, watching as he hooked one to a high branch, leaving the end hanging loose after experimentally stretching it to its limit. He crooked a finger at her.

  Wherever Kingsley Dazza was at this moment, she hoped he got run over by a freight train. "Please, not that."

  He grinned. "Beg me again. I might change my mind."

  Cynda raised her chin, clenching her teeth together as she stepped to where he stood. She'd die before she begged him for a thing. Holding up one arm, she studied his face as he coiled the cord once around her wrist. Letting the stretchy rope fall, he walked away again to plunder the tool box on the trailer, coming back holding a handful of rags. Tucking a few into his back pocket, he folded one before tying it around her wrist, then wrapped the bungee on top of that.

  The pathetic burst of gratitude she felt because he didn't want the makeshift ties cutting into her skin pissed her off. When her other wrist was similarly fastened, he wound the third band around her wrists, and tied that to the two suspended from the branch. It was impossible to relax with her arms stretched above her head. She worried about what was coming.

  "Can't we just… talk for a minute?"

  He cocked his head. "About what?"

  "Well, I know this looks bad, but I'm not in the habit of screwing around with people I don't know anything about."

  Scraping a thumb along his chin, he seemed to study her. "What did you want to know?"

  "For starters"—she twisted her wrists, glancing up at the way he'd wrapped the cords so precisely—"do you tie a lot of women up to your peach trees? I mean, do white men have to hogtie their women to get laid?"

  He flashed her that grin that made her tummy flutter. "No, it's been a while since I tied anyone up."

  He stooped to pick up a peach then reached into his pocket. The small knife he'd used this morning appeared. The sun flashed off the blade when he sliced into the soft fruit. Restlessly, Cynda tilted her head back again, squirming as she tested her bindings. His chuckle infuriated her. She closed her eyes, but it seemed she could still feel the vibrations from the rough-running motor on the old machine.

  He won't hurt me. She wished she was more certain of that, but this was a game to him. The better she played the game, the more likely he'd be to listen to her about selling some of his land. She opened her eyes again, resolving to play along.

  Juice dripped from the fruit and watching it trickle down his fingers seemed to prompt her juices to follow suit. She was naked, tied up, and alone on a mountaintop with him. The small tips on her nipples perked when her fear began to change to something equally primitive.

  He glanced at her, but the knife never stopped moving. "My grandfather developed these two varieties. This one's a clingstone. See how the flesh of the peach clings to the pit?"

  She moved her feet a bit, struggling slightly with her bonds, to make the game better. Something flashed in his eyes. She tugged on the cords a bit more. Yes, he likes that. Staring at his hands made her shiver in spite of the heat, and the image of how he'd used the forks flashed in her head. Not the forks, precisely, but her body's reaction to what he'd done. The thought summoned an ache in her pussy and made her nipples harden without a touch.

  "Yes, Daniel." Saying those words made her wetter.

  "Good girl. See how fuzzy this variety is?"

  Reluctantly, she turned her attention from the way his jeans strained across his thighs. The white down covering the skin did look heavier than normal for a peach. Inside, the fruit was a deep cranberry, not just around the pit, but almost to the skin. The rich color radiated into a narrow band of pearl-toned flesh. Juice dripped from his fingers, taunting her. This was like dying of thirst and staring at water but not being allowed to drink. His jeans bulged beneath the zipper. What the hell is he waiting for?

  When he had a neat row of eight equal slices laid in the grass, he peeled the furry skin from one, and held it to her lips. Cynda bit into it. A tangy taste exploded on her tongue.

  "It tastes like a cross between a pomegranate and a peach, doesn't it?"

  She moaned her agreement, chewing slowly. He picked up another slice, but didn't peel it. She opened her mouth but to her shock, he dipped the piece between her legs. She tensed as the soft fuzz touched the sensitive cowl covering her clit.

  Tension coiled inside her, winding a bit tighter with each soft stroke. He stood close and talked as if they were sitting down to dinner. "My mother's father was something of a botanist. He developed this variety. I used to read his diaries. He said Mother Nature had a way of getting even if you messed with her too much. Like this peach. He worked on this variety for over a decade. It has beautiful color and a tasty flesh, but although he started with a freestone variety, the better the flesh began to taste, the more it wrapped around the stone. Yet he needed this to be a freestone, to make it sell better in markets and grocery stores. People don't want to buy peaches if they have to cut out the stone. Most clingstone peaches get sold for canning. The migrants didn't like to pick these trees either, because the fuzz makes any exposed skin it touches itch violently after a few minute's exposure, also a bad thing for retail sales."

  It felt as though his words summoned tiny spikes of pain. He lifted the slice, and to he
r shock, he rubbed the fuzz across her nipples. "No, Daniel, please," she cried, struggling to free her hands so she could rub the burning sensation.

  Ignoring her plea, he picked up another peach. This one came from the bottom of the basket, one he'd picked from a different grove. It was huge for a peach, and she eyed the skin apprehensively as she squeezed her thighs together, but the fuzz seemed minimal. He sliced it open and showed her the halves. A flick of his thumbnail popped the stone loose. The narrow band of red flesh in the center looked spiny and stiff where it mirrored the pattern of the stone.

  "So, he developed this variety, but it doesn't taste nearly as good." He held one of the halves to her lips, and Cynda obediently took a small bite. It seemed nearly tasteless compared with the other, but was very juicy.

  "Not as good as the other one," she agreed, trying to stifle a moan. It felt as though a thousand tiny bees were stinging her nipples.

  "Even worse," he continued, slicing off a portion of the half she'd bitten, "the flesh near the center of this variety is very tough."

  She wondered whether he'd make her eat it.

  "This part is tough and chewy and that makes people spit it out. Who'd want a freestone peach that had a heart of stone? That's what he named this variety, Stony Heart. They make delicious pies. He intended to crossbreed the two varieties, but by then, peach farming had become unprofitable."

  He wedged his foot between hers, tapping his boot against her ankle. She reluctantly spread her legs. His hand disappeared from view, and she felt the warm fruit touch her. The sensation was one of tiny rubbery fingers sliding across her sensitive nub.

  Cynda tried to push her mound toward the slice of fruit. She thought the juice might soothe the stinging sensation caused by the fuzz, but he kept the stroke soft and even, rubbing the slice so slowly across her nub that she cried out with frustration.